PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

JULY 18TH, 1857.

THE King of Song is dead;
People, upon that throne
Whose words all hearts obey'd,
To-day death sits alone!
Yes; he who, like to death,

From kings rent throne and crown,
To-day yields up his breath,
Himself by death struck down.
People, no tear need start;

By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

No-no; he cannot die ;

Still lives that matchless voice,
With sorrow still to sigh,
With laughter to rejoice.

Poor girl, the needle ply,

His voice your work shall cheer; Workman, your long hours fly, His kindly words you hear. People, no tear need start; By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart ;

He speaks from every tongue.

What garret but shall tell

How dear to its grisette
Is all he sang so well,

Of love and his Lisette?
You hear that jolly shout;
There, where those students dine,

His wit they thunder out,

As mad with song as wine.
People, no tear need start;

By France his songs are sung;

He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

38

PIERRE JEAN DE BÉRANGER.

Speeding the weary plough,
"The People's Memories" comes;
Hark, "The Old Corporal" now
On guard that soldier hums;
List! with his "Garret" gay,
That clanging smithy rings;
Whiling his watch away,
His "Jaques" the sailor sings.
People, no tear need start;

By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

There prowls the listening spy;
Ah! "Judas" dogs him still;
There steals the Jesuit sly,
Song-mock'd, go where he will;
Tyrants and tyrants' tools,
His songs their work still do ;
He lives still, knaves and fools,
Το Scourge and scoff at you.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

People, he claims your rights;
People, he tells your wrongs;
Still in your ranks he fights,
Immortal in his songs;
What Freedom dares not say,
Your tyrant hears her sing;
Hark! with his songs to-day
Workshop and winehouse ring.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart ;

He speaks from every tongue.

7

Frenchmen, he lived for you;
Through evil and through good,
To France and Frenchmen true,
Still for your rights he stood.
For this, to France how dear!

Dear and more dear to fame,
With every coming year,

Shall be his matchless name.
People, no tear need start;
By France his songs are sung;
He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

Courts, and all courts could give,
Tempted, he dared to scorn;
Tempted, he dared to live
As poor as he was born.
For fetter'd France to sing,

He dared the prisoner's doom;
Therefore shall France still bring
Immortelles to his tomb.

People, no tear need start ;

By France his songs are sung; He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

Wider, O France, than e'er
His "Greycoat's" eagles flew,
Conqueror, he comes to share

His glory, France, with you;
Circling the glad earth round,

His fame to heaven is hurl'd; His empire without bound, His realm a subject world. People, no tear need start; By earth his songs are sung; He lives in every heart;

He speaks from every tongue.

NO-NO-MY LOVE IS NO ROSE.

No-no-my love is no rose

That only in sunshine buds and grows,
And but to blue skies will its blooms unclose,
That withers away

In an autumn day,

And dies in a dream of drifting snows;
No-no-my love is no rose.

No-no-my love is no rose;

My love is the holly that ever is green,
Whether breezes are balmy, or blasts are keen,
The same that is still,

In days sullen and chill,

As when snow'd with blossoms the orchards are seen; No-no-my love is no rose.

GOD'S BEST GIFT.

COME, fill-fill to the toast
To which my glass I lift ;
Here's "She we love the most,"
Here's "Woman-God's best gift."

O who, beloved by her,

Who will not gladly own,

Life, O what rapture were,

Though bless'd with her alone!

Then who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's "She we love the most,"
Here's "Woman-God's best gift."

The heathens feign'd that he

Who stole from heaven its flame,

Foretold all woes would be

When sweet Pandora came;

But all his wisdom taught,

Thank Heaven! it taught in vain ;

She to man's heart was caught,
And ne'er released again.

And who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's "She we love the most,"
Here's "Woman-God's best gift."

In Paradise, man found

His lot not wholly bless'd,
Until its blissful ground

Dear woman's footsteps press'd
God's mercy how he bless'd

When forced its bliss to leave!

He Eden still possess'd

While with him went his Eve.
Then who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's "She we love the most,"
Here's "Woman-God's best gift."

And still the curse she takes
From man; for she alone
With her dear presence makes
An Eden still his own;
Oh, what were this life worth,
How and dull it were,
Unless the weary earth

poor

Were made a heaven by her!
Then who'll not drink the toast
To which my glass I lift?
Here's" She we love the most,"

Here's "Woman-God's best gift."

SONG.

WERE mine the songs Anacreon sung,
Were mine Catullus' burning pen,
Or Dante's dreams, or Petrarch's tongue,
How, dearest, would I sing thee then!