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diff --git a/old/grprn10.txt b/old/grprn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2d3c27 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/grprn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3118 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Grass of Parnassus, by Andrew Lang +(#7 in our series by Andrew Lang) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Grass of Parnassus + +Author: Andrew Lang + +Release Date: October, 1997 [EBook #1060] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 1997] +[Most recently updated: June 28, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, GRASS OF PARNASSUS *** + + + + +Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + +Grass of Parnassus + + + + +Contents: + + Grass of Parnassus + Deeds of men: + Seekers for a city + The white Pacha + Midnight, January 25, 1886 + Advance, Australia + Colonel Burnaby + Melville and Coghill + Rhodocleia: + To Rhodocleia--on her melancholy singing + Ave: + Clevedon church + Twilight on Tweed * + Metempsychosis * + Lost in Hades * + A star in the night * + A sunset on yarrow * + Another way + Hesperothen: + The seekers for Phaeacia + A song of Phaeacia + The departure from Phaeacia + A ballad of departure + They hear the sirens for the second time + Circe's Isle revisited + The limit of lands + Verses: + Martial in town + April on Tweed + Tired of towns + Scythe song + Pen and ink + A dream + The singing rose + A review in rhyme + Colinette * + A sunset of Watteau * + Nightingale weather * + Love and wisdom * + Good-bye * + An old prayer * + A la belle Helene * + Sylvie et Aurelie * + A lost path * + The shade of Helen * + Sonnets: + She + Herodotus in Egypt + Gerard de Nerval * + Ronsard * + Love's miracle * + Dreams * + Two sonnets of the sirens * + Translations: + Hymn to the winds * + Moonlight * + The grave and the rose * + A vow to heavenly Venus * + Of his lady's old age * + Shadows of his lady * + April * + An old tune * + Old loves * + A lady of high degree * + Iannoula * + The milk-white doe * + Heliodore + The prophet + Lais + Clearista + The fisherman's tomb + Of his death + Rhodope + To a girl + To the ships + A late convert + The limit of life + To Daniel Elzevir + The Last Chance + + + +To E. M. S. + + +Prima dicta mihi, summa dicenda Camena. + + +The years will pass, and hearts will range, +YOU conquer Time, and Care, and Change. +Though Time doth still delight to shed +The dust on many a younger head; +Though Care, oft coming, hath the guile +From younger lips to steal the smile; +Though Change makes younger hearts wax cold, +And sells new loves for loves of old, +Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art +To fleck your hair, to chill your heart, +To touch your tresses with the snow, +To mar your mirth of long ago. +Change, Care, nor Time, while life endure, +Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure, +The love which flows from sacred springs, +In 'old unhappy far-off things,' +From sympathies in grief and joy, +Through all the years of man and boy. + +Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung +When even this 'brindled' head was young +I bring, and later rhymes I bring +That flit upon as weak a wing, +But still for you, for yours, they sing! + + + +Many of the verses and translations in this volume were published first in +Ballads and Lyrics of Old France (1872). Though very sensible that they +have the demerits of imitative and even of undergraduate rhyme, I print +them again because people I like have liked them. The rest are of +different dates, and lack (though doubtless they need) the excuse of having +been written, like some of the earlier pieces, during College Lectures. I +would gladly have added to this volume what other more or less serious +rhymes I have written, but circumstances over which I have no control have +bound them up with Ballades, and other toys of that sort. + +It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said in verse, +that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in the marshes at +the foot of the Muses' Hill, and other hills, not at the top by any means. + +Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been published in the +Fortnightly Review, and the sonnet on Colonel Burnaby appeared in Punch. +These, with pieces from other serials, are reprinted by the courteous +permission of the Editors. + +The verses that were published in Ballades and Lyrics, and in Ballads and +Verses Vain (Charles Scribner's Sons, New York), are marked in the contents +with an asterisk. + + + +GRASS OF PARNASSUS. + + + +Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway, +In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height +Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away, +When now the moors have doffed the heather bright, +Grass of Parnassus, flower of my delight, +How gladly with the unpermitted bay-- +Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay-- +How gladly would I twine thee if I might! + +The bays are out of reach! But far below +The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill, +Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow +Between September and October chill +Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago, +And these kind faces that are with me still. + + + +DEEDS OF MEN + + + + +[Greek text] + + + +To Colonel Ian Hamilton. + + +To you, who know the face of war, +You, that for England wander far, +You that have seen the Ghazis fly +From English lads not sworn to die, +You that have lain where, deadly chill, +The mist crept o'er the Shameful Hill, +You that have conquered, mile by mile, +The currents of unfriendly Nile, +And cheered the march, and eased the strain +When Politics made valour vain, +Ian, to you, from banks of Ken, +We send our lays of Englishmen! + + + +SEEKERS FOR A CITY. + + + +"Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill +visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither. . . But +the number and variety of the ways! For you know, THERE IS BUT ONE ROAD +THAT LEADS TO CORINTH." + +HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater's Version). + +"The Poet says, DEAR CITY OF CECROPS, and wilt thou not say, DEAR CITY OF +ZEUS?" + +M. ANTONINUS. + + +"TO CORINTH LEADS ONE ROAD," you say: +Is there a Corinth, or a way? +Each bland or blatant preacher hath +His painful or his primrose path, +And not a soul of all of these +But knows the city 'twixt the seas, +Her fair unnumbered homes and all +Her gleaming amethystine wall! + +Blind are the guides who know the way, +The guides who write, and preach, and pray, +I watch their lives, and I divine +They differ not from yours and mine! + +One man we knew, and only one, +Whose seeking for a city's done, +For what he greatly sought he found, +A city girt with fire around, +A city in an empty land +Between the wastes of sky and sand, +A city on a river-side, +Where by the folk he loved, he died. {1} + +Alas! it is not ours to tread +That path wherein his life he led, +Not ours his heart to dare and feel, +Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel; +Yet are we not quite city-less, +Not wholly left in our distress-- +Is it not said by One of old, +"Sheep have I of another fold?" +Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will, +For us there is a city still! + +"Dear city of Zeus," the Stoic says, {2} +The Voice from Rome's imperial days, +In Thee meet all things, and disperse, +In Thee, for Thee, O Universe! +To me all's fruit thy seasons bring, +Alike thy summer and thy spring; +The winds that wail, the suns that burn, +From Thee proceed, to Thee return. + +"Dear city of Zeus," shall WE not say, +Home to which none can lose the way! +Born in that city's flaming bound, +We do not find her, but are found. +Within her wide and viewless wall +The Universe is girdled all. +All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth, +All things that travail on the earth, +God's will they work, if God there be, +If not, what is my life to me? + +Seek we no further, but abide +Within this city great and wide, +In her and for her living, we +Have no less joy than to be free; +Nor death nor grief can quite appal +The folk that dwell within her wall, +Nor aught but with our will befall! + + + +THE WHITE PACHA. + + + +Vain is the dream! However Hope may rave, +He perished with the folk he could not save, +And though none surely told us he is dead, +And though perchance another in his stead, +Another, not less brave, when all was done, +Had fled unto the southward and the sun, +Had urged a way by force, or won by guile +To streams remotest of the secret Nile, +Had raised an army of the Desert men, +And, waiting for his hour, had turned again +And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know +GORDON is dead, and these things are not so! +Nay, not for England's cause, nor to restore +Her trampled flag--for he loved Honour more-- +Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory, +Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. +He will not come again, whate'er our need, +He will not come, who is happy, being freed +From the deathly flesh and perishable things, +And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings. +Nay, somewhere by the sacred River's shore +He sleeps like those who shall return no more, +No more return for all the prayers of men-- +Arthur and Charles--they never come again! +They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem: +Whate'er sick Hope may whisper, vain the dream! + + + +MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886. + + + +To-morrow is a year since Gordon died! +A year ago to-night, the Desert still +Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill +Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied, +And paltered, and evaded, and denied; +Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will, +And craven heart, and calculated skill +In long delays, of their great homicide. + +A year ago to-night 'twas not too late. +The thought comes through our mirth, again, again; +Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate +Approaching and approaching us; and then +Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate! +Enough; he is forgotten amongst men. + + + +ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA. + + + +On the offer of help from the Australians after the fall of Khartoum. + + +Sons of the giant Ocean isle +In sport our friendly foes for long, +Well England loves you, and we smile +When you outmatch us many a while, +So fleet you are, so keen and strong. + +You, like that fairy people set +Of old in their enchanted sea +Far off from men, might well forget +An elder nation's toil and fret, +Might heed not aught but game and glee. + +But what your fathers were you are +In lands the fathers never knew, +'Neath skies of alien sign and star +You rally to the English war; +Your hearts are English, kind and true. + +And now, when first on England falls +The shadow of a darkening fate, +You hear the Mother ere she calls, +You leave your ocean-girdled walls, +And face her foemen in the gate. + + + +COLONEL BURNABY. + + + +[Greek text] + + +Thou that on every field of earth and sky +Didst hunt for Death, who seemed to flee and fear, +How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie +Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear: +'Not here, alas!' may England say, 'not here +Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die, +But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh +To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer: + +Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood, +And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight, +The bulwark of thy people and their shield, +When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood, +Till back into the Northland and the Night +The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.' + + + +MELVILLE AND COGHILL. + + + +(The place of the little hand.) + + +Dead, with their eyes to the foe, +Dead, with the foe at their feet, +Under the sky laid low +Truly their slumber is sweet, +Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, +And the rain on the wilderness beat. + +Dead, for they chose to die +When that wild race was run; +Dead, for they would not fly, +Deeming their work undone, +Nor cared to look on the face of the sky, +Nor loved the light of the sun. + +Honour we give them and tears, +And the flag they died to save, +Rent from the rain of the spears, +Wet from the war and the wave, +Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust of the years, +Back to their lonely grave! + + + + +RHODOCLEIA + + + + +TO RHODOCLEIA--ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING. + + + +(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek +Anthology.) + + +Still, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead, +Still singing of the meads of asphodel, +Lands desolate of delight? +Say, hast thou dreamed of, or remembered, +The shores where shadows dwell, +Nor know the sun, nor see the stars of night? + +There, 'midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze +As a girl pines for home, +Looking along the way that she hath come, +Sick to return, and counts the weary days! +So wouldst thou flee +Back to the multitude whose days are done, +Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, +The sacrament of death; and die, and be +No more in the wind and sun! + +Thou hast not dreamed it, but remembered +I know thou hast been there, +Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead +Rise in the twilight air, +And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, +And climbed the golden stair! + +Nay, by thy cloudy hair +And lips that were so fair, +Sad lips now mindful of some ancient smart, +And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, +I know thee who thou art! +That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, +Of Hellas, ere her close, +That Rhodocleia who, when all was done +The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun, +Swayed her last poet's heart. + +With roses did he woo thee, and with song, +With thine own rose, and with the lily sweet, +The dark-eyed violet, +Garlands of wind-flowers wet, +And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long +Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies, +Praising thy golden eyes, +And feet more silvery than Thetis' feet! + +But thou didst die and flit +Among the tribes outworn, +The unavailing myriads of the past: +Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, +And, waking, wept for it, +Till his own time came at last, +And then he sought thee in the dusky land! +Wide are the populous places of the dead +Where souls on earth once wed +May never meet, nor each take other's hand, +Each far from the other fled! + +So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou +Didst never taste of the Lethaean stream, +Nor that forgetful fruit, +The mystic pom'granate; +But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now, +The fugitive of Fate, +Thou farest in our life as in a dream, +Still wandering with thy lute, +Like that sweet paynim lady of old song, +Who sang and wandered long, +For love of her Aucassin, seeking him! +So with thy minstrelsy +Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim, +Below the veiled sky! + +There doth thy lover dwell, +Singing, and seeking still to find thy face +In that forgetful place: +Thou shalt not meet him here, +Not till thy singing clear +Through all the murmur of the streams of hell +Wins to the Maiden's ear! +May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call +Thine eager spirit to sit beside her feet, +Passing throughout the long unechoing hall +Up to the shadowy throne, +Where the lost lovers of the ages meet; +Till then thou art alone! + + + + +AVE. + + + + +'Our Faith and Troth +All time and space controules +Above the highest sphere we meet +Unseen, unknowne, and greet as Angels greet' + +Col. Richard Lovelace. 1649 + + + +CLEVEDON CHURCH. + + + +[In memoriam H. B.] + + +Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales, +The low sky silver grey, +The turbid Channel with the wandering sails +Moans through the winter day. +There is no colour but one ashen light +On tower and lonely tree, +The little church upon the windy height +Is grey as sky or sea. +But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love +Slept through these fifty years, +There is the grave that has been wept above +With more than mortal tears. +And far below I hear the Channel sweep +And all his waves complain, +As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep +Its monotone of pain. + +* * * * * + +Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, +My heart flits forth from these +Back to the winter rose of northern skies, +Back to the northern seas. +And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat +Below the minster grey, +Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, +And knees of them that pray. +And I remember me how twain were one +Beside that ocean dim, +I count the years passed over since the sun +That lights me looked on him, +And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, +Shall greet me not again, +Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep +And all his waves complain. + + + +TWILIGHT ON TWEED. + + + +Three crests against the saffron sky, +Beyond the purple plain, +The kind remembered melody +Of Tweed once more again. + +Wan water from the border hills, +Dear voice from the old years, +Thy distant music lulls and stills, +And moves to quiet tears. + +Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood +Fleets through the dusky land; +Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, +My feet returning stand. + +A mist of memory broods and floats, +The Border waters flow; +The air is full of ballad notes, +Borne out of long ago. + +Old songs that sung themselves to me, +Sweet through a boy's day dream, +While trout below the blossom'd tree +Plashed in the golden steam. + +* * * * * + +Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, +Fair and too fair you be; +You tell me that the voice is still +That should have welcomed me. + +1870. + + + +METEMPSYCHOSIS. + + + +I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know +Perchance, the grey eyes in another's eyes, +Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow +On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise +Shall follow and track, and find thee in disguise +Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, +When through the scent of heather, faint and low, +The weak wind whispers to the day that dies. + +From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme, +Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me; +The shadows of the beauty of all time, +In song or story are but shapes of thee; +Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear, +Shall life or death bring all thy being near? + + + +LOST IN HADES. + + + +I dreamed that somewhere in the shadowy place, +Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot +In welcome, and regret remembered not; +And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise +On lips that had been songless many days; +Hope had no more to hope for, and desire +And dread were overpast, in white attire +New born we walked among the new world's ways. + +Then from the press of shades a spirit threw +Towards me such apples as these gardens bear; +And turning, I was 'ware of her, and knew +And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,-- +Followed, and found her not, and seeking you +I found you never, dearest, anywhere. + + + +A STAR IN THE NIGHT. + + + +The perfect piteous beauty of thy face +Is like a star the dawning drives away; +Mine eyes may never see in the bright day +Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace; +But in the night from forth the silent place +Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray +Star of the starry flock that in the grey +Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment's space. + +And as the earth at night turns to a star, +Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun, +So in the spiritual place afar, +At night our souls are mingled and made one, +And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise, +That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes. + + + +A SUNSET ON YARROW. + + + +The wind and the day had lived together, +They died together, and far away +Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, +Out of the sunset, over the heather, +The dying wind and the dying day. + +Far in the south, the summer levin +Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air: +We seemed to look on the hills of heaven; +You saw within, but