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