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+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Rhymes a la Mode, by Andrew Lang
+#13 in our series by Andrew Lang
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+Rhymes a la Mode
+
+by Andrew Lang
+
+February, 1999  [Etext #1645]
+
+
+The Project Gutenberg Etext of Rhymes a la Mode, by Andrew Lang
+*****This file should be named rmalm10.txt or rmalm10.zip******
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+This etext was prepared from the 1885 Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. edition
+by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk
+
+
+
+
+
+Rhymes a la Mode
+
+
+
+
+BALLADE DEDICATORY--TO MRS. ELTON OF WHITE STAUNTON
+
+
+
+The painted Briton built his mound,
+And left his celts and clay,
+On yon fair slope of sunlit ground
+That fronts your garden gay;
+The Roman came, he bore the sway,
+He bullied, bought, and sold,
+Your fountain sweeps his works away
+Beside your manor old!
+
+But still his crumbling urns are found
+Within the window-bay,
+Where once he listened to the sound
+That lulls you day by day; -
+The sound of summer winds at play,
+The noise of waters cold
+To Yarty wandering on their way,
+Beside your manor old!
+
+The Roman fell:  his firm-set bound
+Became the Saxon's stay;
+The bells made music all around
+For monks in cloisters grey,
+Till fled the monks in disarray
+From their warm chantry's fold,
+Old Abbots slumber as they may,
+Beside your manor old!
+
+ENVOY
+
+Creeds, empires, peoples, all decay,
+Down into darkness, rolled;
+May life that's fleet be sweet, I pray,
+Beside your manor old.
+
+
+
+A DREAM IN JUNE
+
+
+
+In twilight of the longest day
+I lingered over Lucian,
+Till ere the dawn a dreamy way
+My spirit found, untrod of man,
+Between the green sky and the grey.
+
+Amid the soft dusk suddenly
+More light than air I seemed to sail,
+Afloat upon the ocean sky,
+While through the faint blue, clear and pale,
+I saw the mountain clouds go by:
+My barque had thought for helm and sail,
+And one mist wreath for canopy.
+
+Like torches on a marble floor
+Reflected, so the wild stars shone,
+Within the abysmal hyaline,
+Till the day widened more and more,
+And sank to sunset, and was gone,
+And then, as burning beacons shine
+On summits of a mountain isle,
+A light to folk on sea that fare,
+So the sky's beacons for a while
+Burned in these islands of the air.
+
+Then from a starry island set
+Where one swift tide of wind there flows,
+Came scent of lily and violet,
+Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose,
+Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine,
+So delicate is the air and fine:
+And forests of all fragrant trees
+Sloped seaward from the central hill,
+And ever clamorous were these
+
+With singing of glad birds; and still
+Such music came as in the woods
+Most lonely, consecrate to Pan,
+The Wind makes, in his many moods,
+Upon the pipes some shepherd Man,
+Hangs up, in thanks for victory!
+On these shall mortals play no more,
+But the Wind doth touch them, over and o'er,
+And the Wind's breath in the reeds will sigh.
+
+Between the daylight and the dark
+That island lies in silver air,
+And suddenly my magic barque
+Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there;
+And by me stood the sentinel
+Of them who in the island dwell;
+All smiling did he bind my hands,
+With rushes green and rosy bands,
+They have no harsher bonds than these
+The people of the pleasant lands
+Within the wash of the airy seas!
+
+Then was I to their city led:
+Now all of ivory and gold
+The great walls were that garlanded
+The temples in their shining fold,
+(Each fane of beryl built, and each
+Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,)
+And all about the town, and through,
+There flowed a River fed with dew,
+As sweet as roses, and as clear
+As mountain crystals pure and cold,
+And with his waves that water kissed
+The gleaming altars of amethyst
+That smoke with victims all the year,
+And sacred are to the Gods of old.
+
+There sat three Judges by the Gate,
+And I was led before the Three,
+And they but looked on me, and straight
+The rosy bonds fell down from me
+Who, being innocent, was free;
+And I might wander at my will
+About that City on the hill,
+Among the happy people clad
+In purple weeds of woven air
+Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves
+At shut of languid summer eves
+So light their raiment seemed; and glad
+Was every face I looked on there!
+
+There was no heavy heat, no cold,
+The dwellers there wax never old,
+Nor wither with the waning time,
+But each man keeps that age he had
+When first he won the fairy clime.
+The Night falls never from on high,
+Nor ever burns the heat of noon.
+But such soft light eternally
+Shines, as in silver dawns of June
+Before the Sun hath climbed the sky!
+
+Within these pleasant streets and wide,
+The souls of Heroes go and come,
+Even they that fell on either side
+Beneath the walls of Ilium;
+And sunlike in that shadowy isle
+The face of Helen and her smile
+Makes glad the souls of them that knew
+Grief for her sake a little while!
+And all true Greeks and wise are there;
+And with his hand upon the hair
+Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates,
+About him many youths and fair,
+Hylas, Narcissus, and with these
+Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew
+By fleet Eurotas, unaware!
+
+All these their mirth and pleasure made
+Within the plain Elysian,
+The fairest meadow that may be,
+With all green fragrant trees for shade
+And every scented wind to fan,
+And sweetest flowers to strew the lea;
+The soft Winds are their servants fleet
+To fetch them every fruit at will
+And water from the river chill;
+And every bird that singeth sweet
+Throstle, and merle, and nightingale
+Brings blossoms from the dewy vale, -
+Lily, and rose, and asphodel -
+With these doth each guest twine his crown
+And wreathe his cup, and lay him down
+Beside some friend he loveth well.
+
+There with the shining Souls I lay
+When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say,
+In far-off haunts of Memory,
+Whoso death taste the Dead Men's bread,
+Shall dwell for ever with these Dead,
+Nor ever shall his body lie
+Beside his friends, on the grey hill
+Where rains weep, and the curlews shrill
+And the brown water wanders by!
+
+Then did a new soul in me wake,
+The dead men's bread I feared to break,
+Their fruit I would not taste indeed
+Were it but a pomegranate seed.
+Nay, not with these I made my choice
+To dwell for ever and rejoice,
+For otherwhere the River rolls
+That girds the home of Christian souls,
+And these my whole heart seeks are found
+On otherwise enchanted ground.
+
+Even so I put the cup away,
+The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke,
+And, nowise sorrowing, I woke
+While, grey among the ruins grey
+Chill through the dwellings of the dead,
+The Dawn crept o'er the Northern sea,
+Then, in a moment, flushed to red,
+Flushed all the broken minster old,
+And turned the shattered stones to gold,
+And wakened half the world with me!
+
+
+
+L'ENVOI--To E. W. G.
+
+
+
+(Who also had rhymed on the Fortune Islands of Lucian).
+
+Each in the self-same field we glean
+The field of the Samosatene,
+Each something takes and something leaves
+And this must choose, and that forego
+In Lucian's visionary sheaves,
+To twine a modern posy so;
+But all any gleanings, truth to tell,
+Are mixed with mournful asphodel,
+While yours are wreathed with poppies red,
+With flowers that Helen's feet have kissed,
+With leaves of vine that garlanded
+The Syrian Pantagruelist,
+The sage who laughed the world away,
+Who mocked at Gods, and men, and care,
+More sweet of voice than Rabelais,
+And lighter-hearted than Voltaire.