to me 'twas given +To see your face, as an angel's, there. + +Never again, ah surely never +Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, +The low good-night of the hill and the river, +The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, +Twain grown one in the solitude. + + + +ANOTHER WAY. + + + +Come to me in my dreams, and then, +One saith, I shall be well again, +For then the night will more than pay +The hopeless longing of the day. + +Nay, come not THOU in dreams, my sweet, +With shadowy robes, and silent feet, +And with the voice, and with the eyes +That greet me in a soft surprise. + +Last night, last night, in dreams we met, +And how, to-day, shall I forget, +Or how, remembering, restrain +Mine incommunicable pain? + +Nay, where thy land and people are, +Dwell thou remote, apart, afar, +Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep +The melancholy ways of Sleep. + +But if, perchance, the shadows break, +If dreams depart, and men awake, +If face to face at length we see, +Be thine the voice to welcome me. + + + + +HESPEROTHEN + + + + +By the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned from +the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, seeking they +know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phaeacian island, +nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably in a desert +country by the sea, is set forth the Vanity of Melancholy. And by the land +of Phaeacia is to be understood the place of Art and of fair Pleasures; and +by Circe's Isle, the place of bodily delights, whereof men, falling aweary, +attain to Eld, and to the darkness of that age. Which thing Master +Francoys Rabelais feigned, under the similitude of the Isle of the +Macraeones. + + + +THE SEEKERS FOR PHAEACIA. + + + +There is a land in the remotest day, +Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies; +The eastern shore sees faint tides fade away, +That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs +Make life,--the lands below the blue of common skies. + +But in the west is a mysterious sea, +(What sails have seen it, or what shipmen known?) +With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be, +With islands where a Goddess walks alone, +And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan. + +Eastward the human cares of house and home, +Cities, and ships, and unknown gods, and loves; +Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam, +And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves, +Wherein a god may dwell, and where the Dryad roves. + +The gods are careless of the days and death +Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas; +The gods are heedless of their painful breath, +And love them not, for they are not as these; +But in the golden west they live and lie at ease. + +Yet the Phaeacians well they love, who live +At the light's limit, passing careless hours, +Most like the gods; and they have gifts to give, +Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers, +And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers. + +It is a quiet midland; in the cool +Of the twilight comes the god, though no man prayed, +To watch the maids and young men beautiful +Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid, +For they are neat of kin to gods, and undismayed. + +Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh +The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep! +But with a mist they hide them wondrously, +And far the path and dim to where they sleep,-- +The loved, the shadowy lands, along the shadowy deep. + + + +A SONG OF PHAEACIA. + + + +The languid sunset, mother of roses, +Lingers, a light on the magic seas, +The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses, +Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze. + +The red rose clouds, without law or leader, +Gather and float in the airy plain; +The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, +The cedar scatters his scent to the main. + +The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing, +Heard afar over moonlit seas: +The Siren's song, grown faint in winging, +Falls in scent on the cedar trees. + +As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying, +Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birds +Brighten the air with their wings; their crying +Wakens a moment the weary herds. + +Butterflies flit from the fairy garden, +Living blossoms of flying flowers; +Never the nights with winter harden, +Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours. + +Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden, +Gleam in the green, and droop and fall; +Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden, +Swing, and cling to the garden wall. + +Deep in the woods as twilight darkens, +Glades are red with the scented fire; +Far in the dells the white maid hearkens, +Song and sigh of the heart's desire. + +Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning, +Maiden's song in the matin grey, +Faints as the first bird's note, a warning, +Wakes and wails to the new-born day. + +The waking song and the dying measure +Meet, and the waxing and waning light +Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure, +The rose of the sea and the sky is white. + + + + +THE DEPARTURE FROM PHAEACIA. + + + + +The Phaeacians. + + +Why from the dreamy meadows, +More fair than any dream, +Why seek ye for the shadows +Beyond the ocean stream? + +Through straits of storm and peril, +Through firths unsailed before, +Why make you for the sterile, +The dark Kimmerian shore? + +There no bright streams are flowing, +There day and night are one, +No harvest time, no sowing, +No sight of any sun; + +No sound of song or tabor, +No dance shall greet you there; +No noise of mortal labour +Breaks on the blind chill air. + +Are ours not happy places, +Where gods with mortals trod? +Saw not our sires the faces +Of many a present god? + + +The Seekers. + + +Nay, now no god comes hither, +In shape that men may see; +They fare we know not whither, +We know not what they be. + +Yea, though the sunset lingers +Far in your fairy glades, +Though yours the sweetest singers, +Though yours the kindest maids, + +Yet here be the true shadows, +Here in the doubtful light; +Amid the dreamy meadows +No shadow haunts the night. + +We seek a city splendid, +With light beyond the sun; +Or lands where dreams are ended, +And works and days are done. + + + +A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE. {3} + + + +Fair white bird, what song art thou singing +In wintry weather of lands o'er sea? +Dear white bird, what way art thou winging, +Where no grass grows, and no green tree? + +I looked at the far-off fields and grey, +There grew no tree but the cypress tree, +That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May, +And whoso looks on it, woe is he. + +And whoso eats of the fruit thereof +Has no more sorrow, and no more love; +And who sets the same in his garden stead, +In a little space he is waste and dead. + + + +THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME. + + + +The weary sails a moment slept, +The oars were silent for a space, +As past Hesperian shores we swept, +That were as a remembered face +Seen after lapse of hopeless years, +In Hades, when the shadows meet, +Dim through the mist of many tears, +And strange, and though a shadow, sweet. + +So seemed the half-remembered shore, +That slumbered, mirrored in the blue, +With havens where we touched of yore, +And ports that over well we knew. +Then broke the calm before a breeze +That sought the secret of the west; +And listless all we swept the seas +Towards the Islands of the Blest. + +Beside a golden sanded bay +We saw the Sirens, very fair +The flowery hill whereon they lay, +The flowers set upon their hair. +Their old sweet song came down the wind, +Remembered music waxing strong,-- +Ah now no need of cords to bind, +No need had we of Orphic song. + +It once had seemed a little thing +To lay our lives down at their feet, +That dying we might hear them sing, +And dying see their faces sweet; +But now, we glanced, and passing by, +No care had we to tarry long; +Faint hope, and rest, and memory +Were more than any Siren's song. + + + +CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED. + + + +Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried; +Ah, Circe, Circe! but no voice replied; +No voice from bowers o'ergrown and ruinous +As fallen rocks upon the mountain side. + +There was no sound of singing in the air; +Faded or fled the maidens that were fair, +No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us, +No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair. + +The perfume, and the music, and the flame +Had passed away; the memory of shame +Alone abode, and stings of faint desire, +And pulses of vague quiet went and came. + +Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place, +Our dead youth came and looked on us a space, +With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire. +And wasted hair about a weary face. + +Why had we ever sought the magic isle +That seemed so happy in the days erewhile? +Why did we ever leave it, where we met +A world of happy wonders in one smile? + +Back to the westward and the waning light +We turned, we fled; the solitude of night +Was better than the infinite regret, +In fallen places of our dead delight. + + + +THE LIMIT OF LANDS. + + + +Between the circling ocean sea +And the poplars of Persephone +There lies a strip of barren sand, +Flecked with the sea's last spray, and strown +With waste leaves of the poplars, blown +From gardens of the shadow land. + +With altars of old sacrifice +The shore is set, in mournful wise +The mists upon the ocean brood; +Between the water and the air +The clouds are born that float and fare +Between the water and the wood. + +Upon the grey sea never sail +Of mortals passed within our hail, +Where the last weak waves faint and flow; +We heard within the poplar pale +The murmur of a doubtful wail +Of voices loved so long ago. + +We scarce had care to die or live, +We had no honey cake to give, +No wine of sacrifice to shed; +There lies no new path over sea, +And now we know how faint they be, +The feasts and voices of the dead. + +Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow! +Glad life, sad life we did forego +To dream of quietness and rest; +Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here +Poured light and perfume through the drear +Pale year, and wan land of the west. + +Sad youth, that let the spring go by +Because the spring is swift to fly, +Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love, +Behold how sadder far is this, +To know that rest is nowise bliss, +And darkness is the end thereof. + + + + +VERSES + + + + +MARTIAL IN TOWN. + + + +Last night, within the stifling train, +Lit by the foggy lamp o'erhead, +Sick of the sad Last News, I read +Verse of that joyous child of Spain, + +Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold, +Within the Roman din and smoke. +And like my heart to me they spoke, +These accents of his heart of old:- + +"Brother, had we but time to live, +And fleet the careless hours together, +With all that leisure has to give +Of perfect life and peaceful weather, + +"The Rich Man's halls, the anxious faces, +The weary Forum, courts, and cases +Should know us not; but quiet nooks, +But summer shade by field and well, +But county rides, and talk of books, +At home, with these, we fain would dwell! + +"Now neither lives, but day by day +Sees the suns wasting in the west, +And feels their flight, and doth delay +To lead the life he loveth best." + +So from thy city prison broke, +Martial, thy wail for life misspent, +And so, through London's noise and smoke +My heart replies to the lament. + +For dear as Tagus with his gold, +And swifter Salo, were to thee, +So dear to me the woods that fold +The streams that circle Fernielea! + + + +APRIL ON TWEED. + + + +As birds are fain to build their nest +The first soft sunny day, +So longing wakens in my breast +A month before the May, +When now the wind is from the West, +And Winter melts away. + +The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill, +But soft the breezes blow. +If melting snows the waters fill, +We nothing heed the snow, +But we must up and take our will,-- +A fishing will we go! + +Below the branches brown and bare, +Beneath the primrose lea, +The trout lies waiting for his fare, +A hungry trout is he; +He's hooked, and springs and splashes there +Like salmon from the sea! + +Oh, April tide's a pleasant tide, +However times may fall, +And sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride, +You hear the mavis call; +But all adown the water-side +The Spring's most fair of all. + + + +TIRED OF TOWNS. + + + +'When we spoke to her of the New Jerusalem, she said she would rather go to +a country place in Heaven.' + +Letters from the Black Country. + + +I'm weary of towns, it seems a'most a pity +We didn't stop down i' the country and clem, +And you say that I'm bound for another city, +For the streets o' the New Jerusalem. + +And the streets are never like Sheffield, here, +Nor the smoke don't cling like a smut to THEM; +But the water o' life flows cool and clear +Through the streets o' the New Jerusalem. + +And the houses, you say, are of jasper cut, +And the gates are gaudy wi' gold and gem; +But there's times I could wish as the gates was shut-- +The gates o' the New Jerusalem. + +For I come from a country that's over-built +Wi' streets that stifle, and walls that hem, +And the gorse on a common's worth all the gilt +And the gold of your New Jerusalem. + +And I hope that they'll bring me, in Paradise, +To green lanes leafy wi' bough and stem-- +To a country place in the land o' the skies, +And not to the New Jerusalem. + + + +SCYTHE SONG. + + + +Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, +What is the word methinks ye know, +Endless over-word that the Scythe +Sings to the blades of the grass below? +Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, +Something, still, they say as they pass; +What is the word that, over and over, +Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? + +Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying, +Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; +Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, +Hush, they sing to the clover deep! +Hush--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- +Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, +Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging +Over the clover, over the grass! + + + +PEN AND INK. + + + +Ye wanderers that were my sires, +Who read men's fortunes in the hand, +Who voyaged with your smithy fires +From waste to waste across the land, +Why did you leave for garth and town +Your life by heath and river's brink, +Why lay your gipsy freedom down +And doom your child to Pen and Ink? + +You wearied of the wild-wood meal +That crowned, or failed to crown, the day; +Too honest or too tame to steal +You broke into the beaten way; +Plied loom or awl like other men, +And learned to love the guineas' chink-- +Oh, recreant sires, who doomed me then +To earn so few--with Pen and Ink! + +Where it hath fallen the tree must lie. +'Tis over late for ME to roam, +Yet the caged bird who hears the cry +Of his wild fellows fleeting home, +May feel no sharper pang than mine, +Who seem to hear, whene'er I think, +Spate in the stream, and wind in pine, +Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink. + +For then the spirit wandering, +That slept within the blood, awakes; +For then the summer and the spring +I fain would meet by streams and lakes; +But ah, my Birthright long is sold, +But custom chains me, link on link, +And I must get me, as of old, +Back to my tools, to Pen and Ink. + + + +A DREAM. + + + +Why will you haunt my sleep? +You know it may not be, +The grave is wide and deep, +That sunders you and me; +In bitter dreams we reap +The sorrow we have sown, +And I would I were asleep, +Forgotten and alone! + +We knew and did not know, +We saw and did not see, +The nets that long ago +Fate wove for you and me; +The cruel nets that keep +The birds that sob and moan, +And I would we were asleep, +Forgotten and alone! + + + +THE SINGING ROSE. + + + +'La Rose qui chante et l'herbe qui egare.' + + +White Rose on the grey garden wall, +Where now no night-wind whispereth, +Call to the far-off flowers, and call +With murmured breath and musical +Till all the Roses hear, and all +Sing to my Love what the White Rose saith. + +White Rose on the grey garden wall +That long ago we sung! +Again you come at Summer's call,-- +Again beneath my windows all +With trellised flowers is hung, +With clusters of the roses white +Like fragrant stars in a green night. + +Once more I hear the sister towers +Each unto each reply, +The bloom is on those limes of ours, +The weak wind shakes the bloom in showers, +Snow from a cloudless sky; +There is no change this happy day +Within the College Gardens grey! + +St. Mary's, Merton, Magdalen--still +Their sweet bells chime and swing, +The old years answer them, and thrill +A wintry heart against its will +With memories of the Spring-- +That Spring we sought the gardens through +For flowers which ne'er in gardens grew! + +For we, beside our nurse's knee, +In fairy tales had heard +Of that strange Rose which blossoms free +On boughs of an enchanted tree, +And sings like any bird! +And of the weed beside the way +That leadeth lovers' steps astray! + +In vain we sought the Singing Rose +Whereof old legends tell, +Alas, we found it not mid those +Within the grey old College close, +That budded, flowered, and fell,-- +We found that herb called 'Wandering' +And meet no more, no more in Spring! + +Yes, unawares the unhappy grass +That leadeth steps astray, +We trod, and so it came to pass +That never more we twain, alas, +Shall walk the self-same way. +And each must deem, though neither knows, +That NEITHER found the Singing Rose! + + + +A REVIEW IN RHYME. + + + +A little of Horace, a little of Prior, +A sketch of a Milkmaid, a lay of the Squire-- +These, these are 'on draught' 'At the Sign of the Lyre!' + +A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself, +A talk of the Books on the Sheraton shelf, +A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the Guelph, + +A lai, a pantoum, a ballade, a rondeau, +A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau, +And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go, + +A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove, +'Neath a dance by Laguerre on the ceiling above, +And a dream of the days when the bard was in love, + +A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun, +A toss of old powder, a glint of the sun, +They meet in the volume that Dobson has done! + +If there's more that the heart of a man can desire, +He may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire; +If he's wise--he'll alight 'At the Sign of the Lyre!' + + + +COLINETTE. + + + +For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, R.A. + + +France your country, as we know; +Room enough for guessing yet, +What lips now or long ago, +Kissed and named you--Colinette. +In what fields from sea to sea, +By what stream your home was set, +Loire or Seine was glad of thee, +Marne or Rhone, O Colinette? + +Did you stand with maidens ten, +Fairer maids were never seen, +When the young king and his men +Passed among the orchards green? +Nay, old ballads have a note +Mournful, we would fain forget; +No such sad old air should float +Round your young brows, Colinette. + +Say, did Ronsard sing to you, +Shepherdess, to lull his pain, +When the court went wandering through +Rose pleasances of Touraine? +Ronsard and his famous Rose +Long are dust the breezes fret; +You, within the garden close, +You are blooming, Colinette. + +Have I seen you proud and gay, +With a patched and perfumed beau, +Dancing through the summer day, +Misty summer of Watteau? +Nay, so sweet a maid as you +Never walked a minuet +With the splendid courtly crew; +Nay, forgive me, Colinette. + +Not from Greuze's canvases +Do you cast a glance, a smile; +You are not as one of these, +Yours is beauty without guile. +Round your maiden brows and hair +Maidenhood and Childhood met +Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair, +New art's blossom, Colinette. + + + +A SUNSET OF WATTEAU. + + + +LUI. + +The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake, +Arise and tempt the seas; +Our ocean is the Palace lake, +Our waves the ripples that we make +Among the mirrored trees. + +ELLE. + +Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song, +And dear the languid dream; +The music mingled all day long +With paces of the dancing throng, +And murmur of the stream. + +An hour ago, an hour ago, +We rested in the shade; +And now, why should we seek to know +What way the wilful waters flow? +There is no fairer glade. + +LUI. + +Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail, +And seek him everywhere; +Perchance in sunset's golden pale +He listens to the nightingale, +Amid the perfumed air. + +Come, he has fled; you are not you, +And I no more am I; +Delight is changeful as the hue +Of heaven, that is no longer blue +In yonder sunset sky. + +ELLE. + +Nay, if we seek we shall not find, +If we knock none openeth; +Nay, see, the sunset fades behind +The mountains, and the cold night wind +Blows from the house of Death. + + + +NIGHTINGALE WEATHER. + + + +'Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non? +Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non. +Derriere chez mon pere +Il est un bois taillis, +Le rossignol y chante +Et le jour et la nuit. +Il chante pour les filles +Qui n'ont pas d'ami; +Il ne chant pas pour moi, +J'en ai un, Dieu merci.'