Désirs et plaisirs... (Phoenix) (French Edition)

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Annie et lui sont amis. Annie lui permet d'utiliser la salle de bain de la librairie pour faire sa toilette. Boris est un piano droit Gerhard Hertzman. Following its premiere at the RVCQ, was screened at a dozen film festivals around the world. Yanie completed the second version of Friends for Life , which became Lola and I.

She travels the world on the lookout for inspiration, and as a passion. She is an active member of Kino Montreal and one of its board members. The classicist Bruce Thornton wrote that The Use of Pleasure was, "usually quite readable, surveying the ancient evidence to make some good observations about the various techniques developed to control passion", but faulted Foucault for limiting his scope to "fourth-century medical and philosophical works".

The psychoanalyst Joel Whitebook argued that while Foucault proposes that "bodies and pleasures" should be the rallying point against "the deployment of sexuality", "bodies and pleasures", like other Foucauldian terms, is a notion with "little content. Scruton wrote in that, contrary to Foucault's claims, the ancient texts Foucault examines in The Use of Pleasure are not primarily about sexual pleasure. Nevertheless, he found the second two volumes of The History of Sexuality more scholarly than Foucault's previous work.

Scruton concluded, of the work in general, that it creates an impression of a "normalized" Foucault: From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. For the history article, see History of human sexuality. The Homosexualization of America. The Oxford Companion to Philosophy. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. A Literary History of Sadomasochism. The Cambridge Women's Studies Group, ed. Psychoanalysis and Ancient Representations of Women. The University of Chicago Press.

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Foucault, Michel []. Education of the Senses. The Politics of Human Fertility. The Lives of Michel Foucault. Ads By Traffic Junky. Suggest new categories x. Suggest new pornstars x. Suggest new Production x. Suggest new tags x. Login or Sign Up now to download this video! Login or Sign Up now to add this video! Login or Sign Up now to add this video to stream! Notre 1er CEI avec amour: Gicle et avale rien que pour moi.

All Comments 66 Login or Sign Up now to post a comment! Popular Comments Recent Comments. Amazing, delicious, makes me so horny!!! Kinkysolveig, tu es absolument fantastique Bravo tu ma bien vider les couilles! Should I ne'er see your face again! My child. Adieu, adieu, May God above watch over you! Away the lowly exile went To toil beneath another sky. The mother, on her form intent, Followed the wand'rer with her eye; And when at last the form was gone, Her grief through all its fetters broke, She wept aloud, — the lonely one, — While still her child departing spoke : My mother dear, Adieu, May God above watch over you!

Jean Pierre Claris Florian. In vain I mourn: these prison walls Alone my mournful sighs repeat; Memory, that former bliss recalls, Moje bitter makes the woe I meet. Beyond my prison bars I see The sweet birds through the free air sweep. Singing their loves at liberty, Whilst I in hated fetters weep. And to the future trust my fame. Perfidious — cruel — barb'rous foe! Hatred shall dog thy coming years. While o'er the tomb where I lie low. Pity will shed her tenderest tears.

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Ye dreary vaults— abode of fears And home of silence, — ah! I hear around my cell alway The howling wind — the owlet's cry — The bell's deep toll : to me they say, "Mary, thine hour strikes; thou must die! En vain de ma douleur afifreuse Ces murs sont les tristes echos; En songeant que je fus heureuse Je ne fais qu'accroitre mes maux.

A travers ces grilles terribles Je vois les oiseaux dans les airs: lis chantent leurs amours paisibles, Et moi je pleiure dans les fers! Quel que soit le sort que m'accable, Mon coeur saura le soutenir, Infortune'e, et non coupable, Je prends pour juge I'avenir. Perfide et barbare ennemie, On detestera tes fureurs, Et sur la tombe de Marie La pitie versera des pleurs.

Voiites sombres, sejour d'alarmes, Lieux au silence destines, Ah! LHirondelle et le Proscrit. This beautiful song, which is dated , is published with the name of Fougas as its author. However, according to MM. Dumersan and Segur, this is merely a nojii de guerre, under which a very celebrated poet is concealed. HY, feathered wanderer, why this hasty flight? Come, swallow, rest awhile and perch by me: Why dost thou fly me thus when I invite? Know'st not I am a foreigner like thee? Perhaps, alas! Come, build thy nest beneath my window, Know'st not I am a traveller like thee?