+
+
+
+A VISION IN THE STRAND
+
+
+
+The jaded light of late July
+Shone yellow down the dusty Strand,
+The anxious people bustled by,
+Policeman, Pressman, you and I,
+And thieves, and judges of the land.
+
+So swift they strode they had not time
+To mark the humours of the Town,
+But I, that mused an idle rhyme,
+Looked here and there, and up and down,
+And many a rapid cart I spied
+That drew, as fast as ponies can,
+The Newspapers of either side,
+These joys of every Englishman!
+
+The Standard here, the Echo there,
+And cultured ev'ning papers fair,
+With din and fuss and shout and blare
+Through all the eager land they bare,
+The rumours of our little span.
+
+'Midst these, but ah, more slow of speed,
+A biggish box of sanguine hue
+Was tugged on a velocipede,
+And in and out the crowd, and through,
+An earnest stripling urged it well
+Perched on a cranky tricycle!
+
+A seedy tricycle he rode,
+Perchance some three miles in the hour,
+But, on the big red box that glowed
+Behind him, was a name of Power,
+JUSTICE, (I read it e'er I wist,)
+THE ORGAN OF THE SOCIALIST!
+
+The paper carts fled fleetly by
+And vanished up the roaring Strand,
+And eager purchasers drew nigh
+Each with his penny in his hand,
+But JUSTICE, scarce more fleet than I,
+Began to permeate the land,
+And dark, methinks, the twilight fell,
+Or ever JUSTICE reached Pall Mall.
+
+Oh Man, (I stopped to moralize,)
+How eager thou to fight with Fate,
+To bring Astraea from the skies;
+Yet ah, how too inadequate
+The means by which thou fain wouldst cope
+With Laws and Morals, King and Pope!
+"JUSTICE!"--how prompt the witling's sneer, -
+"Justice!  Thou wouldst have Justice here!
+And each poor man should be a squire,
+Each with his competence a year,
+Each with sufficient beef and beer,
+And all things matched to his desire,
+While all the Middle Classes should
+With every vile Capitalist
+Be clean reformed away for good,
+And vanish like a morning mist!
+
+"Ah splendid Vision, golden time,
+An end of hunger, cold, and crime.
+An end of Rent, an end of Rank,
+An end of balance at the Bank,
+An end of everything that's meant
+To bring Investors five per cent!"
+
+How fair doth Justice seem, I cried,
+Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers
+That war against on every side
+Justice, and this great dream of ours,
+And what have we to plead our cause
+'Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws,
+What but a big red box indeed,
+With copies of a weekly screed,
+That's slowly jolted, up and down,
+Behind an old velocipede
+To clamour JUSTICE through the town:
+How touchingly inadequate
+These arms wherewith we'd vanquish Fate!
+
+Nay, the old Order shall endure
+And little change the years shall know,
+And still the Many shall be poor,
+And still the Poor shall dwell in woe;
+Firm in the iron Law of things
+The strong shall be the wealthy still,
+And (called Capitalists or Kings)
+Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill.
+Leaving the weaker for their gain,
+Leaving the gentler for their prize
+Such dens and husks as beasts disdain, -
+Till slowly from the wrinkled skies
+The fireless frozen Sun shall wane,
+Nor Summer come with golden grain;
+Till men be glad, mid frost and snow
+To live such equal lives of pain
+As now the hutted Eskimo!
+Then none shall plough nor garner seed,
+Then, on some last sad human shore,
+Equality shall reign indeed,
+The Rich shall be with us no more,
+Thus, and not otherwise, shall come
+The new, the true Millennium!
+
+
+
+ALMAE MATRES--(ST. ANDREWS, 1862.  OXFORD, 1865)
+
+
+
+St. Andrews by the Northern sea,
+A haunted town it is to me!
+A little city, worn and grey,
+The grey North Ocean girds it round.
+And o'er the rocks, and up the bay,
+The long sea-rollers surge and sound.
+And still the thin and biting spray
+Drives down the melancholy street,
+And still endure, and still decay,
+Towers that the salt winds vainly beat.
+Ghost-like and shadowy they stand
+Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand.
+
+St. Leonard's chapel, long ago
+We loitered idly where the tall
+Fresh budded mountain ashes blow
+Within thy desecrated wall:
+The tough roots rent the tomb below,
+The April birds sang clamorous,
+We did not dream, we could not know
+How hardly Fate would deal with us!
+
+O, broken minster, looking forth
+Beyond the bay, above the town,
+O, winter of the kindly North,
+O, college of the scarlet gown,
+And shining sands beside the sea,
+And stretch of links beyond the sand,
+Once more I watch you, and to me
+It is as if I touched his hand!
+
+And therefore art thou yet more dear,
+O, little city, grey and sere,
+Though shrunken from thine ancient pride
+And lonely by thy lonely sea,
+Than these fair halls on Isis' side,
+Where Youth an hour came back to me!
+
+A land of waters green and clear,
+Of willows and of poplars tall,
+And, in the spring time of the year,
+The white may breaking over all,
+And Pleasure quick to come at call.
+And summer rides by marsh and wold,
+And Autumn with her crimson pall
+About the towers of Magdalen rolled;
+And strange enchantments from the past,
+And memories of the friends of old,
+And strong Tradition, binding fast
+The "flying terms" with bands of gold, -
+
+All these hath Oxford:  all are dear,
+But dearer far the little town,
+The drifting surf, the wintry year,
+The college of the scarlet gown,
+St. Andrews by the Northern sea,
+That is a haunted town to me!
+
+
+
+DESIDERIUM--IN MEMORIAM S. F. A.
+
+
+
+The call of homing rooks, the shrill
+Song of some bird that watches late,
+The cries of children break the still
+Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.
+
+And o'er your far-off tomb the grey
+Sad twilight broods, and from the trees
+The rooks call on their homeward way,
+And are you heedless quite of these?
+
+The clustered rowan berries red
+And Autumn's may, the clematis,
+They droop above your dreaming head,
+And these, and all things must you miss?
+
+Ah, you that loved the twilight air,
+The dim lit hour of quiet best,
+At last, at last you have your share
+Of what life gave so seldom, rest!
+
+Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep,
+Or labour, nearer the Divine,
+And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep,
+And gentle as thy soul, is thine!
+
+So let it be!  But could I know
+That thou in this soft autumn eve,
+This hush of earth that pleased thee so,
+Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE
+
+
+
+Our youth began with tears and sighs,
+With seeking what we could not find;
+Our verses all were threnodies,
+In elegiacs still we whined;
+Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,
+We sought and knew not what we sought.
+We marvel, now we look behind:
+Life's more amusing than we thought!
+
+Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!
+Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!
+What? not content with seas and skies,
+With rainy clouds and southern wind,
+With common cares and faces kind,
+With pains and joys each morning brought?
+Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find
+Life's more amusing than we thought!