--Old French. + + +I'll never be a nun, I trow, +While apple bloom is white as snow, +But far more fair to see; +I'll never wear nun's black and white +While nightingales make sweet the night +Within the apple tree. + +Ah, listen! 'tis the nightingale, +And in the wood he makes his wail, +Within the apple tree; +He singeth of the sore distress +Of many ladies loverless; +Thank God, no song for me. + +For when the broad May moon is low, +A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow +In the boughs of the apple tree, +A step I know is at the gate; +Ah love, but it is long to wait +Until night's noon bring thee! + +Between lark's song and nightingale's +A silent space, while dawning pales, +The birds leave still and free +For words and kisses musical, +For silence and for sighs that fall +In the dawn, 'twixt him and me. + + + +LOVE AND WISDOM. + + + +'When last we gathered roses in the garden +I found my wits, but truly you lost yours.' + +The Broken Heart. + + +July and June brought flowers and love +To you, but I would none thereof, +Whose heart kept all through summer time +A flower of frost and winter rime. +Yours was true wisdom--was it not? +Even love; but I had clean forgot, +Till seasons of the falling leaf, +All loves, but one that turned to grief. +At length at touch of autumn tide +When roses fell, and summer died, +All in a dawning deep with dew, +Love flew to me, Love fled from you. +The roses drooped their weary heads, +I spoke among the garden beds; +You would not hear, you could not know, +Summer and love seemed long ago, +As far, as faint, as dim a dream, +As to the dead this world may seem. +Ah sweet, in winter's miseries, +Perchance you may remember this, +How Wisdom was not justified +In summer time or autumn tide, +Though for this once below the sun, +Wisdom and Love were made at one; +But Love was bitter-bought enough, +And Wisdom light of wing as Love. + + + +GOOD-BYE. + + + +Kiss me, and say good-bye; +Good-bye, there is no word to say but this, +Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss, +Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry; +Kiss me, and say, good-bye. + +Farewell, be glad, forget; +There is no need to say 'forget,' I know, +For youth is youth, and time will have it so, +And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet, +Farewell, you must forget. + +You shall bring home your sheaves, +Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined +Of memories that go not out of mind; +Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves +When you bring home your sheaves. + +In garnered loves of thine, +The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, +Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears; +It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine +Of life, this love of mine. + +This sheaf was spoiled in spring, +And over-long was green, and early sere, +And never gathered gold in the late year +From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, +But failed in frosts of spring. + +Yet was it thine, my sweet, +This love, though weak as young corn withered, +Whereof no man may gather and make bread; +Thine, though it never knew the summer heat; +Forget not quite, my sweet. + + + +AN OLD PRAYER. + + + +[Greek text] + +Odyssey, XIII. + + +My prayer an old prayer borroweth, +Of ancient love and memory-- +'Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, +That come to all men, come to thee.' +Gently as winter's early breath, +Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee, +To lands whereof no man knoweth +Of summer, over land and sea; +So with thy soul may summer be, +Even as the ancient singer saith, +'Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, +That come to all men, come to thee.' + + + +A LA BELLE HELENE. + + + +After Ronsard. + + +More closely than the clinging vine +About the wedded tree, +Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine! +About the heart of me. +Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face +Soft on my sleeping eyes, +Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace, +Through me, in kissing wise. +Bow down, bow down your face, I pray, +To me, that swoon to death, +Breathe back the life you kissed away, +Breathe back your kissing breath. +So by your eyes I swear and say, +My mighty oath and sure, +From your kind arms no maiden may +My loving heart allure. +I'll bear your yoke, that's light enough, +And to the Elysian plain, +When we are dead of love, my love, +One boat shall bear us twain. +They'll flock around you, fleet and fair, +All true loves that have been, +And you of all the shadows there, +Shall be the shadow queen. +Ah, shadow-loves and shadow-lips! +Ah, while 'tis called to-day, +Love me, my love, for summer slips, +And August ebbs away. + + + +SYLVIE ET AURELIE. + + + +In memory of Gerard De Nerval. + + +Two loves there were, and one was born +Between the sunset and the rain; +Her singing voice went through the corn, +Her dance was woven 'neath the thorn, +On grass the fallen blossoms stain; +And suns may set, and moons may wane, +But this love comes no more again. + +There were two loves and one made white, +Thy singing lips, and golden hair; +Born of the city's mire and light, +The shame and splendour of the night, +She trapped and fled thee unaware; +Not through the lamplight and the rain +Shalt thou behold this love again. + +Go forth and seek, by wood and hill, +Thine ancient love of dawn and dew; +There comes no voice from mere or rill, +Her dance is over, fallen still +The ballad burdens that she knew: +And thou must wait for her in vain, +Till years bring back thy youth again. + +That other love, afield, afar +Fled the light love, with lighter feet. +Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are, +And flit in dreams from star to star, +That dead love shalt thou never meet, +Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain +Thy soul shall find her soul again. + + + +A LOST PATH. + + + +Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, +whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly flesh, +was made one with the Spirit that is in the world. + + +Alas, the path is lost, we cannot leave +Our bright, our clouded life, and pass away +As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve, +To heights remoter of the purer day. +The soul may not, returning whence she came, +Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget +The joys that fever, and the cares that fret, +Made once more one with the eternal flame +That breathes in all things ever more the same. +She would be young again, thus drinking deep +Of her old life; and this has been, men say, +But this we know not, who have only sleep +To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day, +Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray, +To make us weary at our wakening; +And of that long lost path to the Divine +We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing, +Half credulous, of easy Proserpine, +And of the lands that lie 'beneath the day's decline.' + + + +THE SHADE OF HELEN. + + + +Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the gods, +having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the +same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew +each other. + + +Why from the quiet hollows of the hills, +And extreme meeting place of light and shade, +Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became +Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams +And dying glories of the sun would dwell, +Why have they whom I know not, nor may know, +Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me, +And borne me from the silent shadowy hills, +Hither, to noise and glow of alien life, +To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war? + +One speaks unto me words that would be sweet, +Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not, +And some strange force, within me or around, +Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh, +And somewhere there is fever in the halls +That troubles me, for no such trouble came +To vex the cool far hollows of the hills. + +The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry, +That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town, +Are little to lose, if they may keep me here, +And see me flit, a pale and silent shade, +Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines. + +At other hours another life seems mine, +Where one great river runs unswollen of rain, +By pyramids of unremembered kings, +And homes of men obedient to the Dead. +There dark and quiet faces come and go +Around me, then again the shriek of arms, +And all the turmoil of the Ilian men. + +What are they? even shadows such as I. +What make they? Even this--the sport of gods-- +The sport of gods, however free they seem. +Ah, would the game were ended, and the light, +The blinding light, and all too mighty suns, +Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades, +Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist, +Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills. + + + + +SONNETS + + + + +SHE. + + + +To H. R. H. + + +Not in the waste beyond the swamps and sand, +The fever-haunted forest and lagoon, +Mysterious Kor thy walls forsaken stand, +Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon, +Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by rune +Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned. +The world is disenchanted; over soon +Shall Europe send her spies through all the land. + +Nay, not in Kor, but in whatever spot, +In town or field, or by the insatiate sea, +Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot, +Or break themselves on some divine decree, +Or would o'erleap the limits of their lot, +There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth SHE! + + + +HERODOTUS IN EGYPT. + + + +He left the land of youth, he left the young, +The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isle +Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung, +He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile, +And of their old world, dead a weary while, +Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue, +And through the fanes went voyaging, among +Dark tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile. + +He learned the tales of death Divine and birth, +Strange loves of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth, +The marriage, and the slaying of the Sun. +The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through, +And mocked not at their godhead, for he knew +Behind all creeds the Spirit that is One. + + + +GERARD DE NERVAL. + + + +Of all that were thy prisons--ah, untamed, +Ah, light and sacred soul!--none holds thee now; +No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou +Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, +Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed, +Thou still would'st bear that mystic golden bough +The Sibyl doth to singing men allow, +Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed. +And they would smile and wonder, seeing where +Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, +Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, +Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find +A new life gladder than the old times were, +A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind? + + + +RONSARD. + + + +Master, I see thee with the locks of grey, +Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; +I see the roses hiding underneath, +Cassandra's gift; she was less dear than they. +Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, +The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, +Hast sung thine answer to the lays that breathe +Through ages, and through ages far away. + +And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat, +Known Horace by the fount Bandusian! +Their deathless line thy living strains repeat, +But ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan, +But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet, +Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian! + + + +LOVE'S MIRACLE. + + + +With other helpless folk about the gate, +The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes +That take no pleasure in the summer skies, +Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait; +So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate +Makes her with dull experience early wise, +And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs +That all hath been, and shall be, desolate. + +Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live, +And know herself the fairest of fair things, +Ah, if he have no healing gift to give, +Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings, +Or if at least Love's shadow in passing by +Touch not and heal her, surely she must die. + + + +DREAMS. + + + +He spake not truth, however wise, who said +That happy, and that hapless men in sleep +Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep +As countless, careless, races of the dead. +Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, +And one beholds the faces that he sighs +In vain to bring before his daylit eyes, +And waking, he remembers on his bed; + +And one with fainting heart and feeble hand +Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land +Where strength and courage were of no avail; +And one is borne on fairy breezes far +To the bright harbours of a golden star +Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale. + + + +TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS. + + + +'Les Sirenes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de +Proserpine, qu'elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de +la perte de leur chere compagne, et enuyees jusques au desepoir, elles +s'arresterent a la mer Sicilienne, ou par leurs chants elles attiroient +les navigans, mais l'unique fin de la volupte de leur musique est la Mort.' + +Pontus De Tyard, 1570 + + +The Sirens once were maidens innocent +That through the water-meads with Proserpine +Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content +Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine, +With lilies woven and with wet woodbine; +Till once they sought the bright AEtnaean flowers, +And their glad mistress fled from summer hours +With Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine. +And they have sought her all the wide world through +Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong +Have filled and changed their song, and o'er the blue +Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, +And whoso hears must listen till he die +Far on the flowery shores of Sicily. + +So is it with this singing art of ours, +That once with maids went maidenlike, and played +With woven dances in the poplar-shade, +And all her song was but of lady's bowers +And the returning swallows, and spring flowers, +Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, +A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed +Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers. +Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine +She left, and by the margin of life's sea +Sings, and her song is full of the sea's moan, +And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine; +And whoso once has listened to her, he +His whole life long is slave to her alone. + + + + +TRANSLATIONS + + + + +HYMN TO THE WINDS. + + + +THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS +OF CORN. + +Du Bellay, 1550. + + +To you, troop so fleet, +That with winged wandering feet, +Through the wide world pass, +And with soft murmuring +Toss the green shades of spring +In woods and grass, +Lily and violet +I give, and blossoms wet, +Roses and dew; +This branch of blushing roses, +Whose fresh bud uncloses, +Wind-flowers too. + +Ah, winnow with sweet breath, +Winnow the holt and heath, +Round this retreat; +Where all the golden mom +We fan the gold o' the corn, +In the sun's heat. + + + +MOONLIGHT. + + + +Jacques Tahureau. + + +The high Midnight was garlanding her head +With many a shining star in shining skies, +And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes, +And, after sorrow, quietness was shed. +Far in dim fields cicalas jargoned +A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries; +And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise, +With pallor of the sad moon overspread. + +Then came my lady to that lonely place, +And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace +And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over; +Wherefore the day is far less dear than night, +And sweeter is the shadow than the light, +Since night has made me such a happy lover. + + + +THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE. + + + +Victor Hugo. + + +The Grave said to the Rose, +'What of the dews of morn, +Love's flower, what end is theirs?' +'And what of souls outworn, +Of them whereon doth close +The tomb's mouth unawares?' +The Rose said to the Grave. + +The Rose said, 'In the shade +From the dawn's tears is made +A perfume faint and strange, +Amber and honey sweet.' +'And all the spirits fleet +Do suffer a sky-change, +More strangely than the dew, +To God's own angels new,' +The Grave said to the Rose. + + + +A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS. + + + +Du Bellay. + + +We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain, +New wedded in the village by thy fane, +Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is +We bring these amaranths, these white lilies, +A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray, +Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay; +Like these cool lilies may our loves remain, +Perfect and pure, and know not any stain; +And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour, +Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower. + + + +OF HIS LADY'S OLD AGE. + + + +Ronsard. + + +When you are very old, at evening +You'll sit and spin beside the fire, and say, +Humming my songs, 'Ah well, ah well-a-day! +When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.' +None of your maidens that doth hear the thing, +Albeit with her weary task foredone, +But wakens at my name, and calls you one +Blest, to be held in long remembering. + +I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid +On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade, +While you beside the fire, a grandame grey, +My love, your pride, remember and regret; +Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet, +And gather roses, while 't is called to-day. + + + +SHADOWS OF HIS LADY. + + + +Jacques Tahureau. + + +Within the sand of what far river lies +The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love? +What highest circle of the Heavens above +Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes? +And where is the rich sea whose coral vies +With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough? +What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof +The fled soul lives in her cheeks' rosy guise? + +What Parian marble that is loveliest +Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast? +When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade? +Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, +Gardens, and glades Sabaean, all that be +The far-off splendid semblance of my maid! + + + +APRIL. + + + +Remy Belleau, 1560. + + +April, pride of woodland ways, +Of glad days, +April, bringing hope of prime, +To the young flowers that beneath +Their bud sheath +Are guarded in their tender time; + +April, pride of fields that be +Green and free, +That in fashion glad and gay, +Stud with flowers red and blue, +Every hue, +Their jewelled spring array; + +April, pride of murmuring +Winds of spring, +That beneath the winnowed air, +Trap with subtle nets and sweet +Flora's feet, +Flora's feet, the fleet and