But when the spring returns with smile so sweet, Then my asylum thou wilt quit, and me; Then wilt thou go, the Zephyr's land to greet; Alas, alas! The country of thy birth thou then wilt find, The nest of thy first love; but as for me, The chains of destiny so firmly bind, — To me belongs compassion, not to thee. Pourquoi me fuir lorsque ma voix t'appelle, Ne suis-je pas etranger comme toi. Peut-etre, helas! Les Hirondelks. Jean Pierre Claris Flokian.

How I love to see the swallows At my window every year, For they bring the happy tidings Smiling spring is drawing near. Caged and parted from its lover — Captive in the winter land; Soon you'll see it die of sorrow, While its mate, still lingering nigh, Knows no further joy in sunshine. But on the same day mil die. Point d'hiver pour les cceurs fideles, : lis sont toujours dans le printemps. Le Glas.

Night o'er the sky has spread her veil, The storm with hollow roar draws near; Tn the stars' glimmer, cold and pale, We read a sentence full of fear. Wliat feeble sound — O mother, tell! It is the monastery bell : — Immortal spirit, pass in peace. While all caress her, she must die! Must part from all, her life must cease; Sweet love and earthly hope must fly. Or that sad bell may tell instead A dying soldier's mournful tale, Who oft in glorious battle bled.

Yet dies within his native vale. Ah, Heaven! Great God, what deathlike silence reigns! I hear no more the solemn bell. That, telling us of mortal pains, In dying murmurs faintly fell. Those eyes will shed no more the tear; The birds' songs on the branches cease: Alas! O mother dear. La nuit a de'ploye ses voiles : L'orage s'avance en grondant; Sur le front jDale des etoiles Se lit un arret menagant. Quel faible bruit vient, 6 ma mere, Tinter sous nos arbres epais?

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Buy Désirs et plaisirs (Phoenix t. 3) (French Edition): Read Kindle Store Reviews - nojuxokusebu.tk Au bord de tes désirs mes lèvres se posent Je suis la mésange qui ose s' aventurer dans tes jardins. Avec ce recueil, Christine Fabre nous offre une.

C'est la cloche du monastere — Ame immortelle, allez en paix. Peut-etre au printemps de sa vie, Quand tout presageait de beaux jours, Une vierge est-elle ravie Aux charmes des premiers amours! Peut-etre cat airain qui sonne En longs et tristes tintements, D'un soldat qu'e'pargna Bellone Annonce les demiers instants. O ciel! Grand Dieu! Je n'entends plus le son mourant Dont la triste et sombre eloquence Vient de finir en murmurant. L'oiseau se tait sous la ramee : Vos ycux se sont clos pour jamais; Helas!

De mon Village on ne voit plus Paris. Song dated You quitted us, now bitter tears you shed; Leaving a sad remembrance of the past, Your joys, like rapid moments, all have fled — The joys you fancied would for ever last. Then come with me, sweet mourner, come. Forgotten let thy sorrows be; Believe me, — from my village home This Paris we can never see.

Oh, hasten with me to that happy spot, Where childhood's joys together we have known; Come see my meadow green, my pleasant cot, — Come, — cottage, meadow, all shall be your own. Couplets d via Filleule. You doubtless think 'tis all a blunder; That such a choice should make you cry, Indeed, my child, I do not wonder. A table spread with sweetmeats o'er Would much improve me, I dare say; — Still, dearest godchild, weep no more, For I may make you laugh some day.

Your name in friendship I bestow, For friends this post in friendship give me; I'm not a mighty lord — oh, no; Yet I'm a honest man, beUeve me. Before your eyes no glittering store Of costly gifts can I display; — Still, dearest godchild, weep no more. For I may make you laugh some day. Though even virtue is confined By Fate's stem laws, which sore oppress her, Godma and I uill bear in mind Our godchild's happiness — God bless her!

