il--
Ils sont la, nos amis; cede a notre priere
Le trone prepare n'attend que ton reveil;
Le soleil a cesse de regner sur la terre,
Viens regner sur la fete et sois notre soleil.
Reponds a nos accords par tes accents plus doux
Au jardin des amours, viens o viens avec nous.

Au jardin des amours ta place est reservee,
Parmi des feux de joie et des lilas en fleurs.
Viens reveiller en nous de nouvelles ardeurs--
Descends avec la nuit, ainsi que la rosee--
Tant que l'astre d'argent sourit a la vallee,
Toi, bel astre d'amour, viens sourire a nos coeurs!
Reponds a nos accords par tes accents plus doux,
Au jardin des amours, Berthe, viens avec nous.

Viens avec ta couronne, et viens avec ta lyre,
Tes chants pour nos amis, tes doux regards pour moi!
Deja j'entends les jeux de la foule en emoi
Sur des gazons fleuris ... oh le joyeux delire!
Si tu ne descends pas, helas! on pourra dire:
'Berthe aux grands yeux d'azur, on a chante sans toi!'
Reponds a nos accords par tes accents plus doux,
Berthe aux grands yeux d'azur, viens o viens avec nous!

"You see I have indulged in poetic license; for instance, the first
tenor says he hears the folks doing the light fantastic toe. One might
suppose they danced in sabots--mere poetic license, and besides, a
first tenor ought to have very good ears.... So now, my lad, inspire
yourself."

What the result of his appeal to my inspiration may have been, I do
not remember, but I find this is what he writes on the subject--

"CARISSIMO,--In vain have I taxed Rag's inventive powers to alter the
last stanza; we must e'en stick to 'Ce baiser-la.' The lines I have
underlined mean that I don't quite approve the part of the music
that comes just there, as in the musical phrase you have set to it I
fancy there is a want of tenderness. All the rest is stunning; the
more I hums it the more I likes it, but I can't exactly come your
accompaniment."

[Illustration: Moscheles, or Mephistopheles? which]

No wonder, for my accompaniments were usually rather indefinite
quantities, subject to the mood of the moment. "Moscheles or
Mephistopheles, which?" he asks, as he depicts me at the piano,
perhaps evolving some such accompaniment from the depths of "untrained
inner consciousness." "Eureka" he might have put under that other
sketch, where his own hands have at last found some long-sought
harmony or chord on the piano. Another drawing there