+
+Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies,"
+To mourn for youth we're not inclined;
+We set our souls on salmon flies,
+We whistle where we once repined.
+Confound the woes of human-kind!
+By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot;
+Who hum, contented or resigned,
+"Life's more amusing than we thought!"
+
+
+ENVOY
+
+
+O nate mecum, worn and lined
+Our faces show, but THAT is naught;
+Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind:
+Life's more amusing than we thought!
+
+
+
+THE LAST CAST--THE ANGLER'S APOLOGY
+
+
+
+Just one cast more! how many a year
+Beside how many a pool and stream,
+Beneath the falling leaves and sere,
+I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!
+
+Dreamed of the sport since April first
+Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,
+Adown the pastoral valleys burst
+Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.
+
+Dreamed of the singing showers that break,
+And sting the lochs, or near or far,
+And rouse the trout, and stir "the take"
+From Urigil to Lochinvar.
+
+Dreamed of the kind propitious sky
+O'er Ari Innes brooding grey;
+The sea trout, rushing at the fly,
+Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!
+
+* * *
+
+Brief are man's days at best; perchance
+I waste my own, who have not seen
+The castled palaces of France
+Shine on the Loire in summer green.
+
+And clear and fleet Eurotas still,
+You tell me, laves his reedy shore,
+And flows beneath his fabled hill
+Where Dian drave the chase of yore.
+
+And "like a horse unbroken" yet
+The yellow stream with rush and foam,
+'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,
+Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!
+
+I may not see them, but I doubt
+If seen I'd find them half so fair
+As ripples of the rising trout
+That feed beneath the elms of Yair.
+
+Nay, Spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail,
+And Summer by Loch Assynt's deep,
+And Autumn in that lonely vale
+Where wedded Avons westward sweep,
+
+Or where, amid the empty fields,
+Among the bracken of the glen,
+Her yellow wreath October yields,
+To crown the crystal brows of Ken.
+
+Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal,
+Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide,
+You never heard the ringing reel,
+The music of the water side!
+
+Though Gods have walked your woods among,
+Though nymphs have fled your banks along;
+You speak not that familiar tongue
+Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.
+
+My cradle song,--nor other hymn
+I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear
+Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim,
+Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!
+
+
+
+TWILIGHT--SONNET (AFTER RICHEPIN)
+
+
+
+Light has flown!
+Through the grey
+The wind's way
+The sea's moan
+Sound alone!
+For the day
+These repay
+And atone!
+
+Scarce I know,
+Listening so
+To the streams
+Of the sea,
+If old dreams
+Sing to me!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF SUMMER--TO C. H. ARKCOLL
+
+
+
+When strawberry pottles are common and cheap,
+Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,
+When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
+Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
+And far from Fleet Street, far from here,
+The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,
+And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,
+When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
+
+When clamour that doves in the lindens keep
+Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
+Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,
+Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
+And better a crust and a beaker of beer,
+With rose-hung hedges on either hand,
+Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer,
+When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
+
+When big trout late in the twilight leap,
+When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,
+When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
+Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
+And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
+Where kine knee deep in the water stand,
+On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere,
+When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
+
+ENVOY.
+
+Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,
+Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
+And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand,
+When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS
+
+
+
+Between the moonlight and the fire
+In winter twilights long ago,
+What ghosts we raised for your desire
+To make your merry blood run slow!
+How old, how grave, how wise we grow!
+No Christmas ghost can make us chill,
+Save THOSE that troop in mournful row,
+The ghosts we all can raise at will!
+
+The beasts can talk in barn and byre
+On Christmas Eve, old legends know,
+As year by year the years retire,
+We men fall silent then I trow,
+Such sights hath Memory to show,
+Such voices from the silence thrill,
+Such shapes return with Christmas snow, -
+The ghosts we all can raise at will.
+
+Oh, children of the village choir,
+Your carols on the midnight throw,
+Oh bright across the mist and mire
+Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!
+Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,
+Let's cheerily descend the hill;
+Be welcome all, to come or go,
+The ghosts we all can raise at will!
+
+ENVOY.
+
+Friend, sursum corda, soon or slow
+We part, like guests who've joyed their fill;
+Forget them not, nor mourn them so,
+The ghosts we all can raise at will!
+
+
+
+LOVE'S EASTER--SONNET
+
+
+
+Love died here
+Long ago; -
+O'er his bier,
+Lying low,
+Poppies throw;
+Shed no tear;
+Year by year,
+Roses blow!
+
+Year by year,
+Adon--dear
+To Love's Queen -
+Does not die!
+Wakes when green
+May is nigh!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL
+
+
+
+She has just "put her gown on" at Girton,
+She is learned in Latin and Greek,
+But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on
+That the prudish remark with a shriek.
+In her accents, perhaps, she is weak
+(Ladies ARE, one observes with a sigh),
+But in Algebra--THERE she's unique,
+But her forte's to evaluate pi.
+
+She can talk about putting a "spirt on"
+(I admit, an unmaidenly freak),
+And she dearly delighteth to flirt on
+A punt in some shadowy creek;
+Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak,
+She can swim as a swallow can fly;
+She can fence, she can put with a cleek,
+But her forte's to evaluate pi.
+
+She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton,
+Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,
+Old tiles with the secular dirt on,
+Old marbles with noses to seek.
+And her Cobet she quotes by the week,
+And she's written on [Greek text:  kev] and on [Greek text:  kai],
+And her service is swift and oblique,
+But her forte's to evaluate pi.
+
+ENVOY.
+
+Princess, like a rose is her cheek,
+And her eyes are as blue as the sky,
+And I'd speak, had I courage to speak,
+But--her forte's to evaluate pi.
+
+
+
+RONSARD'S GRAVE
+
+
+
+Ye wells, ye founts that fall
+From the steep mountain wall,
+That fall, and flash, and fleet
+With silver feet,
+
+Ye woods, ye streams that lave
+The meadows with your wave,
+Ye hills, and valley fair,
+Attend my prayer!
+
+When Heaven and Fate decree
+My latest hour for me,
+When I must pass away
+From pleasant day,
+
+I ask that none my break
+The marble for my sake,
+Wishful to make more fair
+My sepulchre.
+
+Only a laurel tree
+Shall shade the grave of me,
+Only Apollo's bough
+Shall guard me now!
+
+Now shall I be at rest
+Among the spirits blest,
+The happy dead that dwell -
+Where,--who may tell?
+
+The snow and wind and hail
+May never there prevail,
+Nor ever thunder fall
+Nor storm at all.
+
+But always fadeless there
+The woods are green and fair,
+And faithful ever more
+Spring to that shore!
+
+There shall I ever hear
+Alcaeus' music clear,
+And sweetest of all things
+There SAPPHO sings.
+
+
+
+SAN TERENZO
+
+
+
+(The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living
+before the wreck of the Don Juan.)
+
+Mid April seemed like some November day,
+When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,
+Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,
+Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,
+Rounded a point,--and San Terenzo lay
+Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,
+The roof that covered Shelley's homeless head, -
+His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.
+
+The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen
+Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
+Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,
+When suddenly the forest glades were stirred
+With waving pinions, and a great sea bird
+Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!
