Such is the classical and genial range of thought in which Béranger loves to indulge, amid the unpretending effusions of a professed drinking song; embodying his noble and patriotic aspirations in the simple form of an historical anecdote, or a light and fanciful allegory. He abounds in philanthropic sentiments and generous outbursts of passionate eloquence, which come on the feelings unexpectedly, and never fail to produce a corresponding excitement in the heart of the listener. I shall shortly return to his glorious canticles; but meantime, as we are on the chapter of wine, by way of contrast to the style of Béranger, I may be allowed to introduce a drinking ode of a totally different character, and which, from its odd and original conceptions, and harmless jocularity, I think deserving of notice. It is, besides, of more ancient date; and gives an idea of what songs preceded those of Béranger. Les Eloges de l'Eau. Il pleut! il pleut enfin ! Va se voir restaurée C'est par l'eau, j'en conviens, Que Dieu fit le déluge; Fait naître le raisin ; Ah! combien je jouis A l'instant tout est plein; Par un tems sec et beau Le meunier du village, Il ne boit que de l'eau ; Wine Debtor to Water. AIR-" Life let us cherish." Rain best doth nourish Earth's pride, the budding vine! On which the dewdrops shine. Rain best disposes Earth for each blossom and each bud; Wine by water-carriage Round the globe is best conveyed; A path for old Bacchus made? Rain makes the miller Work his glad wheel the livelong day; Rain brings the siller, And drives dull care away: Il rentre dans sa gloire Faut-il un trait nouveau ? Des travaux du matin; Mais à vous chanter l'eau Je sens que je m'altère ; Donnez moi vite une verre Du doux jus du tonneauCe vin vient de la Loire, Ou bien des bords du Rhin; C'est l'eau qui nous fait boire Du vin! du vin ! du vin ! For without rain he lacks the stream, Though all good judges Water's worth now understand, With buckets in each hand; Dries full soon the poet's tongue; A draught drawn from the bung Of Loire's good vintage or the Rhine A "water-poet" is a poor creature in general, and though limpid and lucid enough, the foregoing runs at a very low level. Something more lofty in lyrics and more in the Pindaric vein ought to follow; for though the old Theban himself opens by striking a key-note about the excellence of that element, he soon soars upward far above low-water mark, and is lost in the clouds "Multa Dirceum levat aura cycnum;" yet, in his highest flight, has he ever been wafted on more daring and vigorous pinions than Béranger? This will be at once seen. Search the racing calendar of the Olympic turf for as many olympiads as you please, and in the horsepoetry you will find nothing better than the "Cossack's Address to his Charger." This idea, containing an apparent paradox, has been frequently worked up in the quaint writing of the middle ages. There is an old Jesuits' riddle, which I learnt among other wise saws at their colleges, from which it will appear that this Miller is a regular Joe. Q. "Suave bibo vinum quoties mihi suppetit unda; R."Tristis aquam !" |