MUSETTE. HENRI MURGER.

    YESTERDAY, watching the swallows' flight That bring the spring and the season fair, A moment I thought of the beauty bright Who loved me, when she had time to spare； And dreamily, dreamily all the day, I mused on the calendar of the year, The year so near and so far away, When you were lief, and when I was dear.

    Your memory has not had time to pass； My youth has days of its lifetime yet； If you only knocked at the door, alas, My heart would open the door, Musette！ Still at your name must my sad heart beat； Ah Muse, ah maiden of faithlessness！ Return for a moment, and deign to eat The bread that pleasure was wont to bless.

    The tables and curtains, the chairs and all, Friends of our pleasure that looked on our pain, Are glad with the gladness of festival, Hoping to see you at home again； Come, let the days of their mourning pass, The silent friends that are sad for you yet； The little sofa, the great wine glass - For know you had often my share, Musette.

    Come, you shall wear the raiment white You wore of old, when the world was gay, We will wander in woods of the heart's delight The whole of the Sunday holiday. Come, we will sit by the wayside inn, Come, and your song will gain force to fly, Dipping its wing in the clear and thin Wine, as of old, ere it scale the sky. Musette, who had scarcely forgotten withal One beautiful dawn of the new year's best, Returned at the end of the carnival, A flown bird, to a forsaken nest. Ah faithless and fair！ I embrace her yet, With no heart-beat, and with never a sigh； And Musette, no longer the old Musette, Declares that I am no longer I.

    Farewell, my dear that was once so dear, Dead with the death of our latest love； Our youth is laid in its sepulchre, The calendar stands for a stone above. 'Tis only in searching the dust of the days, The ashes of all old memories, That we find the key of the woodland ways That lead to the place of our paradise.