fair; + +April, by thy hand caressed, +From her breast, +Nature scatters everywhere +Handfuls of all sweet perfumes, +Buds and blooms, +Making faint the earth and air. + +April, joy of the green hours, +Clothes with flowers +Over all her locks of gold +My sweet Lady; and her breast +With the blest +Buds of summer manifold. + +April, with thy gracious wiles, +Like the smiles, +Smiles of Venus; and thy breath +Like her breath, the gods' delight, +(From their height +They take the happy air beneath;) + +It is thou that, of thy grace, +From their place +In the far-off isles dost bring +Swallows over earth and sea, +Glad to be +Messengers of thee, and Spring. + +Daffodil and eglantine, +And woodbine, +Lily, violet, and rose +Plentiful in April fair, +To the air, +Their pretty petals to unclose. + +Nightingales ye now may hear, +Piercing clear, +Singing in the deepest shade; +Many and many a babbled note +Chime and float, +Woodland music through the glade. + +April, all to welcome thee, +Spring sets free +Ancient flames, and with low breath +Wakes the ashes grey and old +That the cold +Chilled within our hearts to death. + +Thou beholdest in the warm +Hours, the swarm +Of the thievish bees, that flies +Evermore from bloom to bloom +For perfume, +Hid away in tiny thighs. + +Her cool shadows May can boast, +Fruits almost +Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew, +Manna-sweet and honey-sweet, +That complete +Her flower garland fresh and new. + +Nay, but I will give my praise +To these days, +Named with the glad name of Her {4} +That from out the foam o' the sea +Came to be +Sudden light on earth and air. + + + +AN OLD TUNE. + + + +Gerard De Nerval. + + +There is an air for which I would disown +Mozart's, Rossini's, Weber's melodies,-- +A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs, +And keeps its secret charm for me alone. + +Whene'er I hear that music vague and old, +Two hundred years are mist that rolls away; +The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold +A green land golden in the dying day. + +An old red castle, strong with stony towers, +The windows gay with many-coloured glass; +Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers, +That bathe the castle basement as they pass. + +In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair, +A lady looks forth from her window high; +It may be that I knew and found her fair, +In some forgotten life, long time gone by. + + + +OLD LOVES. + + + +Henri Murger. + + +Louise, have you forgotten yet +The corner of the flowery land, +The ancient garden where we met, +My hand that trembled in your hand? +Our lips found words scarce sweet enough, +As low beneath the willow-trees +We sat; have you forgotten, love? +Do you remember, love Louise? + +Marie, have you forgotten yet +The loving barter that we made? +The rings we changed, the suns that set, +The woods fulfilled with sun and shade? +The fountains that were musical +By many an ancient trysting tree-- +Marie, have you forgotten all? +Do you remember, love Marie? + +Christine, do you remember yet +Your room with scents and roses gay? +My garret--near the sky 'twas set-- +The April hours, the nights of May? +The clear calm nights--the stars above +That whispered they were fairest seen +Through no cloud-veil? Remember, love! +Do you remember, love Christine? + +Louise is dead, and, well-a-day! +Marie a sadder path has ta'en; +And pale Christine has passed away +In southern suns to bloom again. +Alas! for one and all of us-- +Marie, Louise, Christine forget; +Our bower of love is ruinous, +And I alone remember yet. + + + +A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE. + + + +I be pareld most of prise, +I ride after the wild fee. + + +Will ye that I should sing +Of the love of a goodly thing, +Was no vilein's may? +'Tis all of a knight so free, +Under the olive tree, +Singing this lay. + +Her weed was of samite fine, +Her mantle of white ermine, +Green silk her hose; +Her shoon with silver gay, +Her sandals flowers of May, +Laced small and close. + +Her belt was of fresh spring buds, +Set with gold clasps and studs, +Fine linen her shift; +Her purse it was of love, +Her chain was the flower thereof, +And Love's gift. + +Upon a mule she rode, +The selle was of brent gold, +The bits of silver made; +Three red rose trees there were +That overshadowed her, +For a sun shade. + +She riding on a day, +Knights met her by the way, +They did her grace: +'Fair lady, whence be ye?' +'France it is my countrie, +I come of a high race. + +'My sire is the nightingale, +That sings, making his wail, +In the wild wood, clear; +The mermaid is mother to me, +That sings in the salt sea, +In the ocean mere.' + +'Ye come of a right good race, +And are born of a high place, +And of high degree; +Would to God that ye were +Given unto me, being fair, +My lady and love to be.' + + + +IANNOULA. + + + +Romaic folk-song. + + +All the maidens were merry and wed +All to lovers so fair to see; +The lover I took to my bridal bed +He is not long for love and me. + +I spoke to him and he nothing said, +I gave him bread of the wheat so fine; +He did not eat of the bridal bread, +He did not drink of the bridal wine. + +I made him a bed was soft and deep, +I made him a bed to sleep with me; +'Look on me once before you sleep, +And look on the flower of my fair body. + +'Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew, +Dew of April and buds of May; +Two white blossoms that bud for you, +Buds that blossom before the day.' + + + +THE MILK-WHITE DOE. + + + +French Volks-Lied. + + +It was a mother and a maid +That walked the woods among, +And still the maid went slow and sad, +And still the mother sung. + +'What ails you, daughter Margaret? +Why go you pale and wan? +Is it for a cast of bitter love, +Or for a false leman?' + +'It is not for a false lover +That I go sad to see; +But it is for a weary life +Beneath the greenwood tree. + +'For ever in the good daylight +A maiden may I go, +But always on the ninth midnight +I change to a milk-white doe. + +'They hunt me through the green forest +With hounds and hunting men; +And ever it is my fair brother +That is so fierce and keen.' + +* * * * * + +'Good-morrow, mother.' 'Good-morrow, son; +Where are your hounds so good?' +'Oh, they are hunting a white doe +Within the glad greenwood. + +'And three times have they hunted her, +And thrice she's won away; +The fourth time that they follow her +That white doe they shall slay.' + +* * * * * + +Then out and spoke the forester, +As he came from the wood, +'Now never saw I maid's gold hair +Among the wild deer's blood. + +'And I have hunted the wild deer +In east lands and in west; +And never saw I white doe yet +That had a maiden's breast.' + +Then up and spake her fair brother, +Between the wine and bread: +'Behold I had but one sister, +And I have been her dead. + +'But ye must bury my sweet sister +With a stone at her foot and her head, +And ye must cover her fair body +With the white roses and red. + +'And I must out to the greenwood, +The roof shall never shelter me; +And I shall lie for seven long years +On the grass below the hawthorn tree.' + + + +HELIODORE. + + + +(Meleager.) + + +Pour wine, and cry again, again, again! +To Heliodore! +And mingle the sweet word ye call in vain +With that ye pour! +And bring to me her wreath of yesterday +That's dank with myrrh; +Hesternae Rosae, ah my friends, but they +Remember her! +Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weep +As who repine, +For if on any breast they see her sleep +It is not mine! + + + +THE PROPHET. + + + +(Antiphilus.) + + +I knew it in your childish grace +The dawning of Desire, +'Who lives,' I said, 'will see that face +Set all the world on fire!' +They mocked; but Time has brought to pass +The saying over-true; +Prophet and martyr now, alas, +I burn for Truth,--and you! + + + +LAIS. + + + +(Pompeius.) + + +Lais that bloomed for all the world's delight, +Crowned with all love lilies, the fair and dear, +Sleeps the predestined sleep, nor knows the flight +Of Helios, the gold-reined charioteer: +Revel, and kiss, and love, and hate, one Night +Darkens, that never lamp of Love may cheer! + + + +CLEARISTA. + + + +(Meleager.) + + +For Death, not for Love, hast thou +Loosened thy zone! +Flutes filled thy bower but now, +Morning brings moan! +Maids round thy bridal bed +Hushed are in gloom, +Torches to Love that led +Light to the tomb! + + + +THE FISHERMAN'S TOMB. + + + +(Leonidas of Tarentum.) + + +Theris the Old, the waves that harvested +More keen than birds that labour in the sea, +With spear and net, by shore and rocky bed, +Not with the well-manned galley laboured he; +Him not the star of storms, nor sudden sweep +Of wind with all his years hath smitten and bent, +But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep, +As fades a lamp when all the oil is spent: +This tomb nor wife nor children raised, but we +His fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea. + + + +OF HIS DEATH. + + + +(Meleager.) + + +Ah Love, my Master, hear me swear +By all the locks of Timo's hair, +By Demo, and that fragrant spell +Wherewith her body doth enchant +Such dreams as drowsy lovers haunt, +By Ilias' mirth delectable. +And by the lamp that sheds his light +On love and lovers all the night, +By those, ah Love, I swear that thou +Hast left me but one breath, and now +Upon my lips it fluttereth, +Yet THIS I'll yield, my latest breath, +Even this, oh Love, for thee to Death! + + + +RHODOPE. + + + +(Rufinus.) + + +Thou hast Hera's eyes, thou hast Pallas' hands, +And the feet of the Queen of the yellow sands, +Thou hast beautiful Aphrodite's breast, +Thou art made of each goddess's loveliest! +Happy is he who sees thy face, +Happy who hears thy words of grace, +And he that shall kiss thee is half divine, +But a god who shall win that heart of thine! + + + +TO A GIRL. + + + +(Asclepiades.) + + +Believe me, love, it is not good +To hoard a mortal maidenhood; +In Hades thou wilt never find, +Maiden, a lover to thy mind; +Love's for the living! presently +Ashes and dust in death are we! + + + +TO THE SHIPS. + + + +(Meleager.) + + +O gentle ships that skim the seas, +And cleave the strait where Helle fell, +Catch in your sails the Northern breeze, +And speed to Cos, where she doth dwell, +My Love, and see you greet her well! +And if she looks across the blue, +Speak, gentle ships, and tell her true, +'He comes, for Love hath brought him back, +No sailor, on the landward tack.' + +If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do, +Then may ye win the fairest gales, +And swifter speed across the blue, +While Zeus breathes friendly on your sails. + + + +A LATE CONVERT. + + + +(Paulus Silentiarius.) + + +I that in youth had never been +The servant of the Paphian Queen, +I that in youth had never felt +The shafts of Eros pierce and melt, +Cypris! in later age, half grey, +I bow the neck to THEE to-day. +Pallas, that was my lady, thou +Dost more triumphant vanquish now, +Than when thou gained'st, over seas, +The apple of the Hesperides. + + + +THE LIMIT OF LIFE. + + + +Thirty-six is the term that the prophets assign, +And the students of stars to the years that are mine; +Nay, let thirty suffice, for the man who hath passed +Thirty years is a Nestor, and HE died at last! + + + +TO DANIEL ELZEVIR. + + + +(From the Latin of Menage.) + + +What do I see! Oh gods divine +And goddesses,--this Book of mine,-- +This child of many hopes and fears,-- +Is published by the Elzevirs! +Oh perfect Publishers complete! +Oh dainty volume, new and neat! +The Paper doth outshine the snow, +The Print is blacker than the crow, +The Title-Page, with crimson bright, +The vellum cover smooth and white, +All sorts of readers do invite, +Ay, and will keep them reading still, +Against their will, or with their will! +Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lack +The Publisher has given them back, +As Milliners adorn the fair +Whose charms are something skimp and spare. +Oh dulce decus, Elzevirs! +The pride of dead and dawning years, +How can a poet best repay +The debt he owes your House to-day? +May this round world, while aught endures, +Applaud, and buy, these books of yours! +May purchasers incessant pop, +My Elzevirs, within your shop, +And learned bards salute, with cheers, +The volumes of the Elzevirs, +Till your renown fills earth and sky, +Till men forget the Stephani, +And all that Aldus wrought, and all +Turnebus sold in shop or stall, +While still may Fate's (and Binders') shears +Respect, and spare, the Elzevirs! + + + +THE LAST CHANCE. + + + +Within the streams, Pausanias saith, +That down Cocytus valley flow, +Girdling the grey domain of Death, +The spectral fishes come and go; +The ghosts of trout flit to and fro. +Persephone, fulfil my wish, +And grant that in the shades below +My ghost may land the ghosts of fish. + +[Greek text] + +L. C. + + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} January 26, 1885. + +{2} M. Antoninus iv 23. + +{3} From the Romaic. + +{4} Aphrodite--Avril. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, GRASS OF PARNASSUS *** + +This file should be named grprn10.txt or grprn10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, grprn11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, grprn10a.txt + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + diff --git a/old/grprn10.zip b/old/grprn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..522b2e0 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/grprn10.zip diff --git a/old/grprn10h.htm b/old/grprn10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9c657d8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/grprn10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1930 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Grass of Parnassus</title> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Grass of Parnassus, by Andrew Lang</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Grass of Parnassus, by Andrew Lang +(#7 in our series by Andrew Lang) + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Grass of Parnassus + +Author: Andrew Lang + +Release Date: October, 1997 [EBook #1060] +[This file was first posted on October 8, 1997] +[Most recently updated: June 28, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: US-ASCII +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h1>Grass of Parnassus</h1> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Contents:</p> +<p> Grass of Parnassus<br /> Deeds +of men:<br /> Seekers for a city<br /> The +white Pacha<br /> Midnight, January +25, 1886<br /> Advance, Australia<br /> Colonel +Burnaby<br /> Melville and Coghill<br /> Rhodocleia:<br /> To +Rhodocleia—on her melancholy singing<br /> Ave:<br /> Clevedon +church<br /> Twilight on Tweed *<br /> Metempsychosis +*<br /> Lost in Hades *<br /> A +star in the night *<br /> A sunset +on yarrow *<br /> Another way<br /> Hesperothen:<br /> The +seekers for Phæacia<br /> A +song of Phæacia<br /> The departure +from Phæacia<br /> A ballad +of departure<br /> They hear the +sirens for the second time<br /> Circe’s +Isle revisited<br /> The limit of +lands<br /> Verses:<br /> Martial +in town<br /> April on Tweed<br /> Tired +of towns<br /> Scythe song<br /> Pen +and ink<br /> A dream<br /> The +singing rose<br /> A review in rhyme<br /> Colinette +*<br /> A sunset of Watteau *<br /> Nightingale +weather *<br /> Love and wisdom *<br /> Good-bye +*<br /> An old prayer *<br /> À +la belle Hélène *<br /> Sylvie +et Aurélie *<br /> A lost +path *<br /> The shade of Helen *<br /> Sonnets:<br /> She<br /> Herodotus +in Egypt<br /> Gérard de Nerval +*<br /> Ronsard *<br /> Love’s +miracle *<br /> Dreams *<br /> Two +sonnets of the sirens *<br /> Translations:<br /> Hymn +to the winds *<br /> Moonlight *<br /> The +grave and the rose *<br /> A vow +to heavenly Venus *<br /> Of his +lady’s old age *<br /> Shadows +of his lady *<br /> April *<br /> An +old tune *<br /> Old loves *<br /> A +lady of high degree *<br /> Iannoula +*<br /> The milk-white doe *<br /> Heliodore<br /> The +prophet<br /> Lais<br /> Clearista<br /> The +fisherman’s tomb<br /> Of his +death<br /> Rhodope<br /> To +a girl<br /> To the ships<br /> A +late convert<br /> The limit of life<br /> To +Daniel Elzevir<br /> The Last Chance</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To E. M. S.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Primâ dicta mihi, summâ dicenda Camenâ.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The years will pass, and hearts will range,<br /><i>You</i> conquer +Time, and Care, and Change.<br />Though Time doth still delight to shed<br />The +dust on many a younger head;<br />Though Care, oft coming, hath the +guile<br />From younger lips to steal the smile;<br />Though Change +makes younger hearts wax cold,<br />And sells new loves for loves of +old,<br />Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art<br />To fleck +your hair, to chill your heart,<br />To touch your tresses with the +snow,<br />To mar your mirth of long ago.<br />Change, Care, nor Time, +while life endure,<br />Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure,<br />The +love which flows from sacred springs,<br />In ‘old unhappy far-off +things,’<br />From sympathies in grief and joy,<br />Through all +the years of man and boy.</p> +<p>Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung<br />When even this ‘brindled’ +head was young<br />I bring, and later rhymes I bring<br />That flit +upon as weak a wing,<br />But still for you, for yours, they sing!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Many of the verses and translations in this volume were published +first in <i>Ballads and Lyrics of Old</i> <i>France</i> (1872). +Though very sensible that they have the demerits of imitative and even +of undergraduate rhyme, I print them again because people I like have +liked them. The rest are of different dates, and lack (though +doubtless they need) the excuse of having been written, like some of +the earlier pieces, during College Lectures. I would gladly have +added to this volume what other more or less serious rhymes I have written, +but circumstances over which I have no control have bound them up with +<i>Ballades</i>, and other toys of that sort.</p> +<p>It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said +in verse, that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in +the marshes at the foot of the Muses’ Hill, and other hills, not +at the top by any means.</p> +<p>Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been published +in the <i>Fortnightly Review</i>, and the sonnet on Colonel Burnaby +appeared in <i>Punch</i>. These, with pieces from other serials, +are reprinted by the courteous permission of the Editors.</p> +<p>The verses that were published in <i>Ballades and Lyrics</i>, and +in <i>Ballads and Verses Vain</i> (Charles Scribner’s Sons, New +York), are marked in the contents with an asterisk.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>GRASS OF PARNASSUS.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway,<br />In wet green places +’twixt the depth and height<br />Dost keep thine hour while Autumn +ebbs away,<br />When now the moors have doffed the heather bright,<br />Grass +of Parnassus, flower of my delight,<br />How gladly with the unpermitted +bay—<br />Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay—<br />How +gladly would I twine thee if I might!</p> +<p>The bays are out of reach! But far below<br />The peaks forbidden +of the Muses’ Hill,<br />Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow<br />Between +September and October chill<br />Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago,<br />And +these kind faces that are with me still.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>DEEDS OF MEN</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>αειδε δ’ αρα +κλεα ανδρων</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>To Colonel Ian Hamilton.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>To you, who know the face of war,<br />You, that for England wander +far,<br />You that have seen the Ghazis fly<br />From English lads not +sworn to die,<br />You that have lain where, deadly chill,<br />The +mist crept o’er the Shameful Hill,<br />You that have conquered, +mile by mile,<br />The currents of unfriendly Nile,<br />And cheered +the march, and eased the strain<br />When Politics made valour vain,<br />Ian, +to you, from banks of Ken,<br />We send our lays of Englishmen!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SEEKERS FOR A CITY.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>“Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set +on a hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed +thither. . . But the number and variety of the ways! For you know, +<i>There is but one road that leads to Corinth</i>.”