"No shepherd in this world can be The child of wretchedness like me: One would not think it, but I know No feeling but continued woe; For Sorrow came into my fold, And there her dwelling loves to hold.

"It seem'd the joy of Fate, New pleasures to provide, And, 'midst my happy state, A lamb was all my pride.

The sun conceal'd his light, Whene'er she came in sight.

"I never dreamt of gold, I lived content and free; The treasure of my fold, Seem'd but to live for me.

Alas! those hours that bless, Not long would time allow, My joys, my happiness, Are changed to sorrow now!

"She loved my pipe to hear, And midst the flock would pause, And with a smile, so dear, Would give me soft applause: And with her music sweet My notes she would repeat.

"How many jealous swains Would look, and sigh, and long: Not one a word could gain, She only heard my song; But now that lamb has stray'd I see her form no more; My ev'ry hope betray'd, My fate let all deplore!

My sleep, my rest, is gone, And I am all undone!"

DESPOURRINS.

"Moun Diu! quine souffrance-- M'as tu causat!"

"Of what contentment Those eyes bereft me-- And ah! how coldly Thou since hast left me: Yet didst thou whisper Thy heart was mine,-- Oh! they were traitors Those eyes of thine!

For 'tis thy pleasure That I repine.

"Alas! how often I sigh'd in vain, And loved so dearly To purchase pain: And all my guerdon To be betray'd, And only absence My safety made, To muse on fondness So ill repaid.

"But let me warn thee While time is yet, Thy heart may soften And learn regret: Should others teach thee New thoughts to prove, And all thy coldness Be quell'd by love, Thou mayst glean sorrow For future years,-- Beware--false maiden!

Beware of tears!"

DESPOURRINS.

"Per acere castagnere."

BENEATH a chesnut shade A shepherd, drown'd in tears, By her he loved betray'd, Thus sung his grief and fears: "Why dost thou smile," he said, "As all my woes increase?

When will my truth be paid, And all thy coldness cease?"

The fair one listen'd not,-- And feign'd she had not seen; But sought a distant spot, The furze and heath between, But, as she proudly went, Thorns, in her path that lay, Her little feet have rent, And stopp'd her on her way.

She paused, in sudden pain, Her pride aside she laid, And, in soft tone, was fain To ask her lover's aid; She bade, in piteous mood, He would the thorns remove, And take from grat.i.tude The kiss denied to love.

That grateful kiss she must Bestow--tho' she deplore it; And he had been unjust Not--doubly--to restore it.

DESPOURRINS.

"Roussignoulet qui cantes."[53]

[Footnote 53: This song singularly resembles Burns' charming "Banks and braes" in its opening, though it is greatly inferior as a whole.]

OH! nightingale that sing'st so sweet, Perch'd on the boughs elate, How softly does thy music greet Thy tender list'ning mate.

While I, alas! from joy removed, With heart oppress'd, must go, And, leaving her so fondly loved, Depart in hopeless woe.

Ah me! I see before me yet Our parting and her pain, My bosom throbb'd with vain regret To hear her still complain.

My trembling hand she fondly press'd, Her voice in murmurs died: "Oh! is not our's a fate emblest, Since we must part," she cried.

I promised her, whate'er betide, To love her to the last, And Fate, my truth has sadly tried, In all our sorrows past; But she may trust me, tho' we part, And both our lot deplore: Where'er I go, this bleeding heart Will suffer ever more.

The clearest streams that gently flow, The river murm'ring by, Not purer than my heart can show, Nor have more tears than I.

No book nor scroll can tell a fate Where sorrows so combine; No pen can write, nor song relate, Such misery as mine!

Thus, like the turtle, sad and lone, Who leaves his mate in pain, I go, with many a tender moan, And dream of love in vain: By all the ties that bound us long, By all the hopes we knew, Oh I hear thy shepherd's latest song, Receive his last adieu!