While wandering on this rugged shore, Good hearts should never feel dismay; So, dearest godchild, weep no more, For I may make you iaugh some day. Years hence, upon your wedding-day. Yet 'twould be hard to die before A feast where all will be so gay; — My dearest godchild, weep no more, I'll make you laugh upon that day. And to his happiness devote my life, — And I am young, dear mother, you know well:'' But down, a-down, the sere leaves fell.

When I the ring of gold shall wear, And joyfully enwTeath my hair With those white orange-flowers that brides array. A month had past, and autumn now was gone, I saw a new-erected tomb Which on the valley cast a gloom. And plainly read a name upon the stone — 'Twas Lucy's name. Think what her mother felt, When bowed by heavy grief in prayer she knelt. When heaven-turned eyes her anguish told too well,- Oh, then no more the sere leaves fell. Za Tourterellc. Emile Varin. Emile Varin was one of the writers for the Theatre du Vaudeville before it was burned down in The above song is dated Though thy mngs thy prison beat, Echo only will repeat Thy sighs and mine; Here must I pine E'en as thou, sweet turtle-dove.

Without love. My gentle fav'rite, my companion dear, We want for nothing, and I tend thee well ; We love each other, yet our love is drear — Whit makes us thus a-weary, canst thou tell? Sprmg with his smile so bright We at our window see. Our souls with new delight Cry, "Joy, we wait for thee. The forest trees now put their foliage on, The almond its new flower begins to wear; This genial sun could animate a stone : When all is joyous, why do we despair? Two hearts that are a prey To flames that nought can still, When all around is gay.

Access of torment feel. And graceful is thy many-coloured neck, A thousand channs thou seemest to combine. To pity's warning shall I give no ear, Or do I dread that scolded I shall be? But then I feel the pain of losing thee. If once I ope thy door. What pleasure wilt thou taste, How freely wilt thou soar. And to the greenwood haste! With all my soul thy silken plumes I kiss; Come, give me fond caress for fond caress : To think that friendship can give joy like this!

Thou patient turtle-dove, I '11 find for thee a mate, Whom thou may'st truly love, When I have — changed my state. Faut roiiblier. Born Date of song, Ye happy hours of love, adieu! Ye false and cruel oaths, farewell! That made me think his heart was true; Now nought shall in my memory dwdl— I must forget.

And through the day, with whisper soft, The one sad thought she would reveal, And when she slept at night, she oft Amid her dreams would murmur still — "I must forget. Son mm, G, Lemoine. And ne'er my happiness reveal. Sacred from curious eyes I must Preserve that name, my heart's delight; Vv'ith it no paper dare I trust. That name on sand I may not wTite. The breeze I trust not, that might bear To other ears a name so sweet; No echo must my secret hear, For echoes would the name repeat.

My bosom with new thoughts it fires. While whisp'ring in its softest tone; Though all my verses it inspires, That name remains unsung alone.

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But yet that name, which nought can tell. If she came near, — oh, sweet surprise! The name of her whom I adore. Which such high rapture makes me feel. Although I guard it more and more. Will from its prison sometimes steal. The treasure for myself I keep, I breathe it at the break of day, I breathe it when I sink to sleep, And feel it lull my soul away. The name of her whom I adore I only to my heart reveal, I guard it as a precious store. And ever will my joy conceal. Ilfaiii quitter ce que f adore. He composed many operas ; the most celebrated is Les Rendezvous Bourgeois.

To-morrow tears thee from my heart. To-day my parting words receive. And let us heal all wounds to-day; But let our love, while yet we live, Ne'er from our memory pass away. But though our hearts forget to grieve, And think no more of this sad day, Still let our love, while yet we live.

Ne'er from our memory pass away. The thought of her I now adore Will be the only solace left. So, comfort I shall yet receive, While I repeat these words each day, Our love, my dearest, while I live. Shall ne'er from memory pass away. Aime mot bien. H, love me, love me, I implore, I have no faith but in thy heart ; Thou hast the balm to heal the sore, — In mercy, love, that balm impart.

One only stay on earth I feel, The hope which makes my bosom swell. So, wouldst thou see me living still, Oh, love me truly, — love me well. Oh, love me, love me, — nought have I To cheer me in this world so drear ; No tender mothers heart is nigh, No sister, with a pitying tear. Friends, glory, prospects, — all are gone, A hapless exile here I dwell : Nought have I, save thy love alone, Then love me truly, — love me well. Oh, love me, love me, — to repay Thy love, my life I'll dedicate, The thoughts of ev'ry passing day To thee alone I'll consecrate.