</p> +<p>HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater’s Version).</p> +<p>“The Poet says, <i>dear city of Cecrops</i>, and wilt thou +not say, <i>dear city of Zeus</i>?”</p> +<p>M. ANTONINUS.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>“<i>To Corinth leads one road</i>,” you say:<br />Is +there a Corinth, or a way?<br />Each bland or blatant preacher hath<br />His +painful or his primrose path,<br />And not a soul of all of these<br />But +knows the city ’twixt the seas,<br />Her fair unnumbered homes +and all<br />Her gleaming amethystine wall!</p> +<p>Blind are the guides who know the way,<br />The guides who write, +and preach, and pray,<br />I watch their lives, and I divine<br />They +differ not from yours and mine!</p> +<p>One man we knew, and only one,<br />Whose seeking for a city’s +done,<br />For what he greatly sought he found,<br />A city girt with +fire around,<br />A city in an empty land<br />Between the wastes of +sky and sand,<br />A city on a river-side,<br />Where by the folk he +loved, he died. <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a></p> +<p>Alas! it is not ours to tread<br />That path wherein his life he +led,<br />Not ours his heart to dare and feel,<br />Keen as the fragrant +Syrian steel;<br />Yet are we not quite city-less,<br />Not wholly left +in our distress—<br />Is it not said by One of old,<br />“Sheep +have I of another fold?”<br />Ah! faint of heart, and weak of +will,<br />For us there is a city still!</p> +<p>“Dear city of Zeus,” the Stoic says, <a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2">{2}</a><br />The +Voice from Rome’s imperial days,<br />In Thee meet all things, +and disperse,<br />In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!<br />To me all’s +fruit thy seasons bring,<br />Alike thy summer and thy spring;<br />The +winds that wail, the suns that burn,<br />From Thee proceed, to Thee +return.</p> +<p>“Dear city of Zeus,” shall <i>we</i> not say,<br />Home +to which none can lose the way!<br />Born in that city’s flaming +bound,<br />We do not find her, but are found.<br />Within her wide +and viewless wall<br />The Universe is girdled all.<br />All joys and +pains, all wealth and dearth,<br />All things that travail on the earth,<br />God’s +will they work, if God there be,<br />If not, what is my life to me?</p> +<p>Seek we no further, but abide<br />Within this city great and wide,<br />In +her and for her living, we<br />Have no less joy than to be free;<br />Nor +death nor grief can quite appal<br />The folk that dwell within her +wall,<br />Nor aught but with our will befall!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE WHITE PACHA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Vain is the dream! However Hope may rave,<br />He perished +with the folk he could not save,<br />And though none surely told us +he is dead,<br />And though perchance another in his stead,<br />Another, +not less brave, when all was done,<br />Had fled unto the southward +and the sun,<br />Had urged a way by force, or won by guile<br />To +streams remotest of the secret Nile,<br />Had raised an army of the +Desert men,<br />And, waiting for his hour, had turned again<br />And +fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know<br />GORDON is dead, and these +things are not so!<br />Nay, not for England’s cause, nor to restore<br />Her +trampled flag—for he loved Honour more—<br />Nay, not for +Life, Revenge, or Victory,<br />Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned +to die.<br />He will not come again, whate’er our need,<br />He +will not come, who is happy, being freed<br />From the deathly flesh +and perishable things,<br />And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings.<br />Nay, +somewhere by the sacred River’s shore<br />He sleeps like those +who shall return no more,<br />No more return for all the prayers of +men—<br />Arthur and Charles—they never come again!<br />They +shall not wake, though fair the vision seem:<br />Whate’er sick +Hope may whisper, vain the dream!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To-morrow is a year since Gordon died!<br />A year ago to-night, +the Desert still<br />Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill<br />Of +lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied,<br />And paltered, +and evaded, and denied;<br />Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,<br />And +craven heart, and calculated skill<br />In long delays, of their great +homicide.</p> +<p>A year ago to-night ’twas not too late.<br />The thought comes +through our mirth, again, again;<br />Methinks I hear the halting foot +of Fate<br />Approaching and approaching us; and then<br />Comes cackle +of the House, and the Debate!<br />Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>On the offer of help from the Australians after the fall of Khartoum.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Sons of the giant Ocean isle<br />In sport our friendly foes for +long,<br />Well England loves you, and we smile<br />When you outmatch +us many a while,<br />So fleet you are, so keen and strong.</p> +<p>You, like that fairy people set<br />Of old in their enchanted sea<br />Far +off from men, might well forget<br />An elder nation’s toil and +fret,<br />Might heed not aught but game and glee.</p> +<p>But what your fathers were you are<br />In lands the fathers never +knew,<br />’Neath skies of alien sign and star<br />You rally +to the English war;<br />Your hearts are English, kind and true.</p> +<p>And now, when first on England falls<br />The shadow of a darkening +fate,<br />You hear the Mother ere she calls,<br />You leave your ocean-girdled +walls,<br />And face her foemen in the gate.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>COLONEL BURNABY.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p> συ δ’ εν στροφαλιγγι +κονιης<br />κεισο +μεγας μεγαλωστι, +λελασμενος +ιπποσυναων</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Thou that on every field of earth and sky<br />Didst hunt for Death, +who seemed to flee and fear,<br />How great and greatly fallen dost +thou lie<br />Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear:<br />‘Not +here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here<br />Nor in this +quarrel was it meet to die,<br />But in that dreadful battle drawing +nigh<br />To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer:</p> +<p>Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood,<br />And in some +glen have stayed the stream of flight,<br />The bulwark of thy people +and their shield,<br />When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood,<br />Till +back into the Northland and the Night<br />The smitten Eagles scattered +from the field.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>MELVILLE AND COGHILL.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(The place of the little hand.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Dead, with their eyes to the foe,<br />Dead, with the foe at their +feet,<br />Under the sky laid low<br />Truly their slumber is sweet,<br />Though +the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow,<br />And the rain on the +wilderness beat.</p> +<p>Dead, for they chose to die<br />When that wild race was run;<br />Dead, +for they would not fly,<br />Deeming their work undone,<br />Nor cared +to look on the face of the sky,<br />Nor loved the light of the sun.</p> +<p>Honour we give them and tears,<br />And the flag they died to save,<br />Rent +from the rain of the spears,<br />Wet from the war and the wave,<br />Shall +waft men’s thoughts through the dust of the years,<br />Back to +their lonely grave!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>RHODOCLEIA</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TO RHODOCLEIA—ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the +Greek Anthology.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Still, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead,<br />Still singing of the +meads of asphodel,<br />Lands desolate of delight?<br />Say, hast thou +dreamed of, or rememberèd,<br />The shores where shadows dwell,<br />Nor +know the sun, nor see the stars of night?</p> +<p>There, ’midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze<br />As a girl +pines for home,<br />Looking along the way that she hath come,<br />Sick +to return, and counts the weary days!<br />So wouldst thou flee<br />Back +to the multitude whose days are done,<br />Wouldst taste the fruit that +lured Persephone,<br />The sacrament of death; and die, and be<br />No +more in the wind and sun!</p> +<p>Thou hast not dreamed it, but rememberèd<br />I know thou +hast been there,<br />Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead<br />Rise +in the twilight air,<br />And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits +tread,<br />And climbed the golden stair!</p> +<p>Nay, by thy cloudy hair<br />And lips that were so fair,<br />Sad +lips now mindful of some ancient smart,<br />And melancholy eyes, the +haunt of Care,<br />I know thee who thou art!<br />That Rhodocleia, +Glory of the Rose,<br />Of Hellas, ere her close,<br />That Rhodocleia +who, when all was done<br />The golden time of Greece, and fallen her +sun,<br />Swayed her last poet’s heart.</p> +<p>With roses did he woo thee, and with song,<br />With thine own rose, +and with the lily sweet,<br />The dark-eyed violet,<br />Garlands of +wind-flowers wet,<br />And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night +long<br />Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies,<br />Praising +<i>thy golden eyes,<br />And feet more silvery than Thetis’ feet</i>!</p> +<p>But thou didst die and flit<br />Among the tribes outworn,<br />The +unavailing myriads of the past:<br />Oft he beheld thy face in dreams +of morn,<br />And, waking, wept for it,<br />Till his own time came +at last,<br />And then he sought thee in the dusky land!<br />Wide are +the populous places of the dead<br />Where souls on earth once wed<br />May +never meet, nor each take other’s hand,<br />Each far from the +other fled!</p> +<p>So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou<br />Didst never taste +of the Lethaean stream,<br />Nor that forgetful fruit,<br />The mystic +pom’granate;<br />But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now,<br />The +fugitive of Fate,<br />Thou farest in our life as in a dream,<br />Still +wandering with thy lute,<br />Like that sweet paynim lady of old song,<br />Who +sang and wandered long,<br />For love of her Aucassin, seeking him!<br />So +with thy minstrelsy<br />Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim,<br />Below +the veilèd sky!</p> +<p>There doth thy lover dwell,<br />Singing, and seeking still to find +thy face<br />In that forgetful place:<br />Thou shalt not meet him +here,<br />Not till thy singing clear<br />Through all the murmur of +the streams of hell<br />Wins to the Maiden’s ear!<br />May she, +perchance, have pity on thee and call<br />Thine eager spirit to sit +beside her feet,<br />Passing throughout the long unechoing hall<br />Up +to the shadowy throne,<br />Where the lost lovers of the ages meet;<br />Till +then thou art alone!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>AVE.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘Our Faith and Troth<br />All time and space controules<br />Above +the highest sphere we meet<br />Unseen, unknowne, and greet as Angels +greet’</p> +<p>Col. Richard Lovelace. 1649</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CLEVEDON CHURCH.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>[In memoriam H. B.]</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Westward I watch the low green hills of Wales,<br />The low sky silver +grey,<br />The turbid Channel with the wandering sails<br />Moans through +the winter day.<br />There is no colour but one ashen light<br />On +tower and lonely tree,<br />The little church upon the windy height<br />Is +grey as sky or sea.<br />But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love<br />Slept +through these fifty years,<br />There is the grave that has been wept +above<br />With more than mortal tears.<br />And far below I hear the +Channel sweep<br />And all his waves complain,<br />As Hallam’s +dirge through all the years must keep<br />Its monotone of pain.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies,<br />My heart flits +forth from these<br />Back to the winter rose of northern skies,<br />Back +to the northern seas.<br />And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat<br />Below +the minster grey,<br />Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet,<br />And +knees of them that pray.<br />And I remember me how twain were one<br />Beside +that ocean dim,<br />I count the years passed over since the sun<br />That +lights me looked on him,<br />And dreaming of the voice that, save in +sleep,<br />Shall greet me not again,<br />Far, far below I hear the +Channel sweep<br />And all his waves complain.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TWILIGHT ON TWEED.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Three crests against the saffron sky,<br />Beyond the purple plain,<br />The +kind remembered melody<br />Of Tweed once more again.</p> +<p>Wan water from the border hills,<br />Dear voice from the old years,<br />Thy +distant music lulls and stills,<br />And moves to quiet tears.</p> +<p>Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood<br />Fleets through the dusky +land;<br />Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,<br />My feet returning +stand.</p> +<p>A mist of memory broods and floats,<br />The Border waters flow;<br />The +air is full of ballad notes,<br />Borne out of long ago.</p> +<p>Old songs that sung themselves to me,<br />Sweet through a boy’s +day dream,<br />While trout below the blossom’d tree<br />Plashed +in the golden steam.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,<br />Fair and too fair you +be;<br />You tell me that the voice is still<br />That should have welcomed +me.</p> +<p>1870.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>METEMPSYCHOSIS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know<br />Perchance, the grey +eyes in another’s eyes,<br />Shall guess thy curls in gracious +locks that flow<br />On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise<br />Shall +follow and track, and find thee in disguise<br />Of all sad things, +and fair, where sunsets glow,<br />When through the scent of heather, +faint and low,<br />The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.</p> +<p>From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme,<br />Thine eyes and +lips are light and song to me;<br />The shadows of the beauty of all +time,<br />In song or story are but shapes of thee;<br />Alas, the shadowy +shapes! ah, sweet my dear,<br />Shall life or death bring all thy being +near?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>LOST IN HADES.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I dreamed that somewhere in the shadowy place,<br />Grief of farewell +unspoken was forgot<br />In welcome, and regret remembered not;<br />And +hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise<br />On lips that had +been songless many days;<br />Hope had no more to hope for, and desire<br />And +dread were overpast, in white attire<br />New born we walked among the +new world’s ways.</p> +<p>Then from the press of shades a spirit threw<br />Towards me such +apples as these gardens bear;<br />And turning, I was ’ware of +her, and knew<br />And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,—<br />Followed, +and found her not, and seeking you<br />I found you never, dearest, +anywhere.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A STAR IN THE NIGHT.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The perfect piteous beauty of thy face<br />Is like a star the dawning +drives away;<br />Mine eyes may never see in the bright day<br />Thy +pallid halo, thy supernal grace;<br />But in the night from forth the +silent place<br />Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray<br />Star +of the starry flock that in the grey<br />Is seen, and lost, and seen +a moment’s space.</p> +<p>And as the earth at night turns to a star,<br />Loved long ago, and +dearer than the sun,<br />So in the spiritual place afar,<br />At night +our souls are mingled and made one,<br />And wait till one night fall, +and one dawn rise,<br />That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A SUNSET ON YARROW.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The wind and the day had lived together,<br />They died together, +and far away<br />Spoke farewell in the sultry weather,<br />Out of +the sunset, over the heather,<br />The dying wind and the dying day.</p> +<p>Far in the south, the summer levin<br />Flushed, a flame in the grey +soft air:<br />We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;<br />You saw +within, but to me ’twas given<br />To see your face, as an angel’s, +there.</p> +<p>Never again, ah surely never<br />Shall we wait and watch, where +of old we stood,<br />The low good-night of the hill and the river,<br />The +faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,<br />Twain grown one in +the solitude.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>ANOTHER WAY.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Come to me in my dreams, and then,<br />One saith, I shall be well +again,<br />For then the night will more than pay<br />The hopeless +longing of the day.</p> +<p>Nay, come not <i>thou</i> in dreams, my sweet,<br />With shadowy +robes, and silent feet,<br />And with the voice, and with the eyes<br />That +greet me in a soft surprise.</p> +<p>Last night, last night, in dreams we met,<br />And how, to-day, shall +I forget,<br />Or how, remembering, restrain<br />Mine incommunicable +pain?</p> +<p>Nay, where thy land and people are,<br />Dwell thou remote, apart, +afar,<br />Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep<br />The melancholy +ways of Sleep.</p> +<p>But if, perchance, the shadows break,<br />If dreams depart, and +men awake,<br />If face to face at length we see,<br />Be thine the +voice to welcome me.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>HESPEROTHEN</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>By the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned +from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, seeking +they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phæacian +island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably +in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the <i>Vanity of</i> <i>Melancholy</i>. +And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place of Art +and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe’s Isle, the place of bodily +delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness +of that age. Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, +under the similitude of the Isle of the Macraeones.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>There is a land in the remotest day,<br />Where the soft night is +born, and sunset dies;<br />The eastern shore sees faint tides fade +away,<br />That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs<br />Make +life,—the lands below the blue of common skies.</p> +<p>But in the west is a mysterious sea,<br />(What sails have seen it, +or what shipmen known?)<br />With coasts enchanted where the Sirens +be,<br />With islands where a Goddess walks alone,<br />And in the cedar +trees the magic winds make moan.</p> +<p>Eastward the human cares of house and home,<br />Cities, and ships, +and unknown gods, and loves;<br />Westward, strange maidens fairer than +the foam,<br />And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves,<br />Wherein +a god may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.</p> +<p>The gods are careless of the days and death<br />Of toilsome men, +beyond the western seas;<br />The gods are heedless of their painful +breath,<br />And love them not, for they are not as these;<br />But +in the golden west they live and lie at ease.</p> +<p>Yet the Phæacians well they love, who live<br />At the light’s +limit, passing careless hours,<br />Most like the gods; and they have +gifts to give,<br />Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers,<br />And +song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers.</p> +<p>It is a quiet midland; in the cool<br />Of the twilight comes the +god, though no man prayed,<br />To watch the maids and young men beautiful<br />Dance, +and they see him, and are not afraid,<br />For they are neat of kin +to gods, and undismayed.</p> +<p>Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh<br />The dreamy +isles that the Immortals keep!