+
+1880
+
+
+
+ROMANCE
+
+
+
+My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
+A grey tower in a forest green
+Was hers, and far on either hand
+The long wash of the waves was seen,
+And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
+The woven forest boughs between!
+
+And through the silver Northern night
+The sunset slowly died away,
+And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
+Stole forth among the branches grey;
+About the coming of the light,
+They fled like ghosts before the day!
+
+I know not if the forest green
+Still girdles round that castle grey;
+I know not if the boughs between
+The white deer vanish ere the day;
+Above my Love the grass is green,
+My heart is colder than the clay!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY
+
+
+
+I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves
+Among the shining salmon-flies;
+A song for summer-time that grieves
+I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves.
+Between grey sea and golden sheaves,
+Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,
+I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves
+Among the shining salmon-flies.
+
+
+TO C. H. ARKCOLL
+
+
+Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed
+By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
+In the isles of the East and the West
+That are sweet with the cinnamon trees
+Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas;
+Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
+We are more than content, if you please,
+With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
+
+Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best
+With the scent of the limes, when the bees
+Hummed low 'round the doves in their nest,
+While the vintagers lay at their ease,
+Had he sung in our northern degrees,
+He'd have sought a securer retreat,
+He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
+With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
+
+Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest
+And the daffodil's fair on the leas,
+And the soul of the Southron might rest,
+And be perfectly happy with these;
+But WE, that were nursed on the knees
+Of the hills of the North, we would fleet
+Where our hearts might their longing appease
+With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
+
+ENVOY
+
+Ah Constance, the land of our quest
+It is far from the sounds of the street,
+Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest
+With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
+
+
+
+VILLANELLE--(To M. Joseph Boulmier, author of "Les Villanelles.")
+
+
+
+Villanelle, why art thou mute?
+Hath the singer ceased to sing?
+Hath the Master lost his lute?
+
+Many a pipe and scrannel flute
+On the breeze their discords fling;
+Villanelle, why art THOU mute?
+
+Sound of tumult and dispute,
+Noise of war the echoes bring;
+Hath the Master lost his lute?
+
+Once he sang of bud and shoot
+In the season of the Spring;
+Villanelle, why art thou mute?
+
+Fading leaf and falling fruit
+Say, "The year is on the wing,
+Hath the Master lost his lute?"
+
+Ere the axe lie at the root,
+Ere the winter come as king,
+Villanelle, why art thou mute?
+Hath the Master lost his lute?
+
+
+
+TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS
+
+
+
+[Paragraph of Greek text]
+
+Alas, for us no second spring,
+Like mallows in the garden-bed,
+For these the grave has lost his sting,
+Alas, for US no second spring,
+Who sleep without awakening,
+And, dead, for ever more are dead,
+Alas, for us no second spring,
+Like mallows in the garden-bed!
+
+Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave
+That boast themselves the sons of men!
+Once they go down into the grave -
+Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, -
+They perish and have none to save,
+They are sown, and are not raised again;
+Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,
+That boast themselves the sons of men!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF CRICKET--TO T. W. LANG
+
+
+
+The burden of hard hitting:  slog away!
+Here shalt thou make a "five" and there a "four,"
+And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
+That thou art in for an uncommon score.
+Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
+And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire,
+When lo, the Umpire gives thee "leg before," -
+"This is the end of every man's desire!"
+
+The burden of much bowling, when the stay
+Of all thy team is "collared," swift or slower,
+When "bailers" break not in their wonted way,
+And "yorkers" come not off as here-to-fore,
+When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,
+When all deliveries lose their former fire,
+When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door, -
+"This is the end of every man's desire!"
+
+The burden of long fielding, when the clay
+Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
+And running still thou stumblest, or the ray
+Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
+And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
+Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer,"
+And lose a match the Fates cannot restore, -
+"This is the end of every man's desire!"
+
+ENVOY.
+
+Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shore
+Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,
+Than King among the old, who play no more, -
+"THIS is the end of every man's desire!"
+
+
+
+THE LAST MAYING
+
+
+
+"It is told of the last Lovers which watched May-night in the
+forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this land,
+that they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but
+the very Venus herself, who bade them 'make such cheer as they
+might, for' said she, 'I shall live no more in these Woods, nor
+shall ye endure to see another May time.'"--EDMUND GORLIOT, "Of
+Phantasies and Omens," p. 149.  (1573.)
+
+"Whence do ye come, with the dew on your hair?
+From what far land are the boughs ye bear,
+The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses,
+The light burned white in your faces fair?"
+
+"In a falling fane have we built our house,
+With the dying Gods we have held carouse,
+And our lips are wan from their wild caresses,
+Our hands are filled with their holy boughs.
+
+As we crossed the lawn in the dying day
+No fairy led us to meet the May,
+But the very Goddess loved by lovers,
+In mourning raiment of green and grey.
+
+She was not decked as for glee and game,
+She was not veiled with the veil of flame,
+The saffron veil of the Bride that covers
+The face that is flushed with her joy and shame.
+
+On the laden branches the scent and dew
+Mingled and met, and as snow to strew
+The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses,
+White flowers fell as the night wind blew.
+
+Tears and kisses on lips and eyes
+Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs
+For grief that abides, and joy that passes,
+For pain that tarries and mirth that flies.
+
+It chanced as the dawning grew to grey
+Pale and sad on our homeward way,
+With weary lips, and palled with pleasure
+The Goddess met us, farewell to say.
+
+"Ye have made your choice, and the better part,
+Ye chose" she said, "and the wiser art;
+In the wild May night drank all the measure,
+The perfect pleasure of heart and heart.
+
+"Ye shall walk no more with the May," she said,
+"Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead?
+Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen,
+Sing as of old, and be happy and wed?
+
+"Yea, they are glad as of old; but you,
+Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew,
+Abide no more, for the springs are frozen,
+And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew.
+
+Ye shall never know Summer again like this;
+Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis,
+No more in the nymphs' and dryads' playtime
+Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss.
+
+"Though the flowers in your golden hair be bright,
+Your golden hair shall be waste and white
+On faded brows ere another May time
+Bring the spring, but no more delight."
+
+
+
+HOMERIC UNITY
+
+
+
+The sacred keep of Ilion is rent
+By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow
+Through plains where Simois and Scamander went
+To war with Gods and heroes long ago.
+Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low
+In rich Mycenae, do the Fates relent:
+The bones of Agamemnon are a show,
+And ruined is his royal monument.
+
+The dust and awful treasures of the Dead,
+Hath Learning scattered wide, but vainly thee,
+Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead,
+And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see
+The crown that burns on thine immortal head
+Of indivisible supremacy!
+
+
+
+IN TINTAGEL
+
+
+
+LUI.
+
+Ah lady, lady, leave the creeping mist,
+And leave the iron castle by the sea!
+
+ELLE.
+
+Nay, from the sea there came a ghost that kissed
+My lips, and so I cannot come to thee!
+
+LUI.
+
+Ah lady, leave the cruel landward wind
+That crusts the blighted flowers with bitter foam!
+
+ELLE.
+
+Nay, for his arms are cold and strong to bind,
+And I must dwell with him and make my home!
