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Show VILLON'S LAST VERSE REMARKABLE LINES ATTRIBUTED TO GREAT POET, John D. Swain Recalls Mythical Deathbed Death-bed Scene of the Famous FrenchmanBeauty French-manBeauty In Hit Description of a Wasted Life. (Francois Villon, being about to 4li a worthy friar would fain havo shrived him, and did earnestly exhort that bo jhould confess him at thli time of those acts of his life which ho uli regret. Villon bade hlin return yet again, that he might havo time to think him of his sins. Upon the good father's return Villon was dead; but by his side wcro tho following verses, his last, wherein ho set forth things Which ho did regret. Whereat the friar was sore grieved and hid them away among tho manuscripts of his abbey, showing them to no mnn yet thoy wcro found In some wise. Tho pamo of the friar nnd tho very placo whero stood tho abbey are forgot, but Ihe verses have endured unto this day.) I, Fraricols Villon, tn'cn nt Ifltt To this rude bed where nil muit lie, Fain would furcct the turbid past And Iny ma 'dawn In peace, to die. "Would 1 be shrived?" Ah, can 1 tell? My tin but trifles seem to be, Nor worth the dignity of hell; If not. then 111 avails It me To name them one and all nnd yet-There yet-There be soma things which I regretl The sack of abbeys, mnny n brawl, A score of knife-thrusts In the dnrk, Forced oft, by Knte, ngalnst the wnll, And years In donjons, cold nnd stark These crimes and pnlns seem far away Now that I come nt length to die; TIs Idle for the past to pray, ('TIs hopeless for the pnst to sigh): These nre n troubled dream and yet-1'or yet-1'or them I have but scant regretl The toll my mother lived to know. What years I lay In gyves for debt; A pretty song heard long ago: Where, I know not: when, I forget; The crust I once kept for my ono (Though all too scant for my poor 'lie;, The friend I left to die nlone, (I'nrdlel tho watchman pressed. 'JJ close!) Trifles, ngnlnst my crimes to set! Yot these are all which I regret. Captains and cut-thronts, not a few. And maidens fair of many a clime Havo named mo friend In tho wild past When as we wallowed In tho slime; gamblers and rogues and clever thlaves, And unfrocked priests, n sorry crew, ,'Ilow stubbornly the memory cleaves To nil who have befriended youl) I drain n cup to them and yet 'TIs not for such 1 feel regret! My foundered horse, who died for mo (Nor whip nnr spur wns his. I ween!) Thnt day tho hangmnn looked to seo Poor Villon earth and sky between! A mongrel cur who shared my lot Tftree bitter winters on the Ilo: He held the rabble off. Clod wot, Ono time I cheated In tho deal: 'Twin but an Instant, while 1 fled Down n vllo alley, known to me Unck In tho tavern he lay drnd: Tho gamblers raged but I went free! Humble, poor brutes nt best; and yet They nro the friends whom I regret! And eke tho lilies were a-blow Through nil the sunny fields of France. I mnrked one whiter than the snow And would hnvn gathered tt, perchance. Had not some trifle I forget (A bishop's loot. i cask of wlno Filched from some carbot n bet) Distracted this wild head of mine. A childish fancy this, and yet It Is a thing that I regret! Again, I rodo through ricardy What time the vine was In the bud; A llttlo mnlden smiled on me, I might have kissed her, and I would! I've known a thousand maidens since. And mnny havo been kind to me I've never seen one quite so fair As she. that day In Plcardy. Ashes of roses, these, and yet They aro the things which I regret! Ono nrfect Illy grew for mo, Ann blossomed on another breast; Others havo clasped the little hands Whose roy palms I might have pressed; So. as I die, my wasted youth Mocks my dim eye and fading breath Still. I have lived! And having lived That much Is mine. I mock nt death) I should confess, you say? But yet-Far yet-Far life alone I havo regret! Envoy. O bubbles of the vanished wine To which mv llns wero never set! O lips that dimpled close to mine, Whose ruddy wnrmth I never motl Father, but trifles these, and yet They ore the things which I regretl John D. Swain, In the Critic. |