The town at last is reached,by the Pont-Long they enter,Close by the Hue des Jacobins,near Durand's house they venture.
Around the portals of the door there throngs a mournful crowd;They see the Cross,they hear the priests the Requiem chaunt aloud.
The girls were troubled in their souls,their minds were rent with grief;One above all,young Marianne,was trembling like a leaf:
Another death--oh,cruel thought!then of her father dying,She quickly ran to Durand's door,and asked a neighbour,crying:
"Where's the good doctor,sir,I pray?I seek him for my father!"He soft replied,"The gracious God into His fold doth gather The best of poor folks'doctors now,to his eternal rest;They bear the body forth,'tis true:his spirit's with the blest."Bright on his corpse the candles shine around his narrow bier,Escorted by the crowds of poor with many a bitter tear;No more,alas!can he the sad and anguished-laden cure--Oh,wail!For Durand is no more--the Doctor of the Poor!
Footnotes to THE POOR MAN'S DOCTOR.
[1]In the last edition of Jasmin's poems (4vols.8vo,edited by Buyer d'Agen)it is stated (p.40,1st vol.)that "M.Durand,physician,was one of those rare men whom Providence seems to have provided to assuage the lot of the poorest classes.His career was full of noble acts of devotion towards the sick whom he was called upon to cure.He died at the early age of thirty-five,of a stroke of apoplexy.His remains were accompanied to the grave by nearly all the poor of Agen and the neighbourhood.
MY VINEYARD.[1]
[MA BIGNO.]
To MADAME LOUIS VEILL,Paris.
Dear lady,it is true,that last month I have signed A little scrap of parchment;now myself I find The master of a piece of ground Within the smallest bound--Not,as you heard,a spacious English garden Covered with flowers and trees,to shrine your bard in--But of a tiny little vineyard,Which I have christened "Papilhoto"!
Where,for a chamber,I have but a grotto.
The vine-stocks hang about their boughs,At other end a screen of hedgerows,So small they do not half unroll;A hundred would not make a mile,Six sheets would cover the whole pile.
Well!as it is,of this I've dreamt for twenty years--You laugh,Madame,at my great happiness,Perhaps you'll laugh still more,when it appears,That when I bought the place,I must confess There were no fruits,Though rich in roots;Nine cherry trees--behold my wood!
Ten rows of vines--my promenade!
A few peach trees;the hazels too;
Of elms and fountains there are two.
How rich I am!My muse is grateful very;
Oh!might I paint?while I the pencil try,Our country loves the Heavens so bright and cheery.
Here,verdure starts up as we scratch the ground,Who owns it,strips it into pieces round;Beneath our sun there's nought but gayest sound.
You tell me,true,that in your Paris hot-house,You ripen two months sooner 'neath your glass,of course.
What is your fruit?Mostly of water clear,The heat may redden what your tendrils bear.
But,lady dear,you cannot live on fruits alone while here!
Now slip away your glossy glove And pluck that ripened peach above,Then place it in your pearly mouth And suck it--how it 'lays your drouth--Melts in your lips like honey of the South!
Dear Madame,in the North you have great sights--Of churches,castles,theatres of greatest heights;Your works of art are greater far than here.
But come and see,quite near The banks of the Garonne,on a sweet summer's day,All works of God!and then you'll say No place more beautiful and gay!
You see the rocks in all their velvet greenery;The plains are always gold;and mossy very,The valleys,where we breathe the healthy air,And where we walk on beds of flowers most fair!
The country round your Paris has its flowers and greensward,But 'tis too grand a dame for me,it is too dull and sad.
Here,thousand houses smile along the river's stream;Our sky is bright,it laughs aloud from morn to e'en.
Since month of May,when brightest weather bounds For six months,music through the air resounds--A thousand nightingales the shepherd's ears delight:
All sing of Love--Love which is new and bright.
Your Opera,surprised,would silent hearken,When day for night has drawn aside its curtain,Under our heavens,which very soon comes glowing.
Listen,good God!our concert is beginning!
What notes!what raptures?Listen,shepherd-swains,One chaunt is for the hill-side,the other's for the plains.
"Those lofty mountains Far up above,I cannot see All that I love;Move lower,mountains,Plains,up-move,That I may see All that I love."[2]
And thousand voices sound through Heaven's alcove,Coming across the skies so blue,Making the angels smile above--The earth embalms the songsters true;
The nightingales,from tree to flower,Sing louder,fuller,stronger.
'Tis all so sweet,though no one beats the measure,To hear it all while concerts last--such pleasure!
Indeed my vineyard's but a seat of honour,For,from my hillock,shadowed by my bower,I look upon the fields of Agen,the valley of Verone.[3]
How happy am I 'mongst my vines!Such pleasures there are none.
For here I am the poet-dresser,working for the wines.
I only think of propping up my arbours and my vines;Upon the road I pick the little stones--
And take them to my vineyard to set them up in cones,And thus I make a little house with but a sheltered door--As each friend,in his turn,now helps to make the store.
And then there comes the vintage--the ground is firm and fast,With all my friends,with wallets or with baskets cast,We then proceed to gather up the fertile grapes at last.
Oh!my young vine,The sun's bright shine Hath ripened thee All--all for me!
No drizzling showers Have spoilt the hours.
My muse can't borrow;
My friends,to-morrow Cannot me lend;
But thee,young friend,Grapes nicely drest,With figs the finest And raisins gather Bind them together!
Th'abundant season Will still us bring A glorious harvesting;Close up thy hands with bravery Upon the luscious grapery!