Jean Gresset

Ver-Vert

AT Nevers once, some time ago,

The pet of certain sisters there,
Flourished a parrot, one so fair,
So trained in all a bird can know,
As to deserve a better fate-
Did happiness on merit wait.
Ver-Vert, such was the parrot's name,
Young yet, and innocent of wrong,
Transplanted from some Indian stream,
Was placed these cloistered nuns among.
Bright-hued was he, and gay, but sage;
Frank, as befitted childhood's age,

And free from evil thought or word:
In short he was the very bird

To choose for such a sacred cage.

Needs not to tell what love he won,
What cares received, from every nun;
How, next to the confessor, he

Reigned in each heart; and though it be
Sinful to weakness to succumb,

Ver-Vert, the bird, was first with some.
He shared in these serene retreats

The sirups, jellies, and the sweets

Made by the sisters to excite
The holy father's appetite.

For him 'twas free to do or say
Whate'er he pleased-'twas still his way.
No circle could be pleasant where
There was not in the midst Ver-Vert,
To whistle, chirrup, sing, and fly;
And all the while with modesty,
Just like a novice, timid yet,
And ever fearful to forget,
Never, unquestioned, silence broke,
Yet answered all, though twenty spoke;
Just as great Cæsar, between whiles,
Wrote all at once five different styles.

At night his pleasure was to roam
From one to other for a home;
Happy, too happy, was the nun

Whose cell his wayward choice had won.
He wandered here and wandered there,
But, truth to say, 'twas very rare
That fancy led him to the cell

Where any ancient dame might dwell.
No, rather would his choice be laid

Where some young sister's couch was made;
There would he sleep the long night through,
Till daylight broke and slumbers flew;

And then, so privileged and free,

The sister's first toilet might see.

Toilet I say, but whisper low,

Somewhere I've read, but do not know,

Nuns' mirrors must be quite as true
As, ladies, is required for you;

And, just as fashion in the world

Must here be fringed and there be curled,
So also in the simple part

Of veils and bands there lies an art;

For that light throng of frivolous imps

Who scale o'er walls and creep through bars, Can give to stiffest veils and gimps

A grace that satin never wears.
Of course, you guess, at such a school,
Ver-Vert, by parrot's instinct-rule,
Endowed with speech, his ladies took
For pattern; and, except at meat,
When all the nuns in silence eat,

Talked fast and long, and like a book.
He was not, mark, one of these light
And worldly birds, corrupted quite
By secular concerns, and who

Know mundane follies through and through;

Ver-Vert was piously inclined;

'A fair soul led by innocence,

Unsullied his intelligence,

No rude words lingered in his mind.

But then he knew each canticle,

Oremus, and the colloquies,

His Benedicite said well,

The litany, and charities.

Instructed still, he grows more wise,

The pupil with the teacher vies;

He imitates their very tones,

The softened notes, the pious groans,

The long-drawn sighs, by which they prove

How they adore, and how they love;

And knows at length-a holy part-
The breviary all by heart.

But fame is full of perils; well
In lowly lot obscure to dwell.
Success too great, without reverse,
Oft makes the moral nature worse.
Thy name, immortal parrot, spread
Still wider, till by sad fate led,

It reached as far as Nantes. Here stood
The chief house of the sisterhood.

Now not the last, as might be guessed, 'Are nuns to hear of what goes on;

And chattering still, like all the rest, Of what was said and what was done,

They heard of Ver-Vert, wondered much, They talked and envied, talked and sighed (Great though his powers, his virtues such, Had been by rumor magnified),

Until a common longing fell

On all alike this miracle

Themselves to see. A girl's desire
Is like a flame that leaps and burns;
But ah! a fiercer, brighter fire,
Is when a nun with longing yearns.

To Nevers fly all hearts; of naught
But Ver-Vert can the convent think.

Could he-ah! could he here be brought! The Loire is swift; ships do not sink.

Oh! bid him come, if but to show

For one day what a bird can know!

રાત

216

On board the bark that on the wave

Bore Ver-Vert from his patrons' care Were three fair nymphs, two soldiers brave, A nurse, a monk, a Gascon pair: Strange company and sad, I ween,

For Ver-Vert, best of pious birds. Innocent quite of what might mean

Their strange garb and their stranger words,
He listened, 'mazed at first. The style
Was new, and yet the words were old.
It was not gospel, truly; while

The jokes they make, the tales they told,
Were marked by absence of those sweet
Ejaculations, vows, and prayers,
Which they would make and he repeat.
No Christian words are these he hears:
The bold dragoons with barrack slang
Confused his head and turned his brain;
To unknown deities they sang

In quite an unaccustomed strain.
The Gascons and the ladies three
Conversed in language odd but free;
The boatmen all in chorus swore
Oaths never heard by him before.
And, sad and glum, Ver-Vert sat still
In silence, though against his will.

But presently the bird they spy,
And for their own diversion try
To make him talk. The monk begins
With some light questions on his sins;