New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1891-10-11
THE SINGERS OF FRANCE.
nfpREssIoNIsTs AMONG THE POETS,

concern of the poet seems TO be not so much with
his idea as with its perfect expression. Pure art
is his object and seldom is line mark failed Of, or
ovcrshot Never have been more consummate
masters Of language; never have more airy fancles
found words One Is reminded of the paper but
tcrflies kept aaoat by the fan of n japanese Jug
glcr. The songs Of Rosset and Swinburne seem
clumsy In comparison with these chansons 10
translate these poems is like trying 10 gather roses
without spilling the dew drops from their leaves.
A few however. have been selected and imper-
fect!y rendered into English
Pierre OuiIlard Is one of the most highly
esteemed of the younger poets, on account Oh the
solid beauty Of his verse and the clear-cue ere
pance of his Imagery lie has written several
PLAYS which have Leen successfully produced, his
latest, "The Maid of the Severed iiaho,
Mystery having attracted much at'eh'ioh'
His com posItions are somewhat unvarying IN tohe'
but always symmetrical.
LIED.
(plus Guam foemina vlrgo.-OTd)
brighter because In heaven there shneth not the moon
The stars CLEAN in the heather on the edges OK '"e
Dune
But heed not their cleaning nor the splendor OF tie
night,
For In my heart is shining vision far more brlgnt.
vision fair of other skies where other stars shall roll
Above land no man hath seen, save only with ms
SOUL
Amid the start heather thou oldest, pale and Slow
Hearing no voices calling, nor sounds that come ana
Thou lookes on tile quiet stars that smile full sweet
on thee:
But cen thine eyes see not. my soul is far away
Singing In distant pam-groves, in the glory Of new
day,
To women yet to live and TO their kisses yet to be-
MARBLE.
The sacred groves are silent, and oil the birds are
flown;
Adown the glen the strcamlct glldes with low and
plalntIvc moan.
Only a virgin warrior, her chaste limbs unarrsyed,
The marble goddess keeps in state the long deserted
glade.
Her deathess body, born Of love and dreams long
passed away,
Rises, a deathlcss lily, mid flowers that live a day.
No shepherds pipe sounds near her, and scarce
crckets cry;
The sweet grass shudders family when the autumn
winds sweep by;
But most they do but whisper too softly for her ear
Sometimes, deep In the thicket the roe starts up in
fear,
To see that white form cleaning, with calm, unsee-
ing eyes
And arched bow turned upward to the nevcrchanging
SIZES.
It has been said Of the songs OF Fernand Ma
zade that they are full of the music to which
cradles are swung; music murmured demi-voix
by women's voices, sensuous and interrupted with
signs. Mazades collected poems bear the appro-
pirate title In Black and Cold They are
sombre in tone, but vivid and marked with rare
intensity of feeling. The sonnet form is favorite
with him. His are especially difficult to render
in English verse. In the following, which is an
lii
rhyme has been made:
AUTUMN.
Whence art thou, idle love that comes 80 lates
What new star IS this In my sombre night
And why this happiness near the end!
Why, Oh my hope. and say, Oh thou my fears
No more Thou art no more! SIN am / left
Alone ard widowed with my ancient pain
Springs dead, and summer; even autumn's gone.
What love is In my hearts What deathless dole
And still The amber odor's in tho wind.
Which, IN thy golden hair l stepped my soul.
The ocean as In autumn times ngonc,
filings lusty foam against the weary shore.
The olden beauty tints the woods, the sea;
The angelus soft pcas. and like the year
The wine Of fancy pale, sinks unto DEATH
Paul Guigon is q man Of the South, but nature,
in fit Of heedlessness merriment, chose to cast
him, mentally and physically, in the mould OF o
German student. He Is rosy-cheeked and blond
haired and his round face shines with the franSes
good-nature. His poetry is full of limpid charm
1t is the poetry one loves and easily commits TO
memory. Sincere and incomprehensible," was
the comment Of Teller, who also compared Gui-
CONS compositions to those Of Cazalis and Heine
lie has not written much, his boast being that Of
the old Regnier-that he writes very seldom, but
when he writes, he satisfies himself.
Oh Brittany was it, The night breczes bore
sweet violet od0rs and rosemary.
Broke the waves into foam. Was 1t Erns shorei
Like liEitess plain stretched the gray Of the sea-
Bohemia, It'll Mysterious sky
And night OF strange dreams, remember yor wet
All sadder than parting the moon high;
And the gloom Of the clouds words can tell.
And castle there was OF marble green:
But time had turned it gray Of blee.
The splendor was naught but gloom, and black
Were the gllded porches that faced the sea.
A whte-haired king paced to and FRO.
His eyes were heavy and dim with years.
His footsteps fsltered and e'en grew Slow
His old hand trembled that brushed his tears.
He went, he came, he woke, he slept,
Drunk with regret and the moan OF the sea-
And life was weary he cried for death:
But death comes slow to such as he.
minstrel came In the starlight fair,
And sang song OF cup OF gold
In Hungary was IL? Bohemiaf wheref
Perhaps twas the King OF Thule old
Oh, mystic valei Land OF desire
Did visit You once9 Shall L see you morei
So far have searched that my soul doth tire.
Fingal, was It'll or Elsinoref