<br />But with a mist they hide them wondrously,<br />And +far the path and dim to where they sleep,—<br />The loved, the +shadowy lands, along the shadowy deep.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A SONG OF PHÆACIA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The languid sunset, mother of roses,<br />Lingers, a light on the +magic seas,<br />The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses,<br />Heavy +with odour, and loose to the breeze.</p> +<p>The red rose clouds, without law or leader,<br />Gather and float +in the airy plain;<br />The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar,<br />The +cedar scatters his scent to the main.</p> +<p>The strange flowers’ perfume turns to singing,<br />Heard afar +over moonlit seas:<br />The Siren’s song, grown faint in winging,<br />Falls +in scent on the cedar trees.</p> +<p>As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying,<br />Purple, and rosy, +and grey, the birds<br />Brighten the air with their wings; their crying<br />Wakens +a moment the weary herds.</p> +<p>Butterflies flit from the fairy garden,<br />Living blossoms of flying +flowers;<br />Never the nights with winter harden,<br />Nor moons wax +keen in this land of ours.</p> +<p>Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden,<br />Gleam in the green, +and droop and fall;<br />Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden,<br />Swing, +and cling to the garden wall.</p> +<p>Deep in the woods as twilight darkens,<br />Glades are red with the +scented fire;<br />Far in the dells the white maid hearkens,<br />Song +and sigh of the heart’s desire.</p> +<p>Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning,<br />Maiden’s song in +the matin grey,<br />Faints as the first bird’s note, a warning,<br />Wakes +and wails to the new-born day.</p> +<p>The waking song and the dying measure<br />Meet, and the waxing and +waning light<br />Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure,<br />The +rose of the sea and the sky is white.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>The Phæacians.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Why from the dreamy meadows,<br />More fair than any dream,<br />Why +seek ye for the shadows<br />Beyond the ocean stream?</p> +<p>Through straits of storm and peril,<br />Through firths unsailed +before,<br />Why make you for the sterile,<br />The dark Kimmerian shore?</p> +<p>There no bright streams are flowing,<br />There day and night are +one,<br />No harvest time, no sowing,<br />No sight of any sun;</p> +<p>No sound of song or tabor,<br />No dance shall greet you there;<br />No +noise of mortal labour<br />Breaks on the blind chill air.</p> +<p>Are ours not happy places,<br />Where gods with mortals trod?<br />Saw +not our sires the faces<br />Of many a present god?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Seekers.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Nay, now no god comes hither,<br />In shape that men may see;<br />They +fare we know not whither,<br />We know not what they be.</p> +<p>Yea, though the sunset lingers<br />Far in your fairy glades,<br />Though +yours the sweetest singers,<br />Though yours the kindest maids,</p> +<p>Yet here be the true shadows,<br />Here in the doubtful light;<br />Amid +the dreamy meadows<br />No shadow haunts the night.</p> +<p>We seek a city splendid,<br />With light beyond the sun;<br />Or +lands where dreams are ended,<br />And works and days are done.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE. <a name="citation3"></a><a href="#footnote3">{3}</a></h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Fair white bird, what song art thou singing<br />In wintry weather +of lands o’er sea?<br />Dear white bird, what way art thou winging,<br />Where +no grass grows, and no green tree?</p> +<p>I looked at the far-off fields and grey,<br />There grew no tree +but the cypress tree,<br />That bears sad fruits with the flowers of +May,<br />And whoso looks on it, woe is he.</p> +<p>And whoso eats of the fruit thereof<br />Has no more sorrow, and +no more love;<br />And who sets the same in his garden stead,<br />In +a little space he is waste and dead.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>The weary sails a moment slept,<br />The oars were silent for a space,<br />As +past Hesperian shores we swept,<br />That were as a remembered face<br />Seen +after lapse of hopeless years,<br />In Hades, when the shadows meet,<br />Dim +through the mist of many tears,<br />And strange, and though a shadow, +sweet.</p> +<p>So seemed the half-remembered shore,<br />That slumbered, mirrored +in the blue,<br />With havens where we touched of yore,<br />And ports +that over well we knew.<br />Then broke the calm before a breeze<br />That +sought the secret of the west;<br />And listless all we swept the seas<br />Towards +the Islands of the Blest.</p> +<p>Beside a golden sanded bay<br />We saw the Sirens, very fair<br />The +flowery hill whereon they lay,<br />The flowers set upon their hair.<br />Their +old sweet song came down the wind,<br />Remembered music waxing strong,—<br />Ah +now no need of cords to bind,<br />No need had we of Orphic song.</p> +<p>It once had seemed a little thing<br />To lay our lives down at their +feet,<br />That dying we might hear them sing,<br />And dying see their +faces sweet;<br />But now, we glanced, and passing by,<br />No care +had we to tarry long;<br />Faint hope, and rest, and memory<br />Were +more than any Siren’s song.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ah, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried;<br />Ah, Circe, Circe! but +no voice replied;<br />No voice from bowers o’ergrown and ruinous<br />As +fallen rocks upon the mountain side.</p> +<p>There was no sound of singing in the air;<br />Faded or fled the +maidens that were fair,<br />No more for sorrow or joy were seen of +us,<br />No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair.</p> +<p>The perfume, and the music, and the flame<br />Had passed away; the +memory of shame<br />Alone abode, and stings of faint desire,<br />And +pulses of vague quiet went and came.</p> +<p>Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place,<br />Our dead youth came +and looked on us a space,<br />With drooping wings, and eyes of faded +fire.<br />And wasted hair about a weary face.</p> +<p>Why had we ever sought the magic isle<br />That seemed so happy in +the days erewhile?<br />Why did we ever leave it, where we met<br />A +world of happy wonders in one smile?</p> +<p>Back to the westward and the waning light<br />We turned, we fled; +the solitude of night<br />Was better than the infinite regret,<br />In +fallen places of our dead delight.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE LIMIT OF LANDS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Between the circling ocean sea<br />And the poplars of Persephone<br />There +lies a strip of barren sand,<br />Flecked with the sea’s last +spray, and strown<br />With waste leaves of the poplars, blown<br />From +gardens of the shadow land.</p> +<p>With altars of old sacrifice<br />The shore is set, in mournful wise<br />The +mists upon the ocean brood;<br />Between the water and the air<br />The +clouds are born that float and fare<br />Between the water and the wood.</p> +<p>Upon the grey sea never sail<br />Of mortals passed within our hail,<br />Where +the last weak waves faint and flow;<br />We heard within the poplar +pale<br />The murmur of a doubtful wail<br />Of voices loved so long +ago.</p> +<p>We scarce had care to die or live,<br />We had no honey cake to give,<br />No +wine of sacrifice to shed;<br />There lies no new path over sea,<br />And +now we know how faint they be,<br />The feasts and voices of the dead.</p> +<p>Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow!<br />Glad life, sad life +we did forego<br />To dream of quietness and rest;<br />Ah, would the +fleet sweet roses here<br />Poured light and perfume through the drear<br />Pale +year, and wan land of the west.</p> +<p>Sad youth, that let the spring go by<br />Because the spring is swift +to fly,<br />Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love,<br />Behold how +sadder far is this,<br />To know that rest is nowise bliss,<br />And +darkness is the end thereof.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>VERSES</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>MARTIAL IN TOWN.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Last night, within the stifling train,<br />Lit by the foggy lamp +o’erhead,<br />Sick of the sad Last News, I read<br />Verse of +that joyous child of Spain,</p> +<p>Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold,<br />Within the Roman din and +smoke.<br />And like my heart to me they spoke,<br />These accents of +his heart of old:-</p> +<p>“<i>Brother, had we but time to live,<br />And fleet the careless +hours together,<br />With all that leisure has to give<br />Of perfect +life and peaceful weather</i>,</p> +<p>“<i>The Rich Man’s halls, the anxious faces,<br />The +weary Forum, courts, and cases<br />Should know us not; but quiet nooks,<br />But +summer shade by field and well,<br />But county rides, and talk of books,<br />At +home, with these, we fain would dwell</i>!</p> +<p>“<i>Now neither lives, but day by day<br />Sees the suns wasting +in the west,<br />And feels their flight, and doth delay<br />To lead +the life he loveth best</i>.”</p> +<p>So from thy city prison broke,<br />Martial, thy wail for life misspent,<br />And +so, through London’s noise and smoke<br />My heart replies to +the lament.</p> +<p>For dear as Tagus with his gold,<br />And swifter Salo, were to thee,<br />So +dear to me the woods that fold<br />The streams that circle Fernielea!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>APRIL ON TWEED.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>As birds are fain to build their nest<br />The first soft sunny day,<br />So +longing wakens in my breast<br />A month before the May,<br />When now +the wind is from the West,<br />And Winter melts away.</p> +<p>The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill,<br />But soft the breezes blow.<br />If +melting snows the waters fill,<br />We nothing heed the snow,<br />But +we must up and take our will,—<br />A fishing will we go!</p> +<p>Below the branches brown and bare,<br />Beneath the primrose lea,<br />The +trout lies waiting for his fare,<br />A hungry trout is he;<br />He’s +hooked, and springs and splashes there<br />Like salmon from the sea!</p> +<p>Oh, April tide’s a pleasant tide,<br />However times may fall,<br />And +sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride,<br />You hear the mavis call;<br />But +all adown the water-side<br />The Spring’s most fair of all.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TIRED OF TOWNS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘When we spoke to her of the New Jerusalem, she said she would +rather go to a country place in Heaven.’</p> +<p>Letters from the Black Country.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I’m weary of towns, it seems a’most a pity<br />We didn’t +stop down i’ the country and clem,<br />And you say that I’m +bound for another city,<br />For the streets o’ the New Jerusalem.</p> +<p>And the streets are never like Sheffield, here,<br />Nor the smoke +don’t cling like a smut to <i>them</i>;<br />But the water o’ +life flows cool and clear<br />Through the streets o’ the New +Jerusalem.</p> +<p>And the houses, you say, are of jasper cut,<br />And the gates are +gaudy wi’ gold and gem;<br />But there’s times I could wish +as the gates was shut—<br />The gates o’ the New Jerusalem.</p> +<p>For I come from a country that’s over-built<br />Wi’ +streets that stifle, and walls that hem,<br />And the gorse on a common’s +worth all the gilt<br />And the gold of your New Jerusalem.</p> +<p>And I hope that they’ll bring me, in Paradise,<br />To green +lanes leafy wi’ bough and stem—<br />To a country place +in the land o’ the skies,<br />And not to the New Jerusalem.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SCYTHE SONG.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,<br />What is the word methinks +ye know,<br />Endless over-word that the Scythe<br />Sings to the blades +of the grass below?<br />Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,<br />Something, +still, they say as they pass;<br />What is the word that, over and over,<br />Sings +the Scythe to the flowers and grass?</p> +<p><i>Hush, ah hush</i>, the Scythes are saying,<br /><i>Hush, and heed +not, and fall asleep</i>;<br /><i>Hush</i>, they say to the grasses +swaying,<br /><i>Hush</i>, they sing to the clover deep!<br /><i>Hush—</i>’tis +the lullaby Time is singing—<br /><i>Hush, and heed not, for all +things pass,<br />Hush, ah hush</i>! and the Scythes are swinging<br />Over +the clover, over the grass!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>PEN AND INK.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ye wanderers that were my sires,<br />Who read men’s fortunes +in the hand,<br />Who voyaged with your smithy fires<br />From waste +to waste across the land,<br />Why did you leave for garth and town<br />Your +life by heath and river’s brink,<br />Why lay your gipsy freedom +down<br />And doom your child to Pen and Ink?</p> +<p>You wearied of the wild-wood meal<br />That crowned, or failed to +crown, the day;<br />Too honest or too tame to steal<br />You broke +into the beaten way;<br />Plied loom or awl like other men,<br />And +learned to love the guineas’ chink—<br />Oh, recreant sires, +who doomed me then<br />To earn so few—with Pen and Ink!</p> +<p>Where it hath fallen the tree must lie.<br />’Tis over late +for <i>me</i> to roam,<br />Yet the caged bird who hears the cry<br />Of +his wild fellows fleeting home,<br />May feel no sharper pang than mine,<br />Who +seem to hear, whene’er I think,<br />Spate in the stream, and +wind in pine,<br />Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink.</p> +<p>For then the spirit wandering,<br />That slept within the blood, +awakes;<br />For then the summer and the spring<br />I fain would meet +by streams and lakes;<br />But ah, my Birthright long is sold,<br />But +custom chains me, link on link,<br />And I must get me, as of old,<br />Back +to my tools, to Pen and Ink.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A DREAM.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Why will you haunt my sleep?<br />You know it may not be,<br />The +grave is wide and deep,<br />That sunders you and me;<br />In bitter +dreams we reap<br />The sorrow we have sown,<br />And I would I were +asleep,<br />Forgotten and alone!</p> +<p>We knew and did not know,<br />We saw and did not see,<br />The nets +that long ago<br />Fate wove for you and me;<br />The cruel nets that +keep<br />The birds that sob and moan,<br />And I would we were asleep,<br />Forgotten +and alone!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE SINGING ROSE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘La Rose qui chante et l’herbe qui égare.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p><i>White Rose on the grey garden wall,<br />Where now no night-wind +whispereth,<br />Call to the far-off flowers, and call<br />With murmured +breath and musical<br />Till all the Roses hear, and all<br />Sing to +my Love what the White Rose saith</i>.</p> +<p>White Rose on the grey garden wall<br />That long ago we sung!<br />Again +you come at Summer’s call,—<br />Again beneath my windows +all<br />With trellised flowers is hung,<br />With clusters of the roses +white<br />Like fragrant stars in a green night.</p> +<p>Once more I hear the sister towers<br />Each unto each reply,<br />The +bloom is on those limes of ours,<br />The weak wind shakes the bloom +in showers,<br />Snow from a cloudless sky;<br />There is no change +this happy day<br />Within the College Gardens grey!</p> +<p>St. Mary’s, Merton, Magdalen—still<br />Their sweet bells +chime and swing,<br />The old years answer them, and thrill<br />A wintry +heart against its will<br />With memories of the Spring—<br />That +Spring we sought the gardens through<br />For flowers which ne’er +in gardens grew!</p> +<p>For we, beside our nurse’s knee,<br />In fairy tales had heard<br />Of +that strange Rose which blossoms free<br />On boughs of an enchanted +tree,<br />And sings like any bird!<br />And of the weed beside the +way<br />That leadeth lovers’ steps astray!</p> +<p>In vain we sought the Singing Rose<br />Whereof old legends tell,<br />Alas, +we found it not mid those<br />Within the grey old College close,<br />That +budded, flowered, and fell,—<br />We found that herb called ‘Wandering’<br />And +meet no more, no more in Spring!</p> +<p>Yes, unawares the unhappy grass<br />That leadeth steps astray,<br />We +trod, and so it came to pass<br />That never more we twain, alas,<br />Shall +walk the self-same way.<br />And each must deem, though neither knows,<br />That +<i>neither</i> found the Singing Rose!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A REVIEW IN RHYME.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>A little of Horace, a little of Prior,<br />A sketch of a Milkmaid, +a lay of the Squire—<br />These, these are ‘on draught’ +‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’</p> +<p>A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself,<br />A talk of the +Books on the Sheraton shelf,<br />A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the +Guelph,</p> +<p>A <i>lai</i>, a <i>pantoum</i>, a <i>ballade</i>, a <i>rondeau,<br /></i>A +pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau,<br />And the chimes of the +rhymes that sing sweet as they go,</p> +<p>A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove,<br />’Neath a dance +by Laguerre on the ceiling above,<br />And a dream of the days when +the bard was in love,</p> +<p>A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun,<br />A toss of old powder, +a glint of the sun,<br />They meet in the volume that Dobson has done!</p> +<p>If there’s more that the heart of a man can desire,<br />He +may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire;<br />If he’s +wise—he’ll alight ‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>COLINETTE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, R.A.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>France your country, as we know;<br />Room enough for guessing yet,<br />What +lips now or long ago,<br />Kissed and named you—Colinette.<br />In +what fields from sea to sea,<br />By what stream your home was set,<br />Loire +or Seine was glad of thee,<br />Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?</p> +<p>Did you stand with maidens ten,<br />Fairer maids were never seen,<br />When +the young king and his men<br />Passed among the orchards green?<br />Nay, +old ballads have a note<br />Mournful, we would fain forget;<br />No +such sad old air should float<br />Round your young brows, Colinette.</p> +<p>Say, did Ronsard sing to you,<br />Shepherdess, to lull his pain,<br />When +the court went wandering through<br />Rose pleasances of Touraine?<br />Ronsard +and his famous Rose<br />Long are dust the breezes fret;<br />You, within +the garden close,<br />You are blooming, Colinette.</p> +<p>Have I seen you proud and gay,<br />With a patched and perfumed beau,<br />Dancing +through the summer day,<br />Misty summer of Watteau?<br />Nay, so sweet +a maid as you<br />Never walked a minuet<br />With the splendid courtly +crew;<br />Nay, forgive me, Colinette.</p> +<p>Not from Greuze’s canvases<br />Do you cast a glance, a smile;<br />You +are not as one of these,<br />Yours is beauty without guile.<br />Round +your maiden brows and hair<br />Maidenhood and Childhood met<br />Crown +and kiss you, sweet and fair,<br />New art’s blossom, Colinette.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A SUNSET OF WATTEAU.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>LUI.</p> +<p>The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake,<br />Arise and tempt the +seas;<br />Our ocean is the Palace lake,<br />Our waves the ripples +that we make<br />Among the mirrored trees.</p> +<p>ELLE.</p> +<p>Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song,<br />And dear the languid +dream;<br />The music mingled all day long<br />With paces of the dancing +throng,<br />And murmur of the stream.</p> +<p>An hour ago, an hour ago,<br />We rested in the shade;<br />And now, +why should we seek to know<br />What way the wilful waters flow?<br />There +is no fairer glade.</p> +<p>LUI.</p> +<p>Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,<br />And seek him everywhere;<br />Perchance +in sunset’s golden pale<br />He listens to the nightingale,<br />Amid +the perfumed air.