Anxious to visit a country whose history and traditions had so much excited my interest and curiosity, I accompanied a friend, early in the year 1843, on an expedition to the Vallee d'Aspe, and through part of the Pays Basque. I would willingly have waited for spring, particularly as I heard from everybody in Pau, that to reach the valleys leading to Spain in the month of February was impossible--was worse than folly: in fact, was what none but the English, who are supposed to have taken leave of their senses, would attempt. One French gentleman, who was well acquainted with every part of the Pyrenees, and had twice made the ascent of the Pic du Midi, was indignant at our perseverance, insisting that we should be stopped by the snows--although very little had fallen in the last winter--and that the Basque country was totally uninteresting except in summer. Others told us that it was never worth seeing at any season; but, as I had become aware that persons settled in Pau were bound in a spell, and scarcely ever ventured more than a league from their retreat until, being once in motion, they set forth towards the mountains in the opposite direction, I did not allow myself to be persuaded to remain in the "Little Paris of the South" for carnival b.a.l.l.s, and, followed by the pity and surprise of most of our friends, we took our dangerous way, on a sunny morning, as hot as July, towards Oloron.

Oloron, finely situated on a height, is a wide, open, clean, and well-built town, with so much open, fresh air, that, after the enervating and confined atmosphere of Pau, one seemed to breathe new life. The walks are good and extensive, and the magnificent range of the snowy mountains very close. Two rushing torrents divide the town between them--the Gaves of Ossau and Aspe--and from the two bridges which span them the view of their impetuous course is extremely imposing. These magnificent torrents are the charm of the Pyrenees; making the country, through which they hurry, one scene of beauty and animation: they do also terrible mischief by their violence when swelled by rains, as we had afterwards occasion to observe; but, at all times, give a character of singular grandeur to the places where they sweep along in uncontrolled majesty.

The village, or faubourg, of Ste. Marie d'Oloron joins the main town; and here is situated the cathedral, once of great importance, but now, like all the religious establishments in this part of France, preserving little of its ancient glory. The pillars, however, of its aisles are very grand and ma.s.sive, and are part of the early structure: the form and height are imposing, and the chapels of the choir graceful; but the chief curiosity is the portal, which bears marks of a Saracenic origin.

The arch is a wide circle, finely ornamented, and, in the centre, an Indian-shaped pillar divides it into two smaller circular arches: the base of this pillar is formed of two figures standing back to back, stooping beneath the load they bear on their hands and depressed heads: they are covered with fetters, both on their legs and arms: their striped dresses are quite Indian, and they wear a curious, melon-shaped cap: the faces are hideous and exaggerated, the limbs strong and well made, and they are in perfect preservation.

I have not seen any satisfactory account of the cathedral, which might explain these curious supporters: on each side of the portal projects a carved figure--one much defaced, the other representing a leopard or panther. A series of beautiful pillars, forming pedestals to absent saints, fill up the s.p.a.ce of the porch, and that beyond is closed by high, open arches--rebuilt, but, doubtless, originally of the same construction as those of the beautiful side-entrance to the cathedral of Bourges, where Moorish carvings also occur.

There are no other antiquities in Oloron; but it is an agreeable, healthy town, and looks flourishing and lively; and, I should imagine, must be a cheap place to live in, and has several advantages over its rival, Pau; this, however, is not acknowledged by the partisans of that exclusive town, which is supposed, by those who patronise it, to bear away the bell from every other in Bearn.

The Vallee d'Aspe begins its winding way soon after Oloron is past; and the magnificent, broad river dashes along its rocky bed, as green and bright and foaming as its rival of Ossau, which it exceeds in volume.

Our destination was to Bedous, where we were to rest for the night; and, as the shades of evening were already coming on, we could not long enjoy the beauty of this lovely valley, which we antic.i.p.ated seeing on our return, after having visited all the wonders of the pa.s.s into Spain, as far as Urdos, where the high road, which is remarkably good, ends.

Bedous is a shabby, insignificant, and, at this time of year, desolate-looking town, in the bosom of the mountains, where we were fain to lodge for the night as we best could, having good reason to congratulate ourselves on our precaution in taking provisions, particularly bread, wine, and coffee, as all we found there was bad.

There was, however, no want of civility and desire to please; and the attendance, if not good, was, at all events, ample: two of the waiting-maids were extremely handsome--- with dark eyes and fine features, and their handkerchiefs put on very gracefully; but the voices of all the inhabitants of Bedous were cracked and hoa.r.s.e, and so unmusical, that it was difficult to imagine oneself in the country of Despourrins.

