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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/1060-0.txt b/1060-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..abdc1fd --- /dev/null +++ b/1060-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,3077 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Grass of Parnassus, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Grass of Parnassus + Rhymes Old and New + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 16, 2014 [eBook #1060] +[This file was first posted on 8 October 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRASS OF PARNASSUS*** + + +Transcribed from the 1888 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + + + + + GRASS OF PARNASSUS + + + RHYMES OLD AND NEW + + BY ANDREW LANG + + * * * * * + + LONDON + LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. + AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET + + _All rights reserved_ + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + * * * * * + + + + +TO +E. M. S. + + + * * * * * + + _Primâ dicta mihi_, _summâ dicenda Camenâ_. + + * * * * * + + 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. + + + + +CONTENTS + + _DEEDS OF MEN_ + PAGE +SEEKERS FOR A CITY 3 +THE WHITE PACHA 6 +MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886 8 +ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA 9 +COLONEL BURNABY 11 +MELVILLE AND COGHILL 12 + _RHODOCLEIA_ +TO RHODOCLEIA 15 + _AVE_ +CLEVEDON CHURCH 21 +TWILIGHT ON TWEED * 23 +METEMPSYCHOSIS * 25 +LOST IN HADES * 26 +A STAR IN THE NIGHT * 27 +A SUNSET ON YARROW * 28 +ANOTHER WAY 29 + _HESPEROTHEN_ * +THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA 33 +A SONG OF PHÆACIA 35 +THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA 37 +A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE 39 +THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME 40 +CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED 42 +THE LIMIT OF LANDS 44 + _VERSES_ +MARTIAL IN TOWN 49 +APRIL ON TWEED 51 +TIRED OF TOWNS 53 +SCYTHE SONG 55 +PEN AND INK 56 +A DREAM 58 +THE SINGING ROSE 59 +A REVIEW IN RHYME 62 +COLINETTE * 63 +A SUNSET OF WATTEAU * 65 +NIGHTINGALE WEATHER * 67 +LOVE AND WISDOM * 69 +GOOD-BYE * 71 +AN OLD PRAYER * 73 +À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE * 74 +SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE * 76 +A LOST PATH * 78 +THE SHADE OF HELEN * 79 + _SONNETS_ +SHE 83 +HERODOTUS IN EGYPT 84 +GÉRARD DE NERVAL * 85 +RONSARD * 86 +LOVE’S MIRACLE * 87 +DREAMS * 88 +TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS * 89 + _TRANSLATIONS_ +HYMN TO THE WINDS * 93 +MOONLIGHT * 94 +THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE * 95 +A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS * 96 +OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE * 97 +SHADOWS OF HIS LADY * 98 +APRIL * 99 +AN OLD TUNE * 103 +OLD LOVES * 104 +A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE * 106 +IANNOULA * 108 +THE MILK WHITE DOE * 109 +HELIODORE 112 +THE PROPHET 113 +LAIS 114 +CLEARISTA 115 +THE FISHERMAN’S TOMB 116 +OF HIS DEATH 117 +RHODOPE 118 +TO A GIRL 119 +TO THE SHIPS 120 +A LATE CONVERT 121 +THE LIMIT OF LIFE 122 +TO DANIEL ELZEVIR 123 + _THE LAST CHANCE_ +THE LAST CHANCE 127 + +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 + + + αειδε δ’ αρα κλέα ανδρων + + 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. {4a} + + 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, {4b} + 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. + + + συ δ’ εν στροφάλιγγι κονίης + κεισο μέγας μεγαλωστι, λελασμένος ιπποσυνάων + + 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 rememberèd, + 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 rememberèd + 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 Lethæan 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 veilèd 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 + 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 _Vanity of + Melancholy_. 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 Macræones. + + + +THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA. + + + 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 Phæacians 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 PHÆACIA. + + + 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 PHÆACIA. + + + THE PHÆACIANS. + + 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. {39} + + + 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 égare_.’ + + _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. + Derrière chez mon père + 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. + + + Χαιρέ μοι, ω βασίλεια, διαμπερες, εις ο κε γηρας + Ελθη και θάνατος, τά τ’ επ’ ανθρώποισι πέλονται. + + _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.’ + + + +À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE. + + + 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 AURÉLIE. + + + IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD 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 Kôr 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 Kôr, 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. + + + +GÉRARD 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 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.’ + + 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 Ætnæan 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 jargonèd + 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 Sabæan glade? + Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea, + Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be + The far-off splendid semblance of my maid! + + + +APRIL. + + + RÉMY 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 {102} + That from out the foam o’ the sea + Came to be + Sudden light on earth and air. + + + +AN OLD TUNE. + + + GÉRARD 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; + _Hesternæ Rosæ_, 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 Hellé 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 MÉNAGE.) + + 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. + + +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. + + Φη λογοποιος ανήρ, δνοφερων εντοσθε ρεέθρων + οσσα πέριξ Αιδην εις ’Αχέροντα ρέει + ιχθύες ως αν’ αφεγγες υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσιν + ειδωλ’ ειδώλοις νηχόμενα πτερύγων. + Φερσεφόνη, συ θανόντι δ’ εμοι κρήηνον εέλδωρ, + καν Αιδη σκιερους ιχθύας εξερύσαι. + + L. C. + + * * * * * + + PRINTED BY + SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE + LONDON + + * * * * * + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{4a} January 26, 1885. + +{4b} M. Antoninus iv 23. + +{39} From the Romaic. + +{102} Aphrodite—Avril. