English

I

What is there in a dear dove's eyes,
Or voice of mated melodies,
That tells us ever of blue skies
And cease of deluge on Love's seas?
The dove looked down on Jordan's tide
Well pleased with Christ the Crucified;
The dove was hewed in Karnak stone
Before fair Jordan's banks were known.
The dove has such a patient look,
I read rest in her pretty eyes
As in the Holy Book.

I think if I should love some day —
And may I die when dear Love dies —

" And God said, Let there be light. "

Rise up! How brief this little day?
We can but kindle some dim light
Here in the darkened, wooded way
Before the gathering of night.
Come, let us kindle it. The dawn
Shall find us tenting farther on.
Come, let us kindle ere we go —
We know not where; but this we know,
Night cometh on, and man needs light.
Come! camp-fire embers, ere we grope
Yon gray archway of night.

Life is so brief, so very brief,
So rounded in, we scarce can see

Let sordid mortals toil all day,
For gold and silver search and dig;
A greater treasure I enjoy
In this, my charming talking pig.

Though mighty monarchs on their thrones
In pride and state look fierce and big,
They are not so content and blessed
As is old Tony with his pig.

I neither care who's in or out,
Whether Tory, whether Whig,
I love my country, King and Queen,
But best of all I love my pig.

Love! in what poyson is thy Dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding heart?
None know, but they who feel the smart.

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal eyes (we find)
Dazle the Opticks of our Mind . . .

How happy he that loves not, lives!
Him neither Hope nor Fear deceives,
To Fortune who no Hostage gives.

How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneasie, finds at Rome ,
At Paris , or Madrid his Home.

Secure from low, and private Ends,
His Life, his Zeal, his Wealth attends

I.

L O ve! in what Poison is thy Dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding Heart?
None know, but they who feel the Smart.

II.

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal Eyes (we find)
Dazle the Opticks of our Mind.
III.

Love to our Cittadel resorts,
Through those deceitful Sally-ports,
Our Sentinels betray our Forts.

IV.

What subtile Withcraft Man constrains,
To change his Pleasure into Pains,
And all his Freedom into Chains?

V.

Stranger, if I can save thee, wilt thou bear
To Argos and the friends who loved my youth
Some word? . . .
Help me! Be saved! Thou also hast thy part,
Thy life for one light letter. . . . For thy friend,
The Law compelleth. He must bear the end
By Artemis ordained, apart from thee. Orestes .
Strange woman, as thou biddest let it be,
Save one thing. 'Twere for me a heavy weight
Should this man die. 'Tis I and mine own fate
That steer our goings. He but sails with me
Because I suffer much. It must not be

I ne'er was dress'd in forms; nor can I bend
My pen to flatter any, nor commend,
Unless desert or honour do present
Unto my verse a worthy argument.

You are my friend, and in that word to me
Stand blazon'd in your noblest heraldry;
That style presents you full, and does relate
The bounty of your love, and my own fate,
Both which conspir'd to make me yours. A choice,
Which needs must, in the giddy people's voice,
That only judge the outside, and, like apes,
Play with our names, and comment on our shapes,

HIS PRIME

Years pass on, and overhead, The
Portentious clouds of fear and dread,
Obscure the sky!
No ray of hope for bondmen sad,
" Whom gods destroy they first make mad! "
Then seize their prey.

In seventeen hundred ninety-one,
Mid-August at the set of sun,
There suddenly
Appeared upon the evening sky
A ruddy glow; we hear the cry —
For liberty!

The horror of those days, no pen
Can tell, of children, women, men,
Hurried to death!

HIS MANHOOD

Thus, up to manhood he arose,
A man of wisdom, strength, repose,
Integrity;
Beloved by all both far and near,
Respected for his character
And industry.

Then he was married to Suzan,
A help-meet true for such a man;
For many years
The loved companion of his life,
Sharing his honors, toils and strife,
His hopes and fears.
...

He saw with pain the cruel lot
Of Brethren dear, and ne'er forgot
To humbly pray,

HIS BOYHOOD

His eldest son, Arradas' heir,
Toussaint L'Overture, who there
Was given birth,
In seventeen hundred forty-three,
Was destined by the gods to be
A man of worth.

A slender boy, he grew apace;
A Prince-apparent of his race!
Most eagerly
He sat him down at Learning's feast,
His teacher, pious Pierre Baptiste
Exultingly

Taught him to read and write and pray,
Some Latin, French, Geometry;
To meditate,