</p> +<p>Come, he has fled; you are not you,<br />And I no more am I;<br />Delight +is changeful as the hue<br />Of heaven, that is no longer blue<br />In +yonder sunset sky.</p> +<p>ELLE.</p> +<p>Nay, if we seek we shall not find,<br />If we knock none openeth;<br />Nay, +see, the sunset fades behind<br />The mountains, and the cold night +wind<br />Blows from the house of Death.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?<br />Semi-je nonnette? je crois +que non.<br />Derrière chez mon père<br />Il est un bois +taillis,<br />Le rossignol y chante<br />Et le jour et la nuit.<br />Il +chante pour les filles<br />Qui n’ont pas d’ami;<br />Il +ne chant pas pour moi,<br />J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—<i>Old +French</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I’ll never be a nun, I trow,<br />While apple bloom is white +as snow,<br />But far more fair to see;<br />I’ll never wear nun’s +black and white<br />While nightingales make sweet the night<br />Within +the apple tree.</p> +<p>Ah, listen! ’tis the nightingale,<br />And in the wood he makes +his wail,<br />Within the apple tree;<br />He singeth of the sore distress<br />Of +many ladies loverless;<br />Thank God, no song for me.</p> +<p>For when the broad May moon is low,<br />A gold fruit seen where +blossoms blow<br />In the boughs of the apple tree,<br />A step I know +is at the gate;<br />Ah love, but it is long to wait<br />Until night’s +noon bring thee!</p> +<p>Between lark’s song and nightingale’s<br />A silent space, +while dawning pales,<br />The birds leave still and free<br />For words +and kisses musical,<br />For silence and for sighs that fall<br />In +the dawn, ’twixt him and me.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>LOVE AND WISDOM.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘When last we gathered roses in the garden<br />I found my +wits, but truly you lost yours.’</p> +<p><i>The Broken Heart</i>.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>July and June brought flowers and love<br />To you, but I would none +thereof,<br />Whose heart kept all through summer time<br />A flower +of frost and winter rime.<br />Yours was true wisdom—was it not?<br />Even +love; but I had clean forgot,<br />Till seasons of the falling leaf,<br />All +loves, but one that turned to grief.<br />At length at touch of autumn +tide<br />When roses fell, and summer died,<br />All in a dawning deep +with dew,<br />Love flew to me, Love fled from you.<br />The roses drooped +their weary heads,<br />I spoke among the garden beds;<br />You would +not hear, you could not know,<br />Summer and love seemed long ago,<br />As +far, as faint, as dim a dream,<br />As to the dead this world may seem.<br />Ah +sweet, in winter’s miseries,<br />Perchance you may remember this,<br />How +Wisdom was not justified<br />In summer time or autumn tide,<br />Though +for this once below the sun,<br />Wisdom and Love were made at one;<br />But +Love was bitter-bought enough,<br />And Wisdom light of wing as Love.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>GOOD-BYE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Kiss me, and say good-bye;<br />Good-bye, there is no word to say +but this,<br />Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,<br />Nor any tears +to shed, when these tears dry;<br />Kiss me, and say, good-bye.</p> +<p>Farewell, be glad, forget;<br />There is no need to say ‘forget,’ +I know,<br />For youth is youth, and time will have it so,<br />And +though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,<br />Farewell, you must +forget.</p> +<p>You shall bring home your sheaves,<br />Many, and heavy, and with +blossoms twined<br />Of memories that go not out of mind;<br />Let this +one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves<br />When you bring home your +sheaves.</p> +<p>In garnered loves of thine,<br />The ripe good fruit of many hearts +and years,<br />Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears;<br />It +grew too near the sea wind, and the brine<br />Of life, this love of +mine.</p> +<p>This sheaf was spoiled in spring,<br />And over-long was green, and +early sere,<br />And never gathered gold in the late year<br />From +autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,<br />But failed in frosts of spring.</p> +<p>Yet was it thine, my sweet,<br />This love, though weak as young +corn withered,<br />Whereof no man may gather and make bread;<br />Thine, +though it never knew the summer heat;<br />Forget not quite, my sweet.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>AN OLD PRAYER.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Χαιρε μοι, ω βασιλεια, +διαμπερες, εις +ο κε γηρας<br />Ελθη +και θανατος, +τα τ’ επ’ ανθρωποισι +πελονται.</p> +<p>Odyssey, XIII.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>My prayer an old prayer borroweth,<br />Of ancient love and memory—<br />‘Do +thou farewell, till Eld and Death,<br />That come to all men, come to +thee.’<br />Gently as winter’s early breath,<br />Scarce +felt, what time the swallows flee,<br />To lands whereof no man knoweth<br />Of +summer, over land and sea;<br />So with thy soul may summer be,<br />Even +as the ancient singer saith,<br />‘Do thou farewell, till Eld +and Death,<br />That come to all men, come to thee.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>After Ronsard.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>More closely than the clinging vine<br />About the wedded tree,<br />Clasp +thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine!<br />About the heart of me.<br />Or +seem to sleep, and stoop your face<br />Soft on my sleeping eyes,<br />Breathe +in your life, your heart, your grace,<br />Through me, in kissing wise.<br />Bow +down, bow down your face, I pray,<br />To me, that swoon to death,<br />Breathe +back the life you kissed away,<br />Breathe back your kissing breath.<br />So +by your eyes I swear and say,<br />My mighty oath and sure,<br />From +your kind arms no maiden may<br />My loving heart allure.<br />I’ll +bear your yoke, that’s light enough,<br />And to the Elysian plain,<br />When +we are dead of love, my love,<br />One boat shall bear us twain.<br />They’ll +flock around you, fleet and fair,<br />All true loves that have been,<br />And +you of all the shadows there,<br />Shall be the shadow queen.<br />Ah, +shadow-loves and shadow-lips!<br />Ah, while ’tis called to-day,<br />Love +me, my love, for summer slips,<br />And August ebbs away.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>In memory of Gérard De Nerval.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Two loves there were, and one was born<br />Between the sunset and +the rain;<br />Her singing voice went through the corn,<br />Her dance +was woven ’neath the thorn,<br />On grass the fallen blossoms +stain;<br />And suns may set, and moons may wane,<br />But this love +comes no more again.</p> +<p>There were two loves and one made white,<br />Thy singing lips, and +golden hair;<br />Born of the city’s mire and light,<br />The +shame and splendour of the night,<br />She trapped and fled thee unaware;<br />Not +through the lamplight and the rain<br />Shalt thou behold this love +again.</p> +<p>Go forth and seek, by wood and hill,<br />Thine ancient love of dawn +and dew;<br />There comes no voice from mere or rill,<br />Her dance +is over, fallen still<br />The ballad burdens that she knew:<br />And +thou must wait for her in vain,<br />Till years bring back thy youth +again.</p> +<p>That other love, afield, afar<br />Fled the light love, with lighter +feet.<br />Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are,<br />And flit +in dreams from star to star,<br />That dead love shalt thou never meet,<br />Till +through bleak dawn and blowing rain<br />Thy soul shall find her soul +again.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A LOST PATH.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, +whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly +flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the world.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Alas, the path is lost, we cannot leave<br />Our bright, our clouded +life, and pass away<br />As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet +eve,<br />To heights remoter of the purer day.<br />The soul may not, +returning whence she came,<br />Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget<br />The +joys that fever, and the cares that fret,<br />Made once more one with +the eternal flame<br />That breathes in all things ever more the same.<br />She +would be young again, thus drinking deep<br />Of her old life; and this +has been, men say,<br />But this we know not, who have only sleep<br />To +soothe us, sleep more terrible than day,<br />Where dead delights, and +fair lost faces stray,<br />To make us weary at our wakening;<br />And +of that long lost path to the Divine<br />We dream, as some Greek shepherd +erst might sing,<br />Half credulous, of easy Proserpine,<br />And of +the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE SHADE OF HELEN.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the +gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, +sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks +and Trojans slew each other.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Why from the quiet hollows of the hills,<br />And extreme meeting +place of light and shade,<br />Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became<br />Clouds +among sister clouds, where fair spent beams<br />And dying glories of +the sun would dwell,<br />Why have they whom I know not, nor may know,<br />Strange +hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me,<br />And borne me from the +silent shadowy hills,<br />Hither, to noise and glow of alien life,<br />To +harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?</p> +<p>One speaks unto me words that would be sweet,<br />Made harsh, made +keen with love that knows me not,<br />And some strange force, within +me or around,<br />Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh,<br />And +somewhere there is fever in the halls<br />That troubles me, for no +such trouble came<br />To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.</p> +<p>The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry,<br />That house, and +wife, and lands, and all Troy town,<br />Are little to lose, if they +may keep me here,<br />And see me flit, a pale and silent shade,<br />Among +the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.</p> +<p>At other hours another life seems mine,<br />Where one great river +runs unswollen of rain,<br />By pyramids of unremembered kings,<br />And +homes of men obedient to the Dead.<br />There dark and quiet faces come +and go<br />Around me, then again the shriek of arms,<br />And all the +turmoil of the Ilian men.</p> +<p>What are they? even shadows such as I.<br />What make they? +Even this—the sport of gods—<br />The sport of gods, however +free they seem.<br />Ah, would the game were ended, and the light,<br />The +blinding light, and all too mighty suns,<br />Withdrawn, and I once +more with sister shades,<br />Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist,<br />Dwelt +in the hollows of the shadowy hills.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>SONNETS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SHE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>To H. R. H.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Not in the waste beyond the swamps and sand,<br />The fever-haunted +forest and lagoon,<br />Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand,<br />Thy +lonely towers beneath the lonely moon,<br />Not there doth Ayesha linger, +rune by rune<br />Spelling strange scriptures of a people banned.<br />The +world is disenchanted; over soon<br />Shall Europe send her spies through +all the land.</p> +<p>Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot,<br />In town or field, +or by the insatiate sea,<br />Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot,<br />Or +break themselves on some divine decree,<br />Or would o’erleap +the limits of their lot,<br />There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth +SHE!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>HERODOTUS IN EGYPT.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>He left the land of youth, he left the young,<br />The smiling gods +of Greece; he passed the isle<br />Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho +sung,<br />He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile,<br />And of their +old world, dead a weary while,<br />Heard the priests murmur in their +mystic tongue,<br />And through the fanes went voyaging, among<br />Dark +tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile.</p> +<p>He learned the tales of death Divine and birth,<br />Strange loves +of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth,<br />The marriage, and the slaying +of the Sun.<br />The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through,<br />And +mocked not at their godhead, for he knew<br />Behind all creeds the +Spirit that is One.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>GÉRARD DE NERVAL.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Of all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed,<br />Ah, light and +sacred soul!—none holds thee now;<br />No wall, no bar, no body +of flesh, but thou<br />Art free and happy in the lands unnamed,<br />Within +whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,<br />Thou still would’st +bear that mystic golden bough<br />The Sibyl doth to singing men allow,<br />Yet +thy report folk heeded not, but blamed.<br />And they would smile and +wonder, seeing where<br />Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves, +or clouds, or wind,<br />Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,<br />Caught +from the Valois peasants; dost thou find<br />A new life gladder than +the old times were,<br />A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>RONSARD.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Master, I see thee with the locks of grey,<br />Crowned by the Muses +with the laurel-wreath;<br />I see the roses hiding underneath,<br />Cassandra’s +gift; she was less dear than they.<br />Thou, Master, first hast roused +the lyric lay,<br />The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath,<br />Hast +sung thine answer to the lays that breathe<br />Through ages, and through +ages far away.</p> +<p>And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat,<br />Known Horace by +the fount Bandusian!<br />Their deathless line thy living strains repeat,<br />But +ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan,<br />But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet,<br />Thy +bees have fed on yews Sardinian!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>LOVE’S MIRACLE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>With other helpless folk about the gate,<br />The gate called Beautiful, +with weary eyes<br />That take no pleasure in the summer skies,<br />Nor +all things that are fairest, does she wait;<br />So bleak a time, so +sad a changeless fate<br />Makes her with dull experience early wise,<br />And +in the dawning and the sunset, sighs<br />That all hath been, and shall +be, desolate.</p> +<p>Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live,<br />And know herself +the fairest of fair things,<br />Ah, if he have no healing gift to give,<br />Warm +from his breast, and holy from his wings,<br />Or if at least Love’s +shadow in passing by<br />Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>DREAMS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>He spake not truth, however wise, who said<br />That happy, and that +hapless men in sleep<br />Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep<br />As +countless, careless, races of the dead.<br />Not so, for alien paths +of dreams we tread,<br />And one beholds the faces that he sighs<br />In +vain to bring before his daylit eyes,<br />And waking, he remembers +on his bed;</p> +<p>And one with fainting heart and feeble hand<br />Fights a dim battle +in a doubtful land<br />Where strength and courage were of no avail;<br />And +one is borne on fairy breezes far<br />To the bright harbours of a golden +star<br />Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles +compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. +Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées +jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à +la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, +mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la +Mort.’</p> +<p>Pontus De Tyard, 1570</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Sirens once were maidens innocent<br />That through the water-meads +with Proserpine<br />Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content<br />Cool +fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine,<br />With lilies woven and with +wet woodbine;<br />Till once they sought the bright AEtnaean flowers,<br />And +their glad mistress fled from summer hours<br />With Hades, far from +olive, corn, and vine.<br />And they have sought her all the wide world +through<br />Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong<br />Have filled +and changed their song, and o’er the blue<br />Rings deadly sweet +the magic of the song,<br />And whoso hears must listen till he die<br />Far +on the flowery shores of Sicily.</p> +<p>So is it with this singing art of ours,<br />That once with maids +went maidenlike, and played<br />With woven dances in the poplar-shade,<br />And +all her song was but of lady’s bowers<br />And the returning swallows, +and spring flowers,<br />Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,<br />A +shadowy land; and now hath overweighed<br />Her singing chaplet with +the snow and showers.<br />Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brine<br />She +left, and by the margin of life’s sea<br />Sings, and her song +is full of the sea’s moan,<br />And wild with dread, and love +of Proserpine;<br />And whoso once has listened to her, he<br />His +whole life long is slave to her alone.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h2>TRANSLATIONS</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<h3>HYMN TO THE WINDS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS<br />OF CORN.</p> +<p>Du Bellay, 1550.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>To you, troop so fleet,<br />That with winged wandering feet,<br />Through +the wide world pass,<br />And with soft murmuring<br />Toss the green +shades of spring<br />In woods and grass,<br />Lily and violet<br />I +give, and blossoms wet,<br />Roses and dew;<br />This branch of blushing +roses,<br />Whose fresh bud uncloses,<br />Wind-flowers too.</p> +<p>Ah, winnow with sweet breath,<br />Winnow the holt and heath,<br />Round +this retreat;<br />Where all the golden mom<br />We fan the gold o’ +the corn,<br />In the sun’s heat.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>MOONLIGHT.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Jacques Tahureau.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The high Midnight was garlanding her head<br />With many a shining +star in shining skies,<br />And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes,<br />And, +after sorrow, quietness was shed.<br />Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèd<br />A +thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries;<br />And all the woods +were pallid, in strange wise,<br />With pallor of the sad moon overspread.</p> +<p>Then came my lady to that lonely place,<br />And, from her palfrey +stooping, did embrace<br />And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over;<br />Wherefore +the day is far less dear than night,<br />And sweeter is the shadow +than the light,<br />Since night has made me such a happy lover.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Victor Hugo.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>The Grave said to the Rose,<br />‘What of the dews of morn,<br />Love’s +flower, what end is theirs?’<br />‘And what of souls outworn,<br />Of +them whereon doth close<br />The tomb’s mouth unawares?’<br />The +Rose said to the Grave.</p> +<p>The Rose said, ‘In the shade<br />From the dawn’s tears +is made<br />A perfume faint and strange,<br />Amber and honey sweet.’<br />‘And +all the spirits fleet<br />Do suffer a sky-change,<br />More strangely +than the dew,<br />To God’s own angels new,’<br />The Grave +said to the Rose.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Du Bellay.