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRASS OF PARNASSUS*** + + +******* This file should be named 1060-0.txt or 1060-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/6/1060 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Grass of Parnassus + Rhymes Old and New + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 16, 2014 [eBook #1060] +[This file was first posted on 8 October 1997] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRASS OF PARNASSUS*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1888 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<h1>GRASS OF PARNASSUS</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">RHYMES OLD AND NEW</p> +<p style="text-align: right">BY ANDREW LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16</span><span +class="GutSmall"><sup>th</sup></span><span class="GutSmall"> +STREET</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED +BY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET +SQUARE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LONDON</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. v</span><span +class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +E. M. S.</h2> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center"><i>Primâ dicta +mihi</i>, <i>summâ dicenda Camenâ</i>.</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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="gapspace"> </div> +<p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. vii</span><span +class="smcap">Many</span> of the verses and translations in this +volume were published first in <i>Ballads and Lyrics of Old +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> +<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><i>DEEDS OF +MEN</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Seekers for a city</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The white Pacha</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page6">6</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Midnight</span>, <span +class="smcap">January</span> 25, 1886</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page8">8</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Advance</span>, <span +class="smcap">Australia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page9">9</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Colonel Burnaby</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Melville and Coghill</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page12">12</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: +center"><i>RHODOCLEIA</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Rhodocleia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><i>AVE</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Clevedon Church</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Twilight on Tweed</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Metempsychosis</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page25">25</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lost in Hades</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Star in the Night</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Sunset on Yarrow</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page28">28</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Another Way</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +x</span><i>HESPEROTHEN</i> *</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Seekers for +Phæacia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A song of Phæacia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page35">35</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Departure from +Phæacia</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Ballad of Departure</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">They Hear the Sirens for the Second +Time</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Circe’s Isle +Revisited</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Limit of Lands</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><i>VERSES</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Martial in Town</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">April on Tweed</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Tired of Towns</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Scythe Song</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Pen and Ink</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Dream</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Singing Rose</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Review in Rhyme</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Colinette</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Sunset of Watteau</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Nightingale Weather</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Love and Wisdom</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Good-Bye</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Old Prayer</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">À la Belle +Hélène</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Sylvie et Aurélie</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Lost Path</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Shade of Helen</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><a +name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span><i>SONNETS</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">She</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Herodotus in Egypt</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Gérard de Nerval</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ronsard</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page86">86</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Love’s Miracle</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Dreams</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page88">88</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Two Sonnets of the Sirens</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: +center"><i>TRANSLATIONS</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Hymn to the Winds</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Moonlight</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Grave and the Rose</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Vow to Heavenly Venus</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page96">96</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Of His Lady’s Old Age</span> +*</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Shadows of His Lady</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">April</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page99">99</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">An