I '11 guard thee wth a parent's care, Thy name shall by my mother's dwell, And Avith it rise in every prayer: Oh, love me truly, — love me well. A guardian angel, I'll watch o'er Thy soul, and every harm repel; But in return I still implore, Oh, love me truly, — love me well. Pres d tin Berceaii. The fisherman, aroused by morning's ray. Hastes to observe the aspect of the day; Hoping that Heaven will grant him breezes mild, — Thus of thy prospects do I dream, dear child. What fate, sweet angel, is awarded thee? Wilt thou a man of peace or warrior be? A holy priest, — the idol of a ball, — A radiant poet, — statesman, — general?

But meanwhile, on thy mother's breast, Thou blue-eyed angel, rest, — oh, rest! He's for a warrior born, his eyes proclaim, And I shall take proud pleasure in his fame; A simple soldier he will soon advance : He's now a general, — Marshal, now, of France. Where thickest is the fight he takes his place. Through raining bullets shines his radiant face; The foemen fly, — the victory is won, — Sound, trumpets, for the victor is my son 1 But meanwhile, on thy mother's breast.

Thou future general, rest, — oh, rest! But no! Be thou the lamp, Ht with the altar's light, — The fragrant incense which the seraphs bright With their loud hymns to the Eternal bear; Be thou the very perfumed breath of prayer. But meanwhile, on thy mother's breast, Thou holy Levite, rest, — oh, rest! A prayer, and nothing further, wilt thou deem Whate'er fond mothers at the cradle dream. Choose Thou his calling, — Thou who reign'st above, Thou art supreme in Avisdom as in love. But meanwhile, on thy mother's breast Rest peacefully, sweet angel, rest!

Ma belle Amie est morte. Born iSoS. It is scarcely necessary to state that M. Theophile Gautier is one of the most celebrated poets and wittiest fetiilletonistes of the present day. She came from heaven above, She there returns to dwell; The angels took my love. But took not me as well. The bird without a mate Still mourns the absent one, To weep too is my fate.

French-English Dictionary (35,273 Entries)

For all I loved is gone. I loved thee so, That I am sure my heart No more such love will know. She's gone, my lovely maid, And I am left to weep, My heart and love are laid Within the grave so deep. Dans le ciel, sans m'attendre, Elle s'en retourna, L'ange qui I'emmena Ne voulut pas me prendre. La colombe oubliee Pleure et songe h. Mon ame pleure et sent Qu'elle est depareillee. Ma belle amie est morte,. Le Casicl. Thb song, without name and without date, seems to be universally known In France.

Within a castle, old and gray, Young Hermann's infancy was past, While Nature, with her gentle sway, To fair Amelia bound him fast. About the lonely spot they stayed ; In peace was passed life's early mom; 'Twas here their forefathers were laid, 'Twas here their youthful love was bom. But vainly has she wept and prayed, — From that old castle he is torn — 'Twas there his forefathers were laid, 'Twas there his early love was bom. Young Hermann lies upon the ground, His valour's victim, soon he fell ; And from his lip escapes a sound — The name of her he loves so well.

He thinks his pains would be allayed, He thinks his state were less forlorn, If carried where his sires were laid. And where his youthful love was bom. Once more Amelia's form is near; He tries to speak, but vainly tries; He fondly clasps that hand so dear, He lays it on his heart, — he dies! Amelia sees his bright eye fade, , She is not destined long to mourn ; They both are with their fathers laid, Aiid love expires where he was bom.

Un castel d'antique structure Vit I'enfance du jeune Hermand : Son coeur, guide par la nature, Aimait Adele encore enfant; Tous deux, dans ces lieux solitaires, Coulaient en paix leurs premiers jours; C'etait le tombeau de ses pbres, Et le berceau de ses amours. Adele ferme ses paupieres, La douleur termine ses jours; Aussi le tombeau de leurs peres Est le tombeau de leurs amours. Tendres regrets. Andkieux, Born , died Smiling dreams of happy youth, Ah! Must intoxicating joy Only for a moment last? Happy age when all is bright. When each object gives us joy; Inexpressible delight Dawning still wthout alloy.