As early as possible the next morning we set forth on our journey further up the valley; and, the weather being fine and the sky clear, we were delighted with the aspect of the snowy mountains above and around us. The plain of Bedous is of some extent, and, in the fine season, must be extremely beautiful, being highly cultivated and very picturesque: seven villages are scattered at distances along its expanse--the most conspicuous of which is Accous, where the poet was born; and on a mound without the town stands a pyramid, lately erected to his memory. Nothing can be more beautiful than this position; and, in summer, it must be a little Paradise. The village of Osse, opposite, is a small Protestant retreat in an equally charming spot: hills, called in the country _Turons_, surround this happy valley--_avant-couriers_ of the higher chain, which rise as the Gave is followed into deeper solitude.

Marca, the historian of Bearn, cites, in his work, a curious doc.u.ment relative to this valley. It is dated June 1, 1348, and its t.i.tle is sufficiently singular; it runs thus.

"Contract of a peace made between the valleys of Aspe and Lavedan, by order of the Pope, who had absolved the earth, the inhabitants and the castle of Lavedan, from the sin committed by the abbe of St. Savin, in causing the death, _by magic art_, of a great number of the inhabitants of Aspe, in revenge for the rapines and ravages they had committed in Lavedan: _in punishment of which crime, neither the earth, the women, nor the herds of Lavedan had borne fruit for six years."_

The people of this neighbourhood have the credit of being remarkably intelligent, and, at the same time, simple in their habits and manners: there is considerable jealousy between them and those of Ossau: all we could judge of was that the civility appeared equal, and it appeared to us that the beauty of the peasantry was more striking, though in this opinion we are not borne out by that of others. The boasted costumes are rarely seen in winter; but we observed one young woman very picturesquely dressed in an old and faded black velvet boddice, peculiarly shaped, laced with red, which, if it had ever been _new_ in her time, might have been pretty. Every article of their dress, however, looks as if it had descended from generation to generation, till every bit of colour or brilliancy had departed from it, leaving only a threadbare rag, which imagination alone can invest with grace or beauty.

The route we were following was the high road to Saragossa, and, occasionally, we met sombre groups of men in black _capotes_, mounted on horses or mules, and others escorting waggons laden with Spanish wool--the chief article of commerce. Flocks of beautiful goats were very frequent, and every object seemed new and singular to our eyes.

We dismounted from our carriage at a little bridge over the Gave, and, under the direction of a guide who had accompanied us from Bedous, we set forth, beside its rushing current, towards the cascade of Lescun, far up in the hills. The loud roar and dash of the beautiful torrent, foaming and splashing over its bed, strewn with huge pieces of rock, was the excuse which our guide gave for declining to sing Despourrins'

songs, with which he was, however, well acquainted. _"Ils sont plus forts pour ca en Ossau"_ was his remark, in a voice so harsh and coa.r.s.e that I did not pursue my entreaties. We met a fine old man, whom I took for a shepherd, from his cloak and brown _berret_, and the large Pyrenean dog which followed him, but he turned out to be a rich proprietor of land, showed us part of his domains, and seemed a well-informed man, talking familiarly of England and its _comte de Chester_, asking us our motive for visiting this part of France, which he concluded to be economy, and entertaining us greatly by his remarks.

Our walk, or rather scramble, to the cascade was very agreeable, but exceedingly rugged, mounting the whole way between the hills till we reached the spot where the Gave comes foaming over a broad ledge of rock, and falls into the valley below with a thundering sound. It is much interrupted in its descent, and forms new cataracts as it goes: so that the whole side of the mountain is in commotion with its leaps and gambols; clouds of spray, like smoke, curling up from the foamy abyss, and every echo sounding with its hoa.r.s.e murmurs. It reminded me of some of the falls in the Mont Dore; but without the pines.

Meantime, the snowy peaks of the giants of the valley were seen peering over the lower hills, and shining in light; but scarcely had we reached the highest point of the cascade, and were standing on the bridge which spans it, when clouds came over the scene, heavy drops began to fall, and we found it necessary to hasten our return to the high road, where we had left our carriage.