QUEL EST CELA, MAMAN
TEADtJIT PAB l'eDITEUB.
QuiL est cela, maman ?
— Enfant, c'est l'alouette :
A peine le matin se fait-il à l'entour.
Que du nid de gazon qui lui sert de couchette, Couverte de rosée, elle s'élance au jour ; Un hymne dans le cœur, elle monte au nuage, Et vers le Créateur va chanter son hommage.
Ainsi que l'alouette, enfant, vers le bon Dieu Sache élever ton cœur le matin. C'est mon vœu.
What is that, mother p
The dove, my son ; Ând that low, sweet voice, like a widow's moan, Is flowing out from her gentle breast, Constant and pure by that lonely nest, As the wave is pour'd from some crystal um, For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, ray son, be thou like the dove, — In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What 18 that, mother ?
The eagle,boy!
Proudly careerlng his course of joy, Finn, on his own mountaîn vigour relyiiig, Breastiiig the dark storms, the red boit defying ; His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun, He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on. Boy, may the eagle's flîght ever be thine, Onward, and upward, and true to the Une.
What is that, mother ?
The swan, my love ; He is floating down from his native grovc.
No loved one now, no nestling nigh ; He is floating down by himself to die, Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings. — Live so, my love, that when death shall corne, Swan-like and sweet, it may wafb thee home.
Quel est cela, maman P
— Mon fils, c'est la colombe, Son chant doux et plaintif déborde de son cœur, Comme l'eau d'un ruisseau qui dans une urne tombe Près de ce nid désert où fut tout son bonheur ; De son roucoulement constamment elle appelle D'un absent bien chéri le fortuné retour ; Sur la colombe, enfant, prends toujours ton modèle, Sois un fidèle ami, sois constant en amour.
Quel est cela, maman ?
— Mon cher enfant, c'est l'aigle Fournissant sa carrière avec joie et fierté ; Montagnard il est fort, et la force est sa règh>, Braver foudre et tempête est pour lui volupté. Son œil vers le soleil, il donne au vent son aile. Et puis majestueux, il s'avance tout droit ; Puisse le vol de Taigle être aussi ton modèle, Dans la route du vrai marche, enfant — ^Ainsi soit !
Quel est cela, maman P
— Mon amour, c'est le cygne, Il descend l'eau venant de son bosquet natal. Aucun être chéri près de lui n'est en ligne, Il descend pour mourir sur son lit de cristal. La mort couvre son œil de sa pâle lumière, La plume de son aile est dispersée au vent.
Mais son chant le plus doux, c'est sa chanson dernière. Vis ainsi, mon chéri, pour mourir en rêvant !
THE SPANIEL AND THE CHAMELEON.
TABLE BY aAT.
A SPAiaEL, bred with ail the care That waits upon a favourite heir, Ne'er felt correction's rigid hand ; Indulged to disobey command, In pamper'd ease his hours were spent ; He never knew what leaming meant.
Sucb forward airs, so pert, so smart, Were sure to win lus lady's heart :
Each little mischief gain'd him praise ; How pretty were his fawning ways !
The wind was south, the moiniDg fair ; He ventures forth to take the air ; He ranges ail the meadow round, And roUs upon the softest ground ; When near him a Chameleon seen, Was scarce distinguish'd from the green.
Dear emblem of the flatt'ring host, What, live with clowns l a genius lost !
To cities and the Court repair ; A fortune cannot fail thee there ; Preferment shall thy talents erown ; Believe me, friend ; I know the town.
Sir, says the Sycophant, like you, Of old, politer life, I knew :
Like you a courtier bom and bred ; Kings lean'd their ear to what I said :
My whisper always met success ; The ladies praised me for address.
I knew to hit each courtier' s passion.
And flatter'd every vice in fashion.