Ashes may rekindled be, But in flames ne'er burst again. Air : Venus sur la iitolle verdure. SoNGES riants de la jeunesse. Que vous nous quittez promptement! Faut-il qu'une si douce ivresse Ne dure pas plus d'un moment? Age heureux tout semble aimable, Oil chaque objet offre un plaisir, Vif attrait, charme inexprimable, Le coeur s'dpuise h, te sentir.

Pourrait-il d'un feu qui devore Eprouver deux fois les effets? Des cendres s'e'chauffent encore, Mais ne se rallument jamais. II n'est plus rien, rien qui m'enflamme Je languis triste et sans de'sirs; Mais il est au fond de mon amc Une image et des souveiiirs. RUE, I adored thee yesterday, For then my eyes were bandaged fast; But now my love has passed away, False one, thou art unveiled at lastj Though, Leonore — though even yet I feel thy beauty as before, And past delights perhaps regret, I love thee, traitress, now no more.

There is a lustre in thy smile, Grace is thy nature, not a task; The coldest heart thou canst beguile Within thine influence to bask. Could she who claims affection now Combine the charms that I deplore With her own truth! Another soon will take my place, And will thy chosen fav'rite be, Lured by thy sparkling Avit — thy grace; He too will be deceived like me.

Our love was a mistake, but still I can be jealous, Leonore, And envious of thy victims feel, — And yet I love thee now no more. Perchance some day 'twill be our lot In some secluded place to meet; And 'twill be pleasant — will it not? And then perhaps new-waked desire Will give me back my Leonore, And then my soul will be on fire, — But yet I love thee now no more. Few poets have produced a greater number of popular poems than M.

Louis Festeau, who was one of the founders of the convivial society called Le Cymtiase Lyrique in ND he is married, — faithless one! And he this icy note can write; In such a cold, insulting tone, Me to the ball he can invite! I '11 go, arrayed in all my pride,. Although I feel my wound is deep, And cheerfully salute his bride, — Yet grant, Heaven, I do not weep.

My carriage swiftly rolls along, And I am trembling, — not with fear; At yonder door the light is strong.

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At last we stop, — then is it here? How brilliant is the crowd — how gay! Now I behold him in the dance. Of happiness his features speak; Now he approaches, — from his glance Oh, let me hide my pallid cheek; And who is she, that girl so fair? Then shall I join the dance? My feet can scarce my will obey. Yet I am fair, — he told me so. And looked so well with a bouquet. Now he regards me with a sneer: Madness I feel upon me creep; No longer let me linger here, Far from the happy let me weep.

Un Aveu. Dated I love thy clear voice, and thy brow ever fair, Thy modest apparel, thy light sunny hair, And the blue of thine eyes. And if thou 'It not love me, still let me, I pray, Adore thy blue eye, and its pure, gentle ray ; Those features, which never can fade from the sight; And let me thy sweet eighteen summers combine To one flow'ry wreath, and thy forehead entwine With love and delight. Le Forgeron. Y anvil, my anvil, thy big lusty voice Within my black dwelling can make me rejoice : A fig for the strains in which lovers repine!

They never can equal that loud song of thine. Nothing seemed his heart to touch. Round about they feared him much.

Literary Sources of The Mirror of Simple Souls

Once the anvil sounded mildly, Clang, Clang, Clang — Roger's heart was beating wildly. Bang, Bang, Bang — He had seen young Rosa pass, — Only fifteen was the lass ; Wooed her, won her, and next day Thus was heard the blacksmith's lay: ''My anvil, my anvil, pray soften thy voice, A sweet song of love should my Rosa rejoice; Within my black dwelling a star will she shine, And thou must subdue that wild ditty of thine. Burst the door — the spouse unfeeling, Lo! La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la. Chantant d'une voix sonore En frappant pan!