+
+LUI.
+
+Come, for the Spring is fair in Joyous Guard
+And down deep alleys sweet birds sing again.
+
+ELLE.
+
+But I must tarry with the winter hard,
+And with the bitter memory of pain,
+Although the Spring be fair in Joyous Guard,
+And in the gardens glad birds sing again!
+
+
+
+PISIDICE
+
+
+
+The incident is from the Love Stories of Parthenius, who preserved
+fragments of a lost epic on the expedition of Achilles against
+Lesbos, an island allied with Troy.
+
+
+The daughter of the Lesbian king
+Within her bower she watched the war,
+Far off she heard the arrows ring,
+The smitten harness ring afar;
+And, fighting from the foremost car,
+Saw one that smote where all must flee;
+More fair than the Immortals are
+He seemed to fair Pisidice!
+
+She saw, she loved him, and her heart
+Before Achilles, Peleus' son,
+Threw all its guarded gates apart,
+A maiden fortress lightly won!
+And, ere that day of fight was done,
+No more of land or faith recked she,
+But joyed in her new life begun, -
+Her life of love, Pisidice!
+
+She took a gift into her hand,
+As one that had a boon to crave;
+She stole across the ruined land
+Where lay the dead without a grave,
+And to Achilles' hand she gave
+Her gift, the secret postern's key.
+"To-morrow let me be thy slave!"
+Moaned to her love Pisidice.
+
+Ere dawn the Argives' clarion call
+Rang down Methymna's burning street;
+They slew the sleeping warriors all,
+They drove the women to the fleet,
+Save one, that to Achilles' feet
+Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he:
+"For her no doom but death is meet,"
+And there men stoned Pisidice.
+
+In havens of that haunted coast,
+Amid the myrtles of the shore,
+The moon sees many a maiden ghost
+Love's outcast now and evermore.
+The silence hears the shades deplore
+Their hour of dear-bought love; but THEE
+The waves lull, 'neath thine olives hoar,
+To dreamless rest, Pisidice!
+
+
+
+FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST
+
+
+
+Returning from what other seas
+Dost thou renew thy murmuring,
+Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of these
+To tell, the shores where float and cling
+My love, my hope, my memories?
+
+Say does my lady wake to note
+The gold light into silver die?
+Or do thy waves make lullaby,
+While dreams of hers, like angels, float
+Through star-sown spaces of the sky?
+
+Ah, would such angels came to me
+That dreams of mine might speak with hers,
+Nor wake the slumber of the sea
+With words as low as winds that be
+Awake among the gossamers!
+
+
+
+LOVE THE VAMPIRE [Greek text]
+
+
+
+The level sands and grey,
+Stretch leagues and leagues away,
+Down to the border line of sky and foam,
+A spark of sunset burns,
+The grey tide-water turns,
+Back, like a ghost from her forbidden home!
+
+Here, without pyre or bier,
+Light Love was buried here,
+Alas, his grave was wide and deep enough,
+Thrice, with averted head,
+We cast dust on the dead,
+And left him to his rest.  An end of Love.
+
+"No stone to roll away,
+No seal of snow or clay,
+Only soft dust above his wearied eyes,
+But though the sudden sound
+Of Doom should shake the ground,
+And graves give up their ghosts, he will not rise!"
+
+So each to each we said!
+Ah, but to either bed
+Set far apart in lands of North and South,
+Love as a Vampire came
+With haggard eyes aflame,
+And kissed us with the kisses of his mouth!
+
+Thenceforth in dreams must we
+Each other's shadow see
+Wand'ring unsatisfied in empty lands,
+Still the desired face
+Fleets from the vain embrace,
+And still the shape evades the longing hands.
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN'S PARADISE
+
+
+
+There IS a Heaven, or here, or there, -
+A Heaven there is, for me and you,
+Where bargains meet for purses spare,
+Like ours, are not so far and few.
+Thuanus' bees go humming through
+The learned groves, 'neath rainless skies,
+O'er volumes old and volumes new,
+Within that Book-man's Paradise!
+
+There treasures bound for Longepierre
+Keep brilliant their morocco blue,
+There Hookes' AMANDA is not rare,
+Nor early tracts upon Peru!
+Racine is common as Rotrou,
+No Shakespeare Quarto search defies,
+And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew,
+Within that Book-man's Paradise!
+
+There's Eve,--not our first mother fair, -
+But Clovis Eve, a binder true;
+Thither does Bauzonnet repair,
+Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!
+But never come the cropping crew
+That dock a volume's honest size,
+Nor they that "letter" backs askew,
+Within that Book-man's Paradise!
+
+ENVOY
+
+Friend, do not Heber and De Thou,
+And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise,
+La chasse au bouquin still pursue
+Within that Book-man's Paradise?
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF A FRIAR
+
+
+
+(Clement Marot's Frere Lubin, though translated by Longfellow and
+others, has not hitherto been rendered into the original measure,
+of ballade e double refrain.)
+
+Some ten or twenty times a day,
+To bustle to the town with speed,
+To dabble in what dirt he may, -
+Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!
+But any sober life to lead
+Upon an exemplary plan,
+Requires a Christian indeed, -
+Le Frere Lubin is NOT the man!
+
+Another's wealth on his to lay,
+With all the craft of guile and greed,
+To leave you bare of pence or pay, -
+Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!
+But watch him with the closest heed,
+And dun him with what force you can, -
+He'll not refund, howe'er you plead, -
+Le Frere Lubin is NOT the man!
+
+An honest girl to lead astray,
+With subtle saw and promised meed,
+Requires no cunning crone and grey, -
+Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!
+He preaches an ascetic creed,
+But,--try him with the water can -
+A dog will drink, whate'er his breed, -
+Le Frere Lubin is NOT the man!
+
+ENVOY
+
+In good to fail, in ill succeed,
+Le Frere Lubin's the man you need!
+In honest works to lead the van,
+Le Frere Lubin is NOT the man!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF NEGLECTED MERIT {1}
+
+
+
+I have scribbled in verse and in prose,
+I have painted "arrangements in greens,"
+And my name is familiar to those
+Who take in the high class magazines;
+I compose; I've invented machines;
+I have written an "Essay on Rhyme";
+For my county I played, in my teens,
+But--I am not in "Men of the Time!"
+
+I have lived, as a chief, with the Crows;
+I have "interviewed" Princes and Queens;
+I have climbed the Caucasian snows;
+I abstain, like the ancients, from beans, -
+I've a guess what Pythagoras means,
+When he says that to eat them's a crime, -
+I have lectured upon the Essenes,
+But--I am not in "Men of the Time!"
+
+I've a fancy as morbid as Poe's,
+I can tell what is meant by "Shebeens,"
+I have breasted the river that flows
+Through the land of the wild Gadarenes;
+I can gossip with Burton on skenes,
+I can imitate Irving (the Mime),
+And my sketches are quainter than Keene's,
+But--I am not in "Men of the Time!"
+
+ENVOY
+
+So the tower of mine eminence leans
+Like the Pisan, and mud is its lime;
+I'm acquainted with Dukes and with Deans,
+But--I am not in "Men of the Time!"
