FRAGMENT OF THE POEM ON DEATH

By Villon, translated by Sir ToUemache Sinclair. Paris and Helen felt death's blight.

Whoe'er dies parts with pain our foe.

He loses strength, breath too, and sight. His gall bursts o'er his heart in woe, He sweats God knows what sweat, heigh-ho. And none his sufferings can allay, Nor brother, child nor sister, lo!

Would take his place on that dread day. Death makes him tremble, grow pale oft, The nose bends, his veins stretch apart. The neck swells and the flesh grows soft, The joints and nerves yield, weak's the heart. Poor woman, who so tender art.

Kind, precious, and who dost so thrive, Must thou expect these ills — this smart. Ah ! yes, or go to Heaven alive.