English

They are gone — all is still! Foolish heart, dost thou quiver?
Nothing stirs on the lawn but the quick lilac-shade.
Far up shines the house, and beneath flows the river —
Here lean, my head, on this cold balustrade!

Ere he come — ere the boat by the shining-branch'd border
Of dark elms shoot round, dropping down the proud stream,
Let me pause, let me strive, in myself make some order,
Ere their boat-music sound, ere their broider'd flags gleam.

O My Long-suffering Lord, I own,
And thy rich Patience praise;
The Mower , he has not cut me down;
I stand; O wondrous Grace !

I wait, O of my Life the GOD !
I'm waiting for the Stroke.
I see the Mower: He's on the Road;
Soon, soon , I'am overtook!

O that I were in Safety got;
That what I can't Evade
I may with Comfort meet, and not
Be of the Sithe afraid.

O Father of the Rain , Look down
 Upon us from on high;
If thy Land be not Rain'd upon,
 What Lives on it will Dy .

Lord of the Clouds; In thee we hope;
 Thine all the Bottels are;
Except Thou open them, a Drop
 won't fall upon us here.

If thou make Heav'n as Brass , and burn
 From thence the groaning Field,
Thy Earth will soon to Iron turn,
 And no Production yield.

O Let thy Seasonable Rain
 Drop Fatness on our Soyl;
And grant to most unworthy Man
 The Harvest of his Toil.

Give me thy Heart , My SAVIOUR says:
'Tis what I strive to do.
It's Barren: Change it, Lord , by Grace,
A Fruitful Soyl into.

[1.] When the Seed of thy Word is cast
On such a Beaten Road ;
Let not the Fruit of all be lost,
Nor under Foot be trod.
May't be no Unattentive Heart,
When There thy Lessons fall;
Let not Hell's Harpyes do their part
To rob me of them all.

Your memory is death to me,
My only good the sight of you;
I swear by all that I hold true
That joy without you cannot be.
When I your face no longer view
I die of sadness, yea — pardie!
Your memory is death to me.

Alas! sweet sister, fair to see,
Have pity on me, for with you
Evil recoils, the sky is blue;
Without you clouds shade land and sea.
Your memory is death to me!

(Epistre, en forme de ballade, a ses amis)

Have pity on me, have pity I pray,
My friends; may I pray you to grant this grace,
For far from the hawthorn-trees of May
I am flung in this dungeon in this far place
Of exile, by God and by Fate's disgrace.
New married and young; girls, lovers that kneel;
Dancers and jugglers that turn the wheel,
Needle-sharp, quick as a dart each one,
Voiced like the bells 'midst the hills that peal:
Will you leave him like this — the poor Villon?

Singers who sing without law your lay,

Repose eternal give to him
O Lord, and Light that never dies;
Even unto him whose platter lies
Empty of meat — yea, even to him
Who standeth bald, in turnip trim,
Sans beard, sans hair above the eyes.
Repose!

Fate sent him forth to exile dim,
And struck him hard, above the thighs;
Yet clear he cried, as still he cries,
" Lord, I appeal! " yea, even to him
Repose!

On return from that hard prison
Where life near was reft from me,
If Fate still shows cruelty,
Judge if she shows not misprision!
For it seems to me, with reason,
She hath found satiety,
On return.

For the Fate is but unreason,
That still wills my misery.
Grant, God! I find sanctuary,
In Thy house from her dark treason,

(Ballade de bonne doctrine)

Be ye carriers of bulls,
Cheats at dice — whate'er ye be,
Coiners — they who risk like fools,
Boiling for their felony.
Traitors perverse — so be ye —
Thieves of gold, or virgin's pearls,
Where goes what ye get in fee?
All on taverns and on girls.

Song, jest, cymbals, lutes —
Don these signs of minstrelsy.
Farce, imbroglio, play of flutes,
Make in hamlet or city.
Act in play or mystery,
Gain at cards, or ninepin hurls.
All your profits, where go they?

(Belle Leçon de Villon aux enfans perduz)

Fair children, in waste ye strew
The roses that for you blow.
My clerks, who can clutch like glue,
If ye journey to Montpippeau,
Or Reul, have a care, ye know
For the dice that there he threw —
Risking a second throw —
Was lost Colin de Caileux.

This is no little game,
For body and soul are fee;
If ye lose, from a death of shame