Old Tune</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Old Loves</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A lady of High Degree</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page106">106</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Iannoula</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page108">108</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Milk White Doe</span> *</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Heliodore</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Prophet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Lais</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Clearista</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Fisherman’s Tomb</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page116">116</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Of his Death</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rhodope</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To a Girl</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To the Ships</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page120">120</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">A Late Convert</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Limit of Life</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">To Daniel Elzevir</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><i>THE LAST +CHANCE</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Last Chance</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="pagexiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiii</span>GRASS OF PARNASSUS.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>Pale</i></span><i> star +that by the lochs of Galloway</i>,<br /> + <i>In wet green places ’twixt the depth and +height</i><br /> +<i>Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away</i>,<br /> + <i>When now the moors have doffed the heather +bright</i>,<br /> + <i>Grass of Parnassus</i>, <i>flower of my +delight</i>,<br /> +<i>How gladly with the unpermitted bay</i>—<br /> +<i>Garlands not mine</i>, <i>and leaves that not +decay</i>—<br /> + <i>How gladly would I twine thee if I might</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The bays are out of reach</i>! <i>But +far below</i><br /> + <i>The peaks forbidden of the Muses’ +Hill</i>,<br /> +<i>Grass of Parnassus</i>, <i>thy returning snow</i><br /> + <i>Between September and October chill</i><br /> +<i>Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago</i>,<br /> + <i>And these kind faces that are with me +still</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>DEEDS OF +MEN</h2> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: +center">αειδε δ’ +αρα κλέα +ανδρων</p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br +/> +<i>COLONEL IAN HAMILTON</i></p> +<p class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>SEEKERS +FOR A CITY.</h2> +<blockquote><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 style="text-align: right"><span +class="smcap">Hermotimus</span> (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 style="text-align: right">M. <span +class="smcap">Antoninus</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>To</i></span><i> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">One man we knew, and only one,<br /> +Whose seeking for a city’s done,<br /> +<a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>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="citation4a"></a><a +href="#footnote4a" class="citation">[4a]</a></p> +<p class="poetry">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 /> +<i>Sheep have I of another fold</i>?<br /> +Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will,<br /> +For us there is a city still!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Dear city of Zeus</i>, the Stoic says, <a +name="citation4b"></a><a href="#footnote4b" +class="citation">[4b]</a><br /> +The Voice from Rome’s imperial days,<br /> +<i>In Thee meet all things</i>, <i>and disperse</i>,<br /> +<i>In Thee</i>, <i>for Thee</i>, <i>O Universe</i>!<br /> +<i>To me all’s fruit thy seasons bring</i>,<br /> +<i>Alike thy summer and thy spring</i>;<br /> +<i>The winds that wail</i>, <i>the suns that burn</i>,<br /> +<i>From Thee proceed</i>, <i>to Thee return</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span><i>Dear city of Zeus</i>, 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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>THE +WHITE PACHA.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Vain</span> 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 /> +<span class="smcap">Gordon</span> 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 /> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>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> +<h2><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To-morrow</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>ADVANCE, +AUSTRALIA.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ON THE OFFER +OF HELP FROM THE AUSTRALIANS AFTER THE FALL OF +KHARTOUM</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +10</span>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> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +11</span>COLONEL BURNABY.</h2> + +<blockquote><p> συ +δ’ εν +στροφάλιγγι +κονίης<br /> +κεισο +μέγας +μεγαλωστι, +λελασμένος +ιπποσυνάων</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>MELVILLE AND COGHILL.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">THE PLACE +OF THE LITTLE HAND</span>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Dead</span>, 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>RHODOCLEIA</h2> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>TO +RHODOCLEIA<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING.</span></h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, +one of the late poets of the Greek Anthology.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Still</span>, 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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</i>,<br /> + <i>And feet more silvery than Thetis’ +feet</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>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 class="poetry">So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou<br +/> + Didst never taste of the Lethæan 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 class="poetry"><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>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> +<h2><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>AVE.