Roger forgeait des Faurore, Martelant, pan! Le forgeron, fort peu sensible Passait partout pour si terrible, Qu'il faisait trembler le quartier, Lorsqu'il chantait k plein gosier. Sa forge allait un dimanche, Doucement, pan! Son coeur battait en revanche, Violemment, pan! C'est qu'il avait vu passer Rose, Fleur de quinze ans h. Rose si jolie, dans mon noir sejour, Ve faire entendre un doux chant d'amour.

Mais Rose un jour n'est pas bonne, A I'instant, pan! Trois fois un soufflet resonne. On entend, pan! Yes, I am jealous, — wrongly, I confess; Myself more wretched far than thee I make. I have no cause to doubt thy tenderness, But yet my rivals constant fear awake When at thy feet they kneel, And round thee with their adulation press, Then horrors o'er me steal, I doubt thy faith, — 'tis jealousy I feel. Yes, I am jealous: worshipped everywhere, A host of eager suitors thou canst charm; I fancy that my treasure they will tear From my fond keeping, and I press thine arm, — 'Tis jealousy I feel : My soul is eaten up with anxious care; Not e'en thy looks can heal My wounded heart, — 'tis jealousy I feel.

Yes, I am jealous: all that charms my sight Seems fashioned merely to disturb my rest. Caresses which relations claim as right, And friendship's harmless kisses, rack my breast; 'Tis jealousy I feel. Yes, I am jealous. Oh, if my senses reel, Pray pardon me, — 'tis jealousy I feel. The world I would shut out for evermore. And in a cell thee and myself conceal; 'Tis jealousy I feel. La Separation. NE morning, when the daylight broke, — A sign of grief to poor Lisette, To her own Alfred thus she spoke.

Frederic Canovas

About this Item: Nantes, But meanwhile, on thy mother's breast, Thou blue-eyed angel, rest, — oh, rest! Cacciatori di Taglie. The dustjacket is enclosed in a durable plastic sleeve for future protection. Strip Club Gangbang. Though even virtue is confined By Fate's stem laws, which sore oppress her, Godma and I uill bear in mind Our godchild's happiness — God bless her! In , lead singer Bertrand Cantat was charged in the death of his girlfriend, actress Marie Trintignant, who died -- on August 1 that year -- of head injuries after being punched by Cantat in a domestic dispute.

While with her tears her cheek was wet: " Oh, sir, I trust when every link That bound us fast is rent by you. Let not my grief your heart distress ; When I was lowly bom and poor. Could I aspire to happiness? Some wealthy maid will be your bride — From pure affection I was true. Love, and not interest was my guide, — Another kiss, and then adieu. When age its snow has o'er me cast. Still our first meeting I'll renew.

Alfred — another kiss — the last — Another kiss, and then adieu. La Folk.

Selected Poems from ‘Délie’

Abel Poret de Morvan. Tra la la la — tra la la la — What is that sweet air? Ah, yes, I recollect, — the band begins to play; The dance will soon commence, those joyous notes would say. How timid is his gait, as he approaches near! A few soft tender words he whispers in my ear. I think I must refuse — yet no reply I make, — He takes my hand, alas! Throughout the ball I thought of him — of him alone!

Oh, happiness supreme! No longer I resist — what feebleness is this? Oh, never did I know existence till this hour, — The happiness of love, — the greatness of its power; And then I ceased to live, — my life was his alone. Tra la la la — I cannot bear that sound. Oh, yes, I recollect. It was a month — no more — That I was happy, — yes — I ever since have wept. That waltz — you hear it well; 'twas when they played it once While he was in the dance, his fervent lips declared He loved me. Yet he never never loved me, — no. Oh, at these words my brain began to turn — to reel, A fearful sense of pain pervaded all my soul.

I love this life of joy — the costly garb — the dance! Alas, what agony it gives to think of him! Tra la la la, tra la la la, quel est done cet air? II s'avanga vers moi, sa voix timide et tendre Murmura quelques mots que je ne pus entendre. Et faible que j'e'tais, je ne pus resister, Puis sur mon front brulant je sentis un baiser: Ah! Et je ne vivais plus, car j'etais toute en lui! Cette walse, ecoutez, c'est pendant sa duree Qu'il etait "k ses pieds, que sa bouche infidble Lui jurait qu'il I'aimait et ne m'aima jamais!