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF RAILWAY NOVELS
+
+
+
+Let others praise analysis
+And revel in a "cultured" style,
+And follow the subjective Miss {2}
+From Boston to the banks of Nile,
+Rejoice in anti-British bile,
+And weep for fickle hero's woe,
+These twain have shortened many a mile,
+Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.
+
+These damsels of "Democracy's,"
+How long they stop at every stile!
+They smile, and we are told, I wis,
+Ten subtle reasons WHY they smile.
+Give ME your villains deeply vile,
+Give me Lecoq, Jottrat, and Co.,
+Great artists of the ruse and wile,
+Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
+
+Oh, novel readers, tell me this,
+Can prose that's polished by the file,
+Like great Boisgobey's mysteries,
+Wet days and weary ways beguile,
+And man to living reconcile,
+Like these whose every trick we know?
+The agony how high they pile,
+Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!
+
+ENVOY
+
+Ah, friend, how many and many a while
+They've made the slow time fleetly flow,
+And solaced pain and charmed exile,
+Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.
+
+
+
+THE CLOUD CHORUS (FROM ARISTOPHANES)
+
+
+
+Socrates speaks.
+
+Hither, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves
+here;
+Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,
+Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens clear,
+Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile's overflow,
+Or whether you dwell by Maeotis mere
+Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!
+And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.
+
+The Clouds sing.
+
+Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore
+Of the father of streams, from the sounding sea,
+Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar.
+Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we!
+Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest,
+On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,
+On the waters that murmur east and west
+On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice,
+For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,
+And the bright rays gleam;
+Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare
+In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere
+From the height of the heaven, on the land and air,
+And the Ocean stream.
+
+Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,
+Let us gaze on Pallas' citadel,
+In the country of Cecrops, fair and dear
+The mystic land of the holy cell,
+Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,
+And the gifts of the Gods that know not stain
+And a people of mortals that know not fear.
+For the temples tall, and the statues fair,
+And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there,
+The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers
+And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,
+And the musical voices that fill the hours,
+And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing!
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME
+
+
+
+"All these for Fourpence."
+
+Oh, where are the endless Romances
+Our grandmothers used to adore?
+The Knights with their helms and their lances,
+Their shields and the favours they wore?
+And the Monks with their magical lore?
+They have passed to Oblivion and Nox,
+They have fled to the shadowy shore, -
+They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
+
+And where the poetical fancies
+Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?
+The lyric's melodious expanses,
+The Epics in cantos a score?
+They have been and are not:  no more
+Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,
+Nor the ladies their languors deplore, -
+They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
+
+And the Music!  The songs and the dances?
+The tunes that Time may not restore?
+And the tomes where Divinity prances?
+And the pamphlets where Heretics roar?
+They have ceased to be even a bore, -
+The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks, -
+They are "cropped," they are "foxed" to the core, -
+They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
+
+ENVOY
+
+Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,
+On the chest without cover or locks,
+Where they lie by the Bookseller's door, -
+They are ALL in the Fourpenny Box!
+
+
+
+[Greek title]
+
+
+
+I would my days had been in other times,
+A moment in the long unnumbered years
+That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk,
+In peaceful lands that border on the Nile.
+
+I would my days had been in other times,
+Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn
+Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade
+And shelter of the cool Himalayan hills.
+
+I would my days had been in other times,
+That I in some old abbey of Touraine
+Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life,
+Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!
+
+I would my days had been in other times,
+When quiet life to death not terrible
+Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead
+Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!
+
+
+
+A VERY WOFUL BALLADE OF THE ART CRITIC  (TO E. A. ABBEY.)
+
+
+
+A spirit came to my sad bed,
+And weary sad that night was I,
+Who'd tottered, since the dawn was red,
+Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery,
+Yea, leagues of long Academy
+Awaited me when morn grew white,
+'Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh,
+"Take up the pen, my friend, and write!
+
+"Of many a portrait grey as lead,
+Of many a mustard-coloured sky,
+Say much, where little should be said,
+Lay on thy censure dexterously,
+With microscopic glances pry
+At textures, Tadema's delight,
+Praise foreign swells they always sky,
+Take up the pen, my friend, and write!"
+
+I answered, "'Tis for daily bread,
+A sorry crust, I ween, and dry,
+That still, with aching feet and head,
+I push this lawful industry,
+'Mid pictures hung or low, or high,
+But, touching that which I indite,
+Do artists hold me lovingly?
+Take up the pen, my friend, and write."
+
+[The Spirit writeth in form of]
+
+ENVOY
+
+"They fain would black thy dexter eye,
+They hate thee with a bitter spite,
+But scribble since thou must, or die,
+Take tip the pen, my friend, and write!"
+
+
+
+ART'S MARTYR
+
+
+
+Telleth of a young man that fain would be fairly tattooed on his
+flesh, after the heathen manner, in devices of blue, and that,
+falling among the Dyacks, a folk of Borneo, was by them tattooed
+in modern fashion and device, and of his misery that fell upon
+him, and his outlawry.
+
+He said, The China on the shelf
+Is very fair to view,
+And wherefore should mine outer self,
+Not correspond thereto?
+In blue
+My frame I must tattoo.
+
+Where may tattooing men abound,
+And ah, where might they be?
+Nay, well I wot they are not found
+In lands of Christentie,
+(Quoth he)
+But I must cross the sea!
+
+So forth he sailed to Borneo,
+(A land that culture lacks,)
+And there his money did bestow
+To purchase pricks and hacks,
+(Dyacks
+Are famed tattooing blacks.)
+
+But European commerce had
+Debased the savage kind,
+And they this most unhappy lad
+Before (and eke behind)
+Designed
+In colours to their mind!
+
+Such awful colours as are blent
+On terrible placards
+Where flames the fierce advertisement
+Yea, or on Christmas cards
+(Not Ward's,
+But common Christmas cards!)
+
+Thus never more to Chelsea might
+The luckless boy return,
+He knew himself too dreadful, quite,
+A thing his friends would spurn,
+And turn
+To praise some Grecian urn!
+
+But still he dwells in Borneo,
+A land that culture lacks,
+And there they all admire him so,
+They bring him heads in sacks,
+Dyacks
+Are NOT aesthetic blacks!
+
+
+
+THE PALACE O BRIC-A-BRAC
+
+
+
+Here, where old Nankin glitters,
+Here, where men's tumult seems
+As faint as feeble twitters
+Of sparrows heard in dreams,
+We watch Limoges enamel,
+An old chased silver camel,
+A shawl, the gift of Schamyl,
+And manuscripts in reams.
+
+Here, where the hawthorn pattern
+On flawless cup and plate
+Need fear no housemaid slattern,
+Fell minister of fate,
+'Mid webs divinely woven,
+And helms and hauberks cloven,
+On music of Beethoven
+We dream and meditate.
+
+We know not, and we need not
+To know how mortals fare,
+Of Bills that pass, or speed not,
+Time finds us unaware,
+Yea, creeds and codes may crumble,
+And Dilke and Gladstone stumble,
+And eat the pie that's humble,
+We neither know nor care!