</h2> +<p +class="poetry"> ‘<i>Our +Faith and Troth</i><br /> + <i>All time and space controules</i><br /> +<i>Above the highest sphere we meet</i><br /> +<i>Unseen</i>, <i>unknowne</i>, <i>and greet as Angels +greet</i>.’</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right">Col. <span +class="smcap">Richard Lovelace</span>. 1649</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>CLEVEDON CHURCH.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="smcap">In +Memoriam</span><br /> +H. B.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Westward</span> 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 style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>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> +<h3><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>TWILIGHT ON TWEED.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Three</span> crests against +the saffron sky,<br /> + Beyond the purple plain,<br /> +The kind remembered melody<br /> + Of Tweed once more again.</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>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 style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">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 style="text-align: right" class="poetry">1870.</p> +<h3><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>METEMPSYCHOSIS.</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">shall</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>LOST +IN HADES.</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">dreamed</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>A STAR +IN THE NIGHT.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 28</span>A +SUNSET ON YARROW.</h3> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>ANOTHER WAY.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>Come</i></span><i> to me +in my dreams</i>, <i>and then</i>,<br /> +<i>One saith</i>, <i>I shall be well again</i>,<br /> +<i>For then the night will more than pay</i><br /> +<i>The hopeless longing of the day</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>HESPEROTHEN</h2> +<p class="poetry">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 +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 Macræones.</p> +<h3><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>THE +SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">The gods are careless of the days and death<br +/> + Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas;<br /> +<a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 34</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>A SONG +OF PHÆACIA.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>THE +DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">THE +PHÆACIANS.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> from the dreamy +meadows,<br /> + More fair than any dream,<br /> +Why seek ye for the shadows<br /> + Beyond the ocean stream?</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>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> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">THE +SEEKERS.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>A +BALLAD OF DEPARTURE. <a name="citation39"></a><a +href="#footnote39" class="citation">[39]</a></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>THEY +HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">Beside a golden sanded bay<br /> + We saw the Sirens, very fair<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED.</h3> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>THE +LIMIT OF LANDS.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Between</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>VERSES</h2> +<h3><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>MARTIAL IN TOWN.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Last</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">“<i>Brother</i>, <i>had we but time to +live</i>,<br /> + <i>And fleet the careless hours together</i>,<br /> +<i>With all that leisure has to give</i><br /> + <i>Of perfect life and peaceful weather</i>,</p> +<p class="poetry">“<i>The Rich Man’s halls</i>, +<i>the anxious faces</i>,<br /> +<i>The weary Forum</i>, <i>courts</i>, <i>and cases</i><br /> + <i>Should know us not</i>; <i>but quiet +nooks</i>,<br /> +<i>But summer shade by field and well</i>,<br /> + <i>But county rides</i>, <i>and talk of +books</i>,<br /> +<i>At home</i>, <i>with these</i>, <i>we fain would +dwell</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>“<i>Now neither lives</i>, <i>but day by +day</i><br /> + <i>Sees the suns wasting in the west</i>,<br /> +<i>And feels their flight</i>, <i>and doth delay</i><br /> + <i>To lead the life he loveth best</i>.”</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>APRIL +ON TWEED.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>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> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>TIRED +OF TOWNS.</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘When we spoke to her of the New +Jerusalem, she said she would rather go to a country place in +Heaven.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><i>Letters from the +Black Country</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">I’m</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>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> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 55</span>SCYTHE +SONG.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mowers</span>, 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 class="poetry"><i>Hush</i>, <i>ah hush</i>, the Scythes are +saying,<br /> + <i>Hush</i>, <i>and heed not</i>, <i>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</i>, <i>and heed not</i>, <i>for all things +pass</i>,<br /> +<i>Hush</i>, <i>ah hush</i>! and the Scythes are swinging<br /> + Over the clover, over the grass!</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 56</span>PEN +AND INK.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>A +DREAM.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 59</span>THE +SINGING ROSE.</h3> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">‘<i>La Rose qui +chante et l’herbe qui égare</i>.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>White</i></span><i> Rose +on the grey garden wall</i>,<br /> + <i>Where now no night-wind whispereth</i>,<br /> +<i>Call to the far-off flowers</i>, <i>and call</i><br /> + <i>With murmured breath and musical</i><br /> +<i>Till all the Roses hear</i>, <i>and all</i><br /> + <i>Sing to my Love what the White Rose +saith</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">Once more I hear the sister towers<br /> + Each unto each reply,<br /> +The bloom is on those limes of ours,<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>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> +<h3><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 62</span>A +REVIEW IN RHYME.