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Upon her mother's brow She prints a kiss. But even while she sleeps, The watchful mother still she hears, Who by her bedside weeps. She leaves her native home With weeping eyes, To Paris she has come, — - Oh, bright surprise! There all appears to trace In lines of gold her future lot, And dazzling dreams efface The image of her humble cot.


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Heaven, when two years have past, Bids her return, To her Savoy at last She comes — to mourn. Le Bouton de Rose. Princesse dk Salm.

Pierre Beaumarchais

Bud of the rose! Happier than I thou mlt be! On the bosom of Rose Thou goest to die, happy flower! If I were a bud of the rose. With joy I should die in an hour On the bosom of Rose.

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The bosom of Rose, Thy rival, sweet rosebud, may prove; Fret not, pretty bud of the rose, Nought equals in beauty or love The bosom of Rose. Bud of the rose. My Rose coming I see! I implore you, make me A bud of the rose!

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BouTON de rose! Au sein de Rose, Heureux bouton tu vas mourir! Moi, si j'etais bouton de rose, Je ne mourrais que de plaisir — Au sein de Rose. Au sein de Rose, Tu pourras trouver un rival; Ne joute pas, bouton de rose Car en beaute rien n'est egal, Au sein de Rose. Bouton de rose, Adieu! Rose vient, je la vois!

S'il est une metempsychose, Grands dieux! JO humble toit de mon Pere. Of palaces, temples, and trophies they boast. Which lovely Italia lifts up to the skies. The work of a fairy we deem them almost, Their magical grandeur so dazzles the eyes; But oh! They talk of the gardens of Araby Blest, O'er which the bright sun ever scatters his hues, Where earth in spring's garment for ever is dressed, And never its flowers and fruits can refuse; But oh! Those countries which beauties so glorious adorn, — Those temples, — those flowers, — stir no envy in me.

Though cold is the country in which I was bom. We love there as well, and there Hfe is more free. So hail to the North, — there is nought ranks above My father's poor cot, where I learned how to love. Petite Flew des Bo is. Emile Barateav. Emile Earateau is one of the most prolific of modern song-writers, and La fettle Fletirdci Bois is one of the most jxjpular of his productions. Through forest and through field I Ve sought thee many an hour, That I might have the pow'r This simple truth to tell : Indeed, I love thee well.

Thou little woodland flower.

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Thy simple loveliness No gaudy colour shows, But yet true pleasure glows From thy white spotless dress. My lip I would incline Unto thy cup divine. Knowing that nought is there To cause a single tear. I love the birds that sing, The shade the branches fling, The golden-winged fly, As pleased he springs on high.

Each fair one seems to bear A name of pow'r divine. And such a charm is thine, Thou mak'st me hold thee dear; For thee I fondlv seek. To thee my griefs I speak, And say, "Oh, come to me, And let me dote on thee. This song is evidently a sequel to Le Chateau d'Ehire see p. Night o'er the face of eartli was spread, But still Elvira sleepless lay; While in soft whispers near her bed, A voice complaining seemed to say: " It was thy coldness sealed my doom. But death from thee was surely sweet; Three days will pass, and in his tomb Thy slighted Alfred thou wit meet. She shrank from the impending doom, And trembling she would oft repeat, — "Three days wall pass, and in his tomb The slighted Alfred I shall meet.

To hapless Alfred's tomb she went, The clock struck twelve, — her tott'ring feet Failed, — she, the fair indifferent, Has gone at last her love to meet.

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A la grace de Dieii. The songs bj' M. Gustave Lemoine have alxjut them a simple pathos which gives them a high rank among modem lyrical compositions. The sentiment they express is generally the regret felt by a rural inhabitant of the town for the pleasures of his native home. The resetted countiyis usually Bretagne ; though in this poem, which is dated , the subject is that emigration from Savoy which is often a pathetic theme with French writers. Parisians, you our children keep Bestowed on you by Heaven's hand, We poor Savoyard mothers weep, But send them from their native land.

Saying, Adieu, adieu. May God above watch over you! Should I ne'er see your face again! My child. Adieu, adieu, May God above watch over you! Away the lowly exile went To toil beneath another sky. The mother, on her form intent, Followed the wand'rer with her eye; And when at last the form was gone, Her grief through all its fetters broke, She wept aloud, — the lonely one, — While still her child departing spoke : My mother dear, Adieu, May God above watch over you!


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Jean Pierre Claris Florian. In vain I mourn: these prison walls Alone my mournful sighs repeat; Memory, that former bliss recalls, Moje bitter makes the woe I meet. Beyond my prison bars I see The sweet birds through the free air sweep. Singing their loves at liberty, Whilst I in hated fetters weep. And to the future trust my fame. Perfidious — cruel — barb'rous foe! Hatred shall dog thy coming years. While o'er the tomb where I lie low.

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Pity will shed her tenderest tears. Ye dreary vaults— abode of fears And home of silence, — ah! I hear around my cell alway The howling wind — the owlet's cry — The bell's deep toll : to me they say, "Mary, thine hour strikes; thou must die! En vain de ma douleur afifreuse Ces murs sont les tristes echos; En songeant que je fus heureuse Je ne fais qu'accroitre mes maux.

A travers ces grilles terribles Je vois les oiseaux dans les airs: lis chantent leurs amours paisibles, Et moi je pleiure dans les fers! Quel que soit le sort que m'accable, Mon coeur saura le soutenir, Infortune'e, et non coupable, Je prends pour juge I'avenir. Perfide et barbare ennemie, On detestera tes fureurs, Et sur la tombe de Marie La pitie versera des pleurs. Voiites sombres, sejour d'alarmes, Lieux au silence destines, Ah! LHirondelle et le Proscrit. This beautiful song, which is dated , is published with the name of Fougas as its author.