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,<br />New wedded in +the village by thy fane,<br />Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is<br />We +bring these amaranths, these white lilies,<br />A sign, and sacrifice; +may Love, we pray,<br />Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;<br />Like +these cool lilies may our loves remain,<br />Perfect and pure, and know +not any stain;<br />And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,<br />Bound +each to each, like flower to wedded flower.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Ronsard.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>When you are very old, at evening<br />You’ll sit and spin +beside the fire, and say,<br />Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah +well-a-day!<br />When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’<br />None +of your maidens that doth hear the thing,<br />Albeit with her weary +task foredone,<br />But wakens at my name, and calls you one<br />Blest, +to be held in long remembering.</p> +<p>I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid<br />On sleep, a phantom +in the myrtle shade,<br />While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,<br />My +love, your pride, remember and regret;<br />Ah, love me, love! we may +be happy yet,<br />And gather roses, while ’t is called to-day.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Jacques Tahureau.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Within the sand of what far river lies<br />The gold that gleams +in tresses of my Love?<br />What highest circle of the Heavens above<br />Is +jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?<br />And where is the rich +sea whose coral vies<br />With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?<br />What +dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof<br />The fled soul lives in her +cheeks’ rosy guise?</p> +<p>What Parian marble that is loveliest<br />Can match the whiteness +of her brow and breast?<br />When drew she breath from the Sabaean glade?<br />Oh +happy rock and river, sky and sea,<br />Gardens, and glades Sabaean, +all that be<br />The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>APRIL.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Rémy Belleau, 1560.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>April, pride of woodland ways,<br />Of glad days,<br />April, bringing +hope of prime,<br />To the young flowers that beneath<br />Their bud +sheath<br />Are guarded in their tender time;</p> +<p>April, pride of fields that be<br />Green and free,<br />That in +fashion glad and gay,<br />Stud with flowers red and blue,<br />Every +hue,<br />Their jewelled spring array;</p> +<p>April, pride of murmuring<br />Winds of spring,<br />That beneath +the winnowed air,<br />Trap with subtle nets and sweet<br />Flora’s +feet,<br />Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;</p> +<p>April, by thy hand caressed,<br />From her breast,<br />Nature scatters +everywhere<br />Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,<br />Buds and blooms,<br />Making +faint the earth and air.</p> +<p>April, joy of the green hours,<br />Clothes with flowers<br />Over +all her locks of gold<br />My sweet Lady; and her breast<br />With the +blest<br />Buds of summer manifold.</p> +<p>April, with thy gracious wiles,<br />Like the smiles,<br />Smiles +of Venus; and thy breath<br />Like her breath, the gods’ delight,<br />(From +their height<br />They take the happy air beneath;)</p> +<p>It is thou that, of thy grace,<br />From their place<br />In the +far-off isles dost bring<br />Swallows over earth and sea,<br />Glad +to be<br />Messengers of thee, and Spring.</p> +<p>Daffodil and eglantine,<br />And woodbine,<br />Lily, violet, and +rose<br />Plentiful in April fair,<br />To the air,<br />Their pretty +petals to unclose.</p> +<p>Nightingales ye now may hear,<br />Piercing clear,<br />Singing in +the deepest shade;<br />Many and many a babbled note<br />Chime and +float,<br />Woodland music through the glade.</p> +<p>April, all to welcome thee,<br />Spring sets free<br />Ancient flames, +and with low breath<br />Wakes the ashes grey and old<br />That the +cold<br />Chilled within our hearts to death.</p> +<p>Thou beholdest in the warm<br />Hours, the swarm<br />Of the thievish +bees, that flies<br />Evermore from bloom to bloom<br />For perfume,<br />Hid +away in tiny thighs.</p> +<p>Her cool shadows May can boast,<br />Fruits almost<br />Ripe, and +gifts of fertile dew,<br />Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,<br />That complete<br />Her +flower garland fresh and new.</p> +<p>Nay, but I will give my praise<br />To these days,<br />Named with +the glad name of Her <a name="citation4"></a><a href="#footnote4">{4}</a><br />That +from out the foam o’ the sea<br />Came to be<br />Sudden light +on earth and air.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>AN OLD TUNE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Gérard De Nerval.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>There is an air for which I would disown<br />Mozart’s, Rossini’s, +Weber’s melodies,—<br />A sweet sad air that languishes +and sighs,<br />And keeps its secret charm for me alone.</p> +<p>Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,<br />Two hundred +years are mist that rolls away;<br />The thirteenth Louis reigns, and +I behold<br />A green land golden in the dying day.</p> +<p>An old red castle, strong with stony towers,<br />The windows gay +with many-coloured glass;<br />Wide plains, and rivers flowing among +flowers,<br />That bathe the castle basement as they pass.</p> +<p>In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,<br />A lady looks +forth from her window high;<br />It may be that I knew and found her +fair,<br />In some forgotten life, long time gone by.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>OLD LOVES.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Henri Murger.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Louise, have you forgotten yet<br />The corner of the flowery land,<br />The +ancient garden where we met,<br />My hand that trembled in your hand?<br />Our +lips found words scarce sweet enough,<br />As low beneath the willow-trees<br />We +sat; have you forgotten, love?<br />Do you remember, love Louise?</p> +<p>Marie, have you forgotten yet<br />The loving barter that we made?<br />The +rings we changed, the suns that set,<br />The woods fulfilled with sun +and shade?<br />The fountains that were musical<br />By many an ancient +trysting tree—<br />Marie, have you forgotten all?<br />Do you +remember, love Marie?</p> +<p>Christine, do you remember yet<br />Your room with scents and roses +gay?<br />My garret—near the sky ’twas set—<br />The +April hours, the nights of May?<br />The clear calm nights—the +stars above<br />That whispered they were fairest seen<br />Through +no cloud-veil? Remember, love!<br />Do you remember, love Christine?</p> +<p>Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!<br />Marie a sadder path has ta’en;<br />And +pale Christine has passed away<br />In southern suns to bloom again.<br />Alas! +for one and all of us—<br />Marie, Louise, Christine forget;<br />Our +bower of love is ruinous,<br />And I alone remember yet.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>I be pareld most of prise,<br />I ride after the wild fee.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Will ye that I should sing<br />Of the love of a goodly thing,<br />Was +no vilein’s may?<br />’Tis all of a knight so free,<br />Under +the olive tree,<br />Singing this lay.</p> +<p>Her weed was of samite fine,<br />Her mantle of white ermine,<br />Green +silk her hose;<br />Her shoon with silver gay,<br />Her sandals flowers +of May,<br />Laced small and close.</p> +<p>Her belt was of fresh spring buds,<br />Set with gold clasps and +studs,<br />Fine linen her shift;<br />Her purse it was of love,<br />Her +chain was the flower thereof,<br />And Love’s gift.</p> +<p>Upon a mule she rode,<br />The selle was of brent gold,<br />The +bits of silver made;<br />Three red rose trees there were<br />That +overshadowed her,<br />For a sun shade.</p> +<p>She riding on a day,<br />Knights met her by the way,<br />They did +her grace:<br />‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’<br />‘France +it is my countrie,<br />I come of a high race.</p> +<p>‘My sire is the nightingale,<br />That sings, making his wail,<br />In +the wild wood, clear;<br />The mermaid is mother to me,<br />That sings +in the salt sea,<br />In the ocean mere.’</p> +<p>‘Ye come of a right good race,<br />And are born of a high +place,<br />And of high degree;<br />Would to God that ye were<br />Given +unto me, being fair,<br />My lady and love to be.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>IANNOULA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Romaic folk-song.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>All the maidens were merry and wed<br />All to lovers so fair to +see;<br />The lover I took to my bridal bed<br />He is not long for +love and me.</p> +<p>I spoke to him and he nothing said,<br />I gave him bread of the +wheat so fine;<br />He did not eat of the bridal bread,<br />He did +not drink of the bridal wine.</p> +<p>I made him a bed was soft and deep,<br />I made him a bed to sleep +with me;<br />‘Look on me once before you sleep,<br />And look +on the flower of my fair body.</p> +<p>‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,<br />Dew of April and +buds of May;<br />Two white blossoms that bud for you,<br />Buds that +blossom before the day.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE MILK-WHITE DOE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>French Volks-Lied.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>It was a mother and a maid<br />That walked the woods among,<br />And +still the maid went slow and sad,<br />And still the mother sung.</p> +<p>‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?<br />Why go you pale and +wan?<br />Is it for a cast of bitter love,<br />Or for a false leman?’</p> +<p>‘It is not for a false lover<br />That I go sad to see;<br />But +it is for a weary life<br />Beneath the greenwood tree.</p> +<p>‘For ever in the good daylight<br />A maiden may I go,<br />But +always on the ninth midnight<br />I change to a milk-white doe.</p> +<p>‘They hunt me through the green forest<br />With hounds and +hunting men;<br />And ever it is my fair brother<br />That is so fierce +and keen.’</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;<br />Where +are your hounds so good?’<br />‘Oh, they are hunting a white +doe<br />Within the glad greenwood.</p> +<p>‘And three times have they hunted her,<br />And thrice she’s +won away;<br />The fourth time that they follow her<br />That white +doe they shall slay.’</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Then out and spoke the forester,<br />As he came from the wood,<br />‘Now +never saw I maid’s gold hair<br />Among the wild deer’s +blood.</p> +<p>‘And I have hunted the wild deer<br />In east lands and in +west;<br />And never saw I white doe yet<br />That had a maiden’s +breast.’</p> +<p>Then up and spake her fair brother,<br />Between the wine and bread:<br />‘Behold +I had but one sister,<br />And I have been her dead.</p> +<p>‘But ye must bury my sweet sister<br />With a stone at her +foot and her head,<br />And ye must cover her fair body<br />With the +white roses and red.</p> +<p>‘And I must out to the greenwood,<br />The roof shall never +shelter me;<br />And I shall lie for seven long years<br />On the grass +below the hawthorn tree.’</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>HELIODORE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Meleager.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Pour wine, and cry again, again, again!<br /><i>To Heliodore!<br /></i>And +mingle the sweet word ye call in vain<br />With that ye pour!<br />And +bring to me her wreath of yesterday<br />That’s dank with myrrh;<br /><i>Hesternae +Rosae</i>, ah my friends, but they<br />Remember her!<br />Lo the kind +roses, loved of lovers, weep<br />As who repine,<br />For if on any +breast they see her sleep<br />It is not mine!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE PROPHET.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Antiphilus.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I knew it in your childish grace<br />The dawning of Desire,<br />‘Who +lives,’ I said, ‘will see that face<br />Set all the world +on fire!’<br />They mocked; but Time has brought to pass<br />The +saying over-true;<br />Prophet and martyr now, alas,<br />I burn for +Truth,—and you!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>LAIS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Pompeius.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Lais that bloomed for all the world’s delight,<br />Crowned +with all love lilies, the fair and dear,<br />Sleeps the predestined +sleep, nor knows the flight<br />Of Helios, the gold-reined charioteer:<br />Revel, +and kiss, and love, and hate, one Night<br />Darkens, that never lamp +of Love may cheer!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>CLEARISTA.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Meleager.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>For Death, not for Love, hast thou<br />Loosened thy zone!<br />Flutes +filled thy bower but now,<br />Morning brings moan!<br />Maids round +thy bridal bed<br />Hushed are in gloom,<br />Torches to Love that led<br />Light +to the tomb!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE FISHERMAN’S TOMB.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Leonidas of Tarentum.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Theris the Old, the waves that harvested<br />More keen than birds +that labour in the sea,<br />With spear and net, by shore and rocky +bed,<br />Not with the well-manned galley laboured he;<br />Him not +the star of storms, nor sudden sweep<br />Of wind with all his years +hath smitten and bent,<br />But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep,<br />As +fades a lamp when all the oil is spent:<br />This tomb nor wife nor +children raised, but we<br />His fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>OF HIS DEATH.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Meleager.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Ah Love, my Master, hear me swear<br />By all the locks of Timo’s +hair,<br />By Demo, and that fragrant spell<br />Wherewith her body +doth enchant<br />Such dreams as drowsy lovers haunt,<br />By Ilias’ +mirth delectable.<br />And by the lamp that sheds his light<br />On +love and lovers all the night,<br />By those, ah Love, I swear that +thou<br />Hast left me but one breath, and now<br />Upon my lips it +fluttereth,<br />Yet <i>this</i> I’ll yield, my latest breath,<br />Even +this, oh Love, for thee to Death!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>RHODOPE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Rufinus.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Thou hast Hera’s eyes, thou hast Pallas’ hands,<br />And +the feet of the Queen of the yellow sands,<br />Thou hast beautiful +Aphrodite’s breast,<br />Thou art made of each goddess’s +loveliest!<br />Happy is he who sees thy face,<br />Happy who hears +thy words of grace,<br />And he that shall kiss thee is half divine,<br />But +a god who shall win that heart of thine!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TO A GIRL.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Asclepiades.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>Believe me, love, it is not good<br />To hoard a mortal maidenhood;<br />In +Hades thou wilt never find,<br />Maiden, a lover to thy mind;<br />Love’s +for the living! presently<br />Ashes and dust in death are we!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TO THE SHIPS.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Meleager.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>O gentle ships that skim the seas,<br />And cleave the strait where +Hellé fell,<br />Catch in your sails the Northern breeze,<br />And +speed to Cos, where she doth dwell,<br />My Love, and see you greet +her well!<br />And if she looks across the blue,<br />Speak, gentle +ships, and tell her true,<br />‘He comes, for Love hath brought +him back,<br />No sailor, on the landward tack.’</p> +<p>If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do,<br />Then may ye win the fairest +gales,<br />And swifter speed across the blue,<br />While Zeus breathes +friendly on your sails.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>A LATE CONVERT.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(Paulus Silentiarius.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>I that in youth had never been<br />The servant of the Paphian Queen,<br />I +that in youth had never felt<br />The shafts of Eros pierce and melt,<br />Cypris! +in later age, half grey,<br />I bow the neck to <i>thee</i> to-day.<br />Pallas, +that was my lady, thou<br />Dost more triumphant vanquish now,<br />Than +when thou gained’st, over seas,<br />The apple of the Hesperides.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>THE LIMIT OF LIFE.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Thirty-six is the term that the prophets assign,<br />And the students +of stars to the years that are mine;<br />Nay, let thirty suffice, for +the man who hath passed<br />Thirty years is a Nestor, and <i>he</i> +died at last!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h3>TO DANIEL ELZEVIR.</h3> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>(From the Latin of Ménage.)</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines1"><br /></div> +<p>What do I see! Oh gods divine<br />And goddesses,—this +Book of mine,—<br />This child of many hopes and fears,—<br />Is +published by the Elzevirs!<br />Oh perfect Publishers complete!<br />Oh +dainty volume, new and neat!<br />The Paper doth outshine the snow,<br />The +Print is blacker than the crow,<br />The Title-Page, with crimson bright,<br />The +vellum cover smooth and white,<br />All sorts of readers do invite,<br />Ay, +and will keep them reading still,<br />Against their will, or with their +will!<br />Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lack<br />The Publisher +has given them back,<br />As Milliners adorn the fair<br />Whose charms +are something skimp and spare.<br />Oh <i>dulce decus</i>, Elzevirs!<br />The +pride of dead and dawning years,<br />How can a poet best repay<br />The +debt he owes your House to-day?<br />May this round world, while aught +endures,<br />Applaud, and buy, these books of yours!<br />May purchasers +incessant pop,<br />My Elzevirs, within your shop,<br />And learned +bards salute, with cheers,<br />The volumes of the Elzevirs,<br />Till +your renown fills earth and sky,<br />Till men forget the Stephani,<br />And +all that Aldus wrought, and all<br />Turnebus sold in shop or stall,<br />While +still may Fate’s (and Binders’) shears<br />Respect, and +spare, the Elzevirs!</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<h2>THE LAST CHANCE.</h2> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines2"><br /><br /></div> +<p>Within the streams, Pausanias saith,<br />That down Cocytus valley +flow,<br />Girdling the grey domain of Death,<br />The spectral fishes +come and go;<br />The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.<br />Persephone, +fulfil my wish,<br />And grant that in the shades below<br />My ghost +may land the ghosts of fish.</p> +<p>Φη λογοποιος +ανηρ, δνοφερων +εντοσθε ρεεθρων<br />οσσα +περιξ Αιδην εις +’Αχεροντα ρεει<br />ιχθυες +ως αν’ αφεγγες +υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσιν<br />ειδωλ’ +ειδωλοις νηχομενα +πτερυγων.<br />Φερσεφονη, +συ θανοντι δ’ +εμοι κρηηνον +εελδωρ,<br />καν +Αιδη σκιερους +ιχθυας εξερυσαι.</p> +<p>L. C.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>Footnotes:</p> +<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> January +26, 1885.</p> +<p><a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2">{2}</a> M. Antoninus +iv 23.</p> +<p><a name="footnote3"></a><a href="#citation3">{3}</a> From the +Romaic.</p> +<p><a name="footnote4"></a><a href="#citation4">{4}</a> Aphrodite—Avril.</p> +<div class="GutenbergBlankLines3"><br /><br /><br /></div> +<p>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, GRASS OF PARNASSUS ***</p> +<pre> + +******This file should be named grprn10h.htm or grprn10h.zip****** +Corrected EDITIONS of our EBooks get a new NUMBER, grprn11h.htm +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, grprn10ah.htm + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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