</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">little</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">A <i>lai</i>, a <i>pantoum</i>, a +<i>ballade</i>, a <i>rondeau</i>,<br /> +A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau,<br /> +And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go,</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>COLINETTE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FOR A SKETCH +BY MR. G. LESLIE, R.A.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">France</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 65</span>A +SUNSET OF WATTEAU.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LUI.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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 style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">ELLE.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 style="text-align: center"><a name="page66"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 66</span><span +class="GutSmall">LUI.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">ELLE.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.</h3> +<blockquote><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> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">I’ll</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>LOVE +AND WISDOM.</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘When last we gathered roses in the +garden<br /> +I found my wits, but truly you lost yours.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>The Broken Heart</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">July</span> 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 /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>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> +<h3><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>GOOD-BYE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Kiss</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 73</span>AN OLD +PRAYER.</h3> +<blockquote><p>Χαιρέ μοι, +ω βασίλεια, +διαμπερες, +εις ο κε +γηρας<br /> +Ελθη και +θάνατος, τά +τ’ επ’ +ανθρώποισι +πέλονται.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Odyssey</i>, XIII.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">AFTER +RONSARD.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">More</span> 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 /> +<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>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> +<h3><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 76</span>SYLVIE +ET AURÉLIE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">IN MEMORY OF +GÉRARD DE NERVAL.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Two</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 /> +<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 78</span>A LOST +PATH.</h3> +<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> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Alas</span>, 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> +<h3><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>THE +SHADE OF HELEN.</h3> +<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> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h2><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>SONNETS</h2> +<h3><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>SHE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">To H. R. +H.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Not</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +84</span>HERODOTUS IN EGYPT.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>GÉRARD DE NERVAL.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>RONSARD.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Master</span>, 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>LOVE’S MIRACLE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>DREAMS.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>TWO +SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.</h3> +<blockquote><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 style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Pontus de +Tyard</span>, 1570</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 Ætnæan 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 class="poetry"><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +90</span>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> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>TRANSLATIONS</h2> +<h3><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span>HYMN +TO THE WINDS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">THE WINDS +ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS OF CORN.</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">DU +BELLAY</span>, 1550.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>MOONLIGHT.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="GutSmall">JACQUES TAHUREAU.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>THE +GRAVE AND THE ROSE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">VICTOR HUGO.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>A VOW +TO HEAVENLY VENUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">DU +BELLAY.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>OF HIS +LADY’S OLD AGE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">RONSARD.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">JACQUES +TAHUREAU.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Within</span> 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 class="poetry">What Parian marble that is loveliest<br /> +Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast?<br /> + When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade?<br +/> +Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,<br /> +Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be<br /> + The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!</p> +<h3><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>APRIL.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">RÉMY +BELLEAU, 1560.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">April</span>, 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +101</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +102</span>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 class="poetry">Nay, but I will give my praise<br /> + To these days,<br /> + Named with the glad name of Her <a +name="citation102"></a><a href="#footnote102" +class="citation">[102]</a><br /> +That from out the foam o’ the sea<br /> + Came to be<br /> +Sudden light on earth and air.