+
+Can kings or clergies alter
+The crackle on one plate?
+Can creeds or systems palter
+With what is truly great?
+With Corots and with Millets,
+With April daffodillies,
+Or make the maiden lilies
+Bloom early or bloom late?
+
+Nay, here 'midst Rhodian roses,
+'Midst tissues of Cashmere,
+The Soul sublime reposes,
+And knows not hope nor fear;
+Here all she sees her own is,
+And musical her moan is,
+O'er Caxtons and Bodonis,
+Aldine and Elzevir!
+
+
+
+RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES
+
+
+
+Camelot
+
+In Camelot how grey and green
+The Damsels dwell, how sad their teen,
+In Camelot how green and grey
+The melancholy poplars sway.
+I wis I wot not what they mean
+Or wherefore, passionate and lean,
+The maidens mope their loves between,
+Not seeming to have much to say,
+In Camelot.
+Yet there hath armour goodly sheen
+The blossoms in the apple treen,
+(To spell the Camelotian way)
+Show fragrant through the doubtful day,
+And Master's work is often seen
+In Camelot!
+
+Philistia
+
+Philistia!  Maids in muslin white
+With flannelled oarsmen oft delight
+To drift upon thy streams, and float
+In Salter's most luxurious boat;
+In buff and boots the cheery knight
+Returns (quite safe) from Naseby fight;
+Thy humblest folk are clean and bright,
+Thou still must win the public vote,
+Philistia!
+Observe the High Church curate's coat,
+The realistic hansom note!
+Ah, happy land untouched of blight,
+Smirks, Bishops, Babies, left and right,
+We know thine every charm by rote,
+Philistia!
+
+
+
+THE BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS:  A SAVAGE PARABASIS
+
+
+
+In the Aves of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare that they are
+older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of men.  This idea
+recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and I have made the
+savage Bird-gods state their own case.
+
+The Birds sing:
+
+We would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are
+spiked on the spit, and are baked in the pan,
+Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and
+made war ere the making of Man!
+For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the
+world like a barque without rudder or sail
+Floated on through the night, 'twas a Bird struck a light, 'twas a
+flash from the bright feather'd Tonatiu's {3} tail!
+Then the Hawk {4} with some dry wood flew up in the sky, and afar,
+safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon,
+And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they recked
+not of care that should come on them soon.
+For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, {5} and a-
+musing he fell at the close of the day;
+Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some
+bark of the best, and a clawful of clay. {6}
+And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without
+feathers (his game was a puzzle to all);
+Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and,
+lastly, he uttered a magical call:
+Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped up,
+who but they, and embracing they fell,
+And THIS was the baking of Man, and his making; but now he's
+forsaking his Father, Pundjel!
+Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to
+crown their desire who was found but the Wren?
+To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for
+this has a name in the memory of men! {7}
+And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it
+through without falter or fail?
+Why the Hawk 'twas again, and great Indra to men would appear, now
+and then, in the shape of a Quail,
+While the Thlinkeet's delight is the Bird of the Night, the beak
+and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl.{8}
+And who for man's need brought the famed Suttung's mead? why 'tis
+told in the creed of the Sagamen strong,
+ 'Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from the blue, and gave
+mortals the brew that's the fountain of song. {9}
+Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young
+brave overawes when in need of a squaw,
+Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct
+you blame if he thus breaks the law?
+For you still hold it wrong if a lubra {10} belong to the self-
+same kobong {11} that is Father of you,
+To take HER as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give her a
+wide berth; quite right of you, too.
+For her father, you know, is YOUR father, the Crow, and no
+blessing but woe from the wedding would spring.
+Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and were
+strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. {12}
+Thus on Earth's little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your
+gratitude's small for the favours they've done,
+And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you
+plunder and kill the bright birds one by one;
+There's a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and the Moa
+has fled from the sight of the sun!
+
+
+
+MAN AND THE ASCIDIAN--A MORALITY
+
+
+
+"The Ancestor remote of Man,"
+Says Darwin, "is th' Ascidian,"
+A scanty sort of water-beast
+That, ninety million years at least
+Before Gorillas came to be,
+Went swimming up and down the sea.
+
+Their ancestors the pious praise,
+And like to imitate their ways;
+How, then, does our first parent live,
+What lesson has his life to give?
+
+Th' Ascidian tadpole, young and gay,
+Doth Life with one bright eye survey,
+His consciousness has easy play.
+He's sensitive to grief and pain,
+Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain,
+And everything that fits the state
+Of creatures we call vertebrate.
+But age comes on; with sudden shock
+He sticks his head against a rock!
+His tail drops off, his eye drops in,
+His brain's absorbed into his skin;
+He does not move, nor feel, nor know
+The tidal water's ebb and flow,
+But still abides, unstirred, alone,
+A sucker sticking to a stone.
+
+And we, his children, truly we
+In youth are, like the Tadpole, free.
+And where we would we blithely go,
+Have brains and hearts, and feel and know.
+Then Age comes on!  To Habit we
+Affix ourselves and are not free;
+Th' Ascidian's rooted to a rock,
+And we are bond-slaves of the clock;
+Our rocks are Medicine--Letters--Law,
+From these our heads we cannot draw:
+Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in,
+And daily thicker grows our skin.
+
+Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know
+The wide world's moving ebb and flow,
+The clanging currents ring and shock,
+But we are rooted to the rock.
+And thus at ending of his span,
+Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man
+Revert to the Ascidian.
+
+
+
+BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST
+
+
+
+"What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at before the tall blonde
+Aryan drove him into the corners of Europe?"--Brander Matthews.
+
+I am an ancient Jest!
+Palaeolithic man
+In his arboreal nest
+The sparks of fun would fan;
+My outline did he plan,
+And laughed like one possessed,
+'Twas thus my course began,
+I am a Merry Jest!
+
+I am an early Jest!
+Man delved, and built, and span;
+Then wandered South and West
+The peoples Aryan,
+I journeyed in their van;
+The Semites, too, confessed, -
+From Beersheba to Dan, -
+I am a Merry Jest!
+
+I am an ancient Jest,
+Through all the human clan,
+Red, black, white, free, oppressed,
+Hilarious I ran!
+I'm found in Lucian,
+In Poggio, and the rest,
+I'm dear to Moll and Nan!
+I am a Merry Jest!
+
+ENVOY
+
+Prince, you may storm and ban -
+Joe Millers ARE a pest,
+Suppress me if you can!
+I am a Merry Jest!
+
+
+
+CAMEOS--SONNETS FROM THE ANTIQUE
+
+
+
+These versions from classical passages are pretty close to the
+original, except where compression was needed, as in the sonnets
+from Pausanias and Apuleius, or where, as in the case of fragments
+of AEschylus and Sophocles, a little expansion was required.
+
+
+
+CAMEOS
+
+
+
+The graver by Apollo's shrine,
+Before the Gods had fled, would stand,
+A shell or onyx in his hand,
+To copy there the face divine,
+Till earnest touches, line by line,
+Had wrought the wonder of the land
+Within a beryl's golden band,
+Or on some fiery opal fine.
