BLONDEL.

  Life is fleeting,—­make it pleasant;
  Care for nothing but the present;
  For the past we leave behind us,
  And the future may not find us. 
    Though we cannot shun its troubles,
      Care and sorrow we may banish;
    Though its pleasures are but bubbles,
      Catch the bubbles ere they vanish.

  There is joy we cannot measure,—­
  Joy we may not win with treasure. 
  When the glance of Beauty thrills us’,
  When her love with rapture fills us,
    Let us seize it ere it passes;
      Be our motto, “Love is mighty.” 
    Fill, then, fill your brimming glasses! 
      Fill, and drink to Aphrodite!

  Of course they drank with a right good will,
  For they never missed a chance “to fill.” 
  And yet a few, I’m sorry to own,
  Made side-remarks in an undertone,
  Like those we hear, when, nowadays,
  Good-natured friends, with seeming praise,
  Contrive to damn.  In the midst of the hum
  They heard a loud and slashing thrum: 
  ’Twas the king:  and each his breath drew in
  Till you might have heard a falling pin. 
  Some little excuse, at first, he made,
  While over the lute his fingers strayed:—­
  “You know my way,—­as the fancies come,
  I improvise.”—­There was ink on his thumb. 
  That morning, alone, good hours he spent
  In writing despatches never sent.

  RICHARD.

  There is pleasure when bright eyes are glancing
      And Beauty is willing; but more
  When the war-horse is gallantly prancing
      And snuffing the battle afar,—­
  When the foe, with his banner advancing,
      Is sounding the clarion of war.

  Where the battle is deadly and gory,
      Where foeman ’gainst foeman is pressed,
  Where the path is before me to glory,
      Is pleasure for me, and the best. 
  Let me live in proud chivalry’s story,
      Or die with my lance in its rest!

  The plaudits followed him loud and free
  As he tossed the lute to Marcadee,
  Who caught it featly, bowing low,
  And said, “My liege, I may not know
  To improvise; but I’ll give a song,
  The song of our camp,—­we’ve known it long. 
  It suits not well this tinkle and thrum,
  But needs to be heard with a rattling drum. 
  Ho, there!  Tambour!—­He knows it well,—­
  ’The Brabancon!’—­Now make it tell;
  Let your elbows now with a spirit wag
  In the outside roll and the double drag.”

MARCADEE.

I’m but a soldier of fortune, you see: 
Huzza! 
Glory and love,—­they are nothing to me: 
Ha, ha! 
Glory’s soon faded, and love is soon cold: 
Give me the solid, reliable gold: 
Hurrah for the gold!

Country or king I have none, I am free: 
Huzza! 
Patriot’s quarrel,—­’tis harvest for me: 
Ha, ha! 
A soldier of fortune, my creed is soon told,—­
I’d fight for the Devil, to pocket his gold: 
Hurrah for the gold!