</p> +<h3><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>AN +OLD TUNE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">GÉRARD DE NERVAL.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>OLD +LOVES.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">HENRI +MURGER.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Louise</span>, 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +105</span>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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>A +LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">I be pareld most of prise,<br /> +I ride after the wild fee.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry"><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry">‘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> +<h3><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>IANNOULA.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">ROMAIC +FOLK-SONG.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">All</span> 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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">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 class="poetry">‘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> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>THE +MILK-WHITE DOE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FRENCH +VOLKS-LIED.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">It</span> 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 class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>‘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 style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry">‘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 style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">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 class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry"><a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +111</span>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 class="poetry">‘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 class="poetry">‘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> +<h3><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>HELIODORE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">MELEAGER.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Pour</span> wine, and cry +again, again, again!<br /> + <i>To Heliodore</i>!<br /> +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>Hesternæ Rosæ</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> +<h3><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>THE +PROPHET.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">ANTIPHILUS.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">knew</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>LAIS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">POMPEIUS.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lais</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>CLEARISTA.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">MELEAGER.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>THE +FISHERMAN’S TOMB.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span class="GutSmall">LEONIDAS OF +TARENTUM.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Theris</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>OF +HIS DEATH.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<span +class="GutSmall">MELEAGER.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>RHODOPE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">(<span +class="GutSmall">RUFINUS.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>TO A +GIRL.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">(<span +class="GutSmall">ASCLEPIADES.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Believe</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>TO +THE SHIPS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">(<span +class="GutSmall">MELEAGER.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">gentle</span> 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 class="poetry">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> +<h3><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 121</span>A +LATE CONVERT.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">(<span +class="GutSmall">PAULUS SILENTIARIUS.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">that</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 122</span>THE +LIMIT OF LIFE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thirty-six</span> 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> +<h3><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 123</span>TO +DANIEL ELZEVIR.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">(<span +class="GutSmall">FROM THE LATIN OF MÉNAGE.</span>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">What</span> 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 /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>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> +<h2><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>THE +LAST CHANCE.</h2> +<h3><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>THE +LAST CHANCE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Within</span> 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> +<blockquote><p>Φη +λογοποιος +ανήρ, +δνοφερων +εντοσθε +ρεέθρων<br /> + οσσα +πέριξ Αιδην +εις +’Αχέροντα +ρέει<br /> +ιχθύες ως +αν’ +αφεγγες +υδωρ σκιαι +αισσουσιν<br +/> + ειδωλ’ +ειδώλοις +νηχόμενα +πτερύγων.<br /> +Φερσεφόνη, +συ θανόντι +δ’ εμοι +κρήηνον +εέλδωρ,<br /> + καν Αιδη +σκιερους +ιχθύας +εξερύσαι.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">L. C.</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED +BY</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET +SQUARE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LONDON</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote4a"></a><a href="#citation4a" +class="footnote">[4a]</a> January 26, 1885.</p> +<p><a name="footnote4b"></a><a href="#citation4b" +class="footnote">[4b]</a> M. Antoninus iv 23.</p> +<p><a name="footnote39"></a><a href="#citation39" +class="footnote">[39]</a> From the Romaic.</p> +<p><a name="footnote102"></a><a href="#citation102" +class="footnote">[102]</a> Aphrodite—Avril.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRASS OF PARNASSUS***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1060-h.htm or 1060-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/0/6/1060 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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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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