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The Sick Muse
Ma pauvre muse, hélas ! qu’as-tu donc ce matin ?
Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes,
Et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint
La folie et l’horreur, froides et taciturnes.
Alas--my poor Muse--what aileth thee now?
Thine eyes are bedimmed with the visions of Night,
And silent and cold--I perceive on thy brow
In their turns--Despair and Madness alight.
Thine eyes are bedimmed with the visions of Night,
And silent and cold--I perceive on thy brow
In their turns--Despair and Madness alight.
Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin
T’ont-ils versé la peur et l’amour de leurs urnes ?
Le cauchemar, d’un poing despotique et mutin,
T’a-t-il noyée au fond d’un fabuleux Minturnes ?
A succubus green, or a hobgoblin red,
Has it poured o'er thee Horror and Love from its urn?
Or the Nightmare with masterful bearing hath led
Thee to drown in the depths of some magic Minturne?
Has it poured o'er thee Horror and Love from its urn?
Or the Nightmare with masterful bearing hath led
Thee to drown in the depths of some magic Minturne?
Je voudrais qu’exhalant l’odeur de la santé
Ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté,
Et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rhythmiques,
I wish, as the health-giving fragrance I cull,
That thy breast with strong thoughts could for ever be full,
And that rhymthmic'ly flowing--thy Christian blood
That thy breast with strong thoughts could for ever be full,
And that rhymthmic'ly flowing--thy Christian blood
Comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques,
Où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons,
Phœbus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.
Could resemble the olden-time metrical-flood,
Where each in his turn reigned the father of Rhymes
Phoebus--and Pan, lord of Harvest-times.
Where each in his turn reigned the father of Rhymes
Phoebus--and Pan, lord of Harvest-times.