| |
| AS I walked in the grass-green alleys | |
| Where fringes of beech-trees grow, | |
| I thought of the close-cut lindens, | |
| And the fishes of Fontainebleau, | |
| The lazy fins of the old gray carp, | 5 |
| Almost too idle to eat their bread, | |
| And the turreted roofs, so fine and sharp, | |
| Cutting into the blue sky overhead. | |
| The suites of rooms both large and small, | |
| And the lofty gloom of St. Louis Hall, | 10 |
| Mirrored again in the shining floor; | |
| And the thick walls pierced for the crusted door, | |
| With traceried panels and ponderous lock, | |
| Which opens heavily, shuts with shock, | |
| If the hand unwarily lets it fall. | 15 |
| |
| The great square courts are still as the grave, | |
| Once so joyous with hunting horn, | |
| When the princely hunter, eager and brave, | |
| Rode to the chase at the first of morn. | |
| The grand old courts of Francis the First, | 20 |
| Neither the ugliest nor the worst | |
| Of that kingly race who hunted the deer | |
| All day long in the forest wide, | |
| Which stretches for miles on every side. | |
| Music and feasting closed the day | 25 |
| When the king was tired with his hunting play, | |
| And had chased the deer to his heart’s desire, | |
| Where the sunshine glows, like soft green fire, | |
| Under the trees in the month of May. | |
| |
| We were there in the month of May, | 30 |
| When the quaint inn garden was filled with flowers. | |
| Roses and lilies are passed away, | |
| And I write in the dark December hours. | |
| But I will not believe (and a woman, you know, | |
| Will never believe against her will!) | 35 |
| That there ever is snow at Fontainebleau. | |
| I fancied then, I will hold to it still, | |
| That place of the ancient kings doth wear | |
| A sort of enchanted fairy-tale air; | |
| And that roses blossom the whole year through, | 40 |
| And soft green sunshine glows on the dew; | |
| That the breath of the forest is soft and sweet; | |
| That dulcimers play in the open street, | |
| And the people actually waltz to the sound, | |
| Like the queer little folks that turn round and round | 45 |
| In the travelling organs you chance to meet. | |
| |
| At Fontainebleau, in the month of May, | |
| You just might fancy some amiable gnome | |
| Or intelligent fairy had whisked you away | |
| A thousand miles from your northern home, | 50 |
| And planted you safe on the hills near Rome. | |
| It only wanted the olive-trees, | |
| And the purple breadth of the southern seas,— | |
| Only a few little things of the kind, | |
| To make you doubly sure in your mind. | 55 |
| For there were the roses and there the skies, | |
| And the wonderful brightness to fill your eyes, | |
| And the people singing and dancing away, | |
| As if constantly making a scene in a play. | |
| And there was the moon when the sun went down, | 60 |
| And in silver and black she clothed the town, | |
| As if half masked for a holiday! | |
| Then the Royal Chapel of Fontainebleau | |
| Is Roman quite in its taste, you know; | |
| Exceedingly white, and gold, and red, | 65 |
| With a legion of cherubim overhead. | |
| But there the innermost heart is moved, | |
| Not by sculptured or painted frieze, | |
| But by thoughts of a life perfumed with prayer, | |
| Of a saintly woman who worshipped there, | 70 |
| The wife of Louis the well-beloved, | |
| And mother of Madame Louise. | |
| |
| And then the Forest! What pen shall paint | |
| The gates of brickwork, solid and quaint, | |
| Which opened on it from every side; | 75 |
| And the sweeping circles whose vistas wide | |
| Narrow away to a point of space, | |
| Like the rays of a star from its central place. | |
| Wherever you turn it is just the same, | |
| Whither you go or whence you came, | 80 |
| To the right, to the left, behind, before, | |
| An ocean of trees for six leagues and more. | |
| From the brow of the rocks (all purple and green, | |
| Or damply shining with silver sheen) | |
| You see what looks like a mystical floor, | 85 |
| A glorious level of green and gray, | |
| Till the uttermost distance melts away, | |
| Where satyrs and fauns might nimbly play, | |
| Swinging along by the tops of the trees, | |
| Like dolphins out on the crested seas. | 90 |
| |
| And where the Forest is melting away, | |
| And drops to the brink of the winding Seine, | |
| A vine-clad village, open and gay, | |
| Tempted our feet,—but our quest was vain. | |
| We eagerly knocked,—but polite despair | 95 |
| Opened the gate of the porte-cochère, | |
| And a chorus of quadruped, white and brown, | |
| Barked affirmative, “Gone to town,” | |
| With affable bursts of French bow-wow; | |
| (As part of the family they knew how!) | 100 |
| So we gazed at the house through that porte-cochère, | |
| With its tall new tower so straight and fair, | |
| Its mouldings of brickwork quaint and free, | |
| And under the date a firm “R. B.” | |
| |
| O royal Forest of Fontainebleau, | 105 |
| Be kind, be kind to this artist dear; | |
| And if (which I don’t believe!) you ’ve snow, | |
| Be silver-fretted, be crystal clear. | |
| Be tender, O Spring, to her gentle kine, | |
| To her lambs with coats so close and fine, | 110 |
| To the king of the herd, with hornéd brow, | |
| To her rough-haired dogs, with their wise bow-wow; | |
| Nurture them, comfort them, give your best | |
| To the family friends of your famous guest. | |
| Thou, rose-clad Summer, temper your beams | 115 |
| With leaping fountains and gurgling streams. | |
| Autumn, ripen your largest grapes, | |
| Of richest color and moulded shapes. | |
| Rain, fall soft on her garden bower; | |
| Sunshine, melt on the bricks of her tower; | 120 |
| Nature and Art, alike bestow | |
| Blessing and beauty on Fontainebleau! | |
| |
