Pierre Jean de Beranger

Pierre Jean de Beranger Poems

Pierre Jean de Beranger Biography

Pierre-Jean de Béranger (August 19, 1780 – July 16, 1857) was a French songwriter and poet. His first collection escaped censure. "We must pardon many things to the author of Le Roi d' Yvetot," said King Louis XVIII of France. The second (1821) was more daring. The apathy of the Liberal camp, he says, had convinced him of the need for some bugle call of awakening. This publication lost him his situation in the university, and subjected him to a trial, a fine of 500 francs and an imprisonment of three months. Imprisonment was a small affair for Béranger. At Sainte Pelagie he occupied a room (just vacated by Paul Louis Courier), warm, well furnished, and preferable in every way to his own poor lodging, where the water froze on winter nights. He adds, on the occasion of his second imprisonment, that he found a certain charm in this quiet, claustral existence, with its regular hours and long evenings alone over the fire. This second imprisonment of nine months, together with a fine and expenses amounting to 1100 francs, followed on the appearance of his fourth collection. The government proposed through Laffitte that, if he would submit to judgment without appearing or making defences, he should only be condemned in the smallest penalty. But his public spirit made him refuse the proposal; and he would not even ask permission to pass his term of imprisonment in a Maison de sante, although his health was more than usually feeble at the time. "When you have taken your stand in a contest with government, it seems to me," he wrote, "ridiculous to complain of the blows it inflicts on you, and impolitic to furnish it with any occasion of generosity." His first thought in La Force Prison was to alleviate the condition of the other prisoners.)

The Best Poem Of Pierre Jean de Beranger

Fifty Years

Wherefore these flowers? floral applause?
Ah, no, these blossoms came to say
That I am growing old, because
I number fifty years to-day.
O rapid, ever-fleeting day!
O moments lost, I know not how!
O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Sad age, when we pursue no more
Fruit dies upon the withering tree:
Hark! some one rapped upon my door.
Nay, open not. 'Tis not for me,
Or else the doctor calls. Not yet
Must I expect his studious bow.
Once I'd have called, 'Come in, Lizzette'
Alas, for I am fifty now!
In age what aches and pains abound:
The torturing gout racks us awhile;
Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
Or deafness that provokes a smile.
Then Reason's lamp grows faint and dim
With flickering ray. Children, allow
Old Age the honor due to him
Alas, for I am fifty now!
Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know,
Who rubs his hands in joyous mood;
The sexton knocks and I must go, -
Farewell, my friends the human brood!
Below are famine, plague, and strife;
Above, new heavens my soul endow:
Since God remains, begin, new life!
Alas, for I am fifty now!
But no, 'tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
Shall hide from it the somber truth,
This incubus of evil days.
Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
Scatter your roses on my brow,
And let me dream of youth again -
Alas, for I am fifty now!

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