They were generally about my being reminded, by a
tune, of things that had happened a long time ago: my poetic, like my
artistic vein, was limited.
Here are the last I made, thirty years back. My only excuse for giving
them is that they are so _singularly prophetic_.
The reminding tune (an old French chime which my father used to sing)
is very simple and touching; and the old French words run thus:
_"Orleans, Beaugency!
Notre Dame de Clery!
Vendome! Vendome!
Quel chagrin, quel ennui
De compter toute la nuit
Les heures--Les heures!"_
That is all. They are supposed to be sung by a mediaeval prisoner who
cannot sleep; and who, to beguile the tediousness of his insomnia, sets
any words that come into his head to the tune of the chime which marks
the hours from a neighboring belfry. I tried to fancy that his name was
Pasquier de la Mariere, and that he was my ancestor.
THE CHIME.
_There is an old French air,
A little song of loneliness and grief--
Simple as nature, sweet beyond compare--
And sad--past all belief!
Nameless is he that wrote
The melody--but this I opine:
Whoever made the words was some remote
French ancestor of mine.
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