Que j'aime les plaisirs, la parure et la danse! Que je souffre, 6 mon dieu! Jenny rOuvrilre. Date of song, , LOSE to yon roof that humble window see, Where in the spring-time some few flowrets grow; Among those flow'rets soon a form will be, With flaxen hair, and cheeks with health that glow. Close to yon roof that humble window see. Where in the spring-time some few flow'rets grow ; Jenny, the sempstress, calls that garden hers, Jenny, on humble means content to live; Jenny, who might be wealthy, but prefers What God is pleased to give.

A little bird within that garden sings. Its notes among the leaves you plainly hear ; To her such pleasure that loved warbling brings, It serves, in dullest hours, her heart to cheer. A little bird within that garden sings, Its notes among the leaves you plainly hear; Jenny, the sempstress, calls that songster hers, Jenny, on humble means content to live; Jenny, who might be wealthy, but prefers What God is pleased to give.

VoYEZ Ik-haut cette pauvre fenetre, Ou du printemps se montrent quelques fleurs; Parmi ces fleurs vous verrez apparaitre Une enfant blonde aux plus fraiches couleurs. Voyez Ik-haut cette pauvre fenetre, Ou du printemps se montrent quelques fleurs. C'est le jardin de Jenny I'ouvriere, Au coeur content, content de peu. EUe pourrait etre riche et prefere Ce qui lui vient de Dieu!

Dans son jardin, sous la fleur parfumee, Entendez-vous un oiseau familier? Quand elle est triste, oh! Par un doux chant suffit pour I'egayer! C'est le chanteur de Jenny I'ouvriere, Au coeur content, content de peu Elle pourrait etre riche et prefere Ce qui lui vient de Dieu. Aux malheureux souvent elle abandonne Ce qu'elle gagne, helas! Qu'un pauvre passe, et comme elle est si bonne. En le voyait elle n'aura plus faim.

C'est le bonheur de Jenny I'ouvriere! Au coeur content, content de peu Already the falling leaf Is borne at the north wind's will ; And, gilding the vale beneath, The withered flower lies still. The rays of an autumn sun Scarcely warm the pale blue skies; The swallow's flight has begun, From our land it warbling flies. Soon faded is youth's blithe cheer — But a moment love will stay, — Our life has, like the year, Its last fine day.

Deja la feuille de'tache'e S'envole au gre de I'aquilon, De sa depouille dessechee La fleur a jauni le vallon. Sous le chene il n'est plus d'ombrage Au bosquet il n'est plus d'amour, Je vais saluer au visage, Le dernier beau jour. Les rayons d'un soleil d'automne, A peine attiedissent les cieux, L'hirondelle nous abandonne Et quitte en gazouillant ces lieux. Son joli chant semble nous dire, "Adieu, beau ciel, riant sejour, Je pars, et veux encore sourire, Au dernier beau jour. Songeant au bout de sa carriere, Aux biens qui Font fui sans retour, II entr'ouvre encore sa paupiere, Au dernier beau jour.

Semons de fleurs notre existence, Le temps saura bien les fldtrir! Avant que notre hiver commence, Trop heureux qui sait les cucillir! To avoid a multiplicity of heads, songs of a very different spirit are comprised in this division : some being animated by the senti- ment of ancient chivalry, some expressing a fanatical hatred of monarchs, or even social distinctions ; some satirizing the people in high places, some sympathizing with the glories of the imperial army.

The subjects are at any rate so far alike, that they relate to man, not as a member of society, but as a citizen of the state, and express his feelings in that capacity either towards his rulers or the enemies of his country. If our collection were more ex- tensive, we should divide the whole mass of French national songs into two heads, — the chivalric and the revolutionary. In spite of republican ardour, the chivalric is still an important element in French lyric song, and neither the destroyers of the Bastile, nor the victors of the grand army, have entirely eclipsed the venera- tion for the ancient paladins.

As the interest of this division greatly depends on its historical importance, the literary merit of the songs has had less influence on the selection than in those divisions where reputed excellence and importance are convertible terms. Probably no song could be more detestable than the Carmagnole ; but as it was one of the "great facts" of its day, it has its place here, among more meritorious productions.