+Ah! would that as some ancient ring
+To us, on shell or stone, doth bring,
+Art's marvels perished long ago,
+So I, within the sonnet's space,
+The large Hellenic lines might trace,
+The statue in the cameo!
+
+
+
+HELEN ON THE WALLS--(Iliad, iii. 146.)
+
+
+
+Fair Helen to the Scaean portals came,
+Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus,
+Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthous,
+And many another of a noble name,
+Famed warriors, now in council more of fame.
+Always above the gates, in converse thus
+They chattered like cicalas garrulous;
+Who marking Helen, swore "it is no shame
+That armed Achaean knights, and Ilian men
+For such a woman's sake should suffer long.
+Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she.
+Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again
+Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong
+To us, and children's children yet to be."
+
+
+
+THE ISLES OF THE BLESSED--(Pindar, Fr., 106, 107 (95):  B. 4, 129-
+130, 109 (97):  B. 4, 132)
+
+
+
+Now the light of the sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls
+of the True
+Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where reigneth the
+rose;
+And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits o'er
+them and through
+Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where the
+frankincense blows:
+Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it
+glows,
+And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the pleasures on Earth
+that they knew,
+And in chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy
+those,
+And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and rises anew.
+
+But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from ancient pollution and
+stain,
+These at the end of the age be they prince, be they singer, or
+seer;
+These to the world, shall be born as of old, shall be sages again;
+These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and shall die,
+and shall hear
+Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them
+amain,
+And their glory shall dwell in the land where they dwelt, while
+year calls unto year!
+
+
+
+DEATH--(AEsch., Fr., 156.)
+
+
+
+Of all Gods Death alone
+Disdaineth sacrifice:
+No man hath found or shown
+The gift that Death would prize.
+In vain are songs or sighs,
+Paaen, or praise, or moan,
+Alone beneath the skies
+Hath Death no altar-stone!
+
+There is no head so dear
+That men would grudge to Death;
+Let Death but ask, we give
+All gifts that we may live;
+But though Death dwells so near,
+We know not what he saith.
+
+
+
+NYSA--(Soph., Fr., 235; AEsch., Fr., 56.)
+
+
+
+On these Nysaean shores divine
+The clusters ripen in a day.
+At dawn the blossom shreds away;
+The berried grapes are green and fine
+And full by noon; in day's decline
+They're purple with a bloom of grey,
+And e'er the twilight plucked are they,
+And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.
+
+But through the night with torch in hand
+Down the dusk hills the Maenads fare;
+The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare,
+The muffled timbrels swell and sound,
+And drown the clamour of the band
+Like thunder moaning underground.
+
+
+
+COLONUS--(OEd. Col., 667-705.)
+
+
+
+I.
+
+Here be the fairest homes the land can show,
+The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here
+The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear,
+For well the deep green gardens doth she know.
+Groves of the God, where winds may never blow,
+Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer
+Among the myriad-berried ivy dear,
+Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.
+
+For here he loves to dwell, and here resort
+These Nymphs that are his nurses and his court,
+And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs
+The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair
+Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair,
+Demeter, and to wreathe the Maiden's brows!
+
+II.
+
+Yea, here the dew of Heaven upon the grain
+Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring,
+Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering,
+That day by day revisiteth the plain.
+Nor do the Goddesses the grove disdain,
+But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing,
+And here they love to weave their dancing ring,
+With Aphrodite of the golden rein.
+
+And here there springs a plant that knoweth not
+The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle,
+Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot
+It dwells, the grey-leaved olive; ne'er shall guile
+Nor force of foemen root it from the spot:
+Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!
+
+
+
+THE PASSING OF OEDIPOUS--(OEd.  Col., 1655-1666.)
+
+
+
+How OEdipous departed, who may tell
+Save Theseus only? for there neither came
+The burning bolt of thunder, and the flame
+To blast him into nothing, nor the swell
+Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell.
+But some diviner herald none may name
+Called him, or inmost Earth's abyss became
+The painless place where such a soul might dwell.
+
+Howe'er it chanced, untouched of malady,
+Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament,
+With comfort on the twilight way he went,
+Passing, if ever man did, wondrously;
+From this world's death to life divinely rent,
+Unschooled in Time's last lesson, how we die.
+
+
+
+THE TAMING OF TYRO--(Soph., Fr., 587.)
+
+
+
+(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus, cruelly
+entreated her in all things, and chiefly in this, that she let
+sheer her beautiful hair.)
+
+
+At fierce Sidero's word the thralls drew near,
+And shore the locks of Tyro,--like ripe corn
+They fell in golden harvest,--but forlorn
+The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear,
+Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn
+Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer,
+And drive her where, within the waters clear,
+She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.
+
+Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart
+Who marking that wild thing made weak and tame,
+Broken, and grieving for her glory gone,
+Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart
+Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came
+And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!
+
+
+
+TO ARTEMIS--(Hippol., Eurip., 73-87.)
+
+
+
+For thee soft crowns in thine untrampled mead
+I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear;
+Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed,
+Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there;
+Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair
+The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed
+Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead
+About the grassy close that is her care!
+
+Souls only that are gracious and serene
+By gift of God, in human lore unread,
+May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green
+That now I wreathe for thine immortal head,
+I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen,
+And by thy whispered voice am comforted.
+
+
+
+CRITICISM OF LIFE--(Hippol, Eurip .P., 252-266.)
+
+
+
+Long life hath taught me many things, and shown
+That lukewarm loves for men who die are best,
+Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,
+Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast;
+Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,
+Now cherished, now away at random thrown!
+Grievous it is for other's grief to moan,
+Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!
+
+Wise ruling this of life:  but yet again
+Perchance too rigid diet is not well;
+He lives not best who dreads the coming pain
+And shunneth each delight desirable:
+FLEE THOU EXTREMES, this word alone is plain,
+Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!
+
+
+
+AMARYLLIS--(Theocritus, Idyll, iii.)
+
+
+
+Fair Amaryllis, wilt thou never peep
+From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine?
+Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep,
+These didst thou long for, and all these are thine.
+Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep
+Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine;
+To watch thee waken, Love, and watch thee sleep,
+Within thy grot below the shadowy pine.
+Now know I Love, a cruel god is he,
+The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear;
+And truly to the bone he burneth me.
+But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne'er a tear,
+Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee;
+Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.
+
+
+
+THE CANNIBAL ZEUS--A.D. 160
+
+
+
+[Greek text]--Paus. viii. 38
+
+
+None elder city doth the Sun behold
+Than ancient Lycosura; 'twas begun
+Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun,
+And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold
+The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread:  'tis told
+That whoso fares within that forest dun
+Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the Sun,
+Ay, and within the year his life is cold!
+
+Hard by dwelt he {13} who, while the Gods deigned eat
+At good men's tables, gave them dreadful meat,
+A child he slew: --his mountain altar green
+Here still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me,
+Piteous, but as they are let these things be,
+And as from the beginning they have been!
+
+
+
+INVOCATION OF ISIS--(Apuleius, Metamorph.  XI.)
+
+
+
+Thou that art sandalled on immortal feet
+With leaves of palm, the prize of Victory;
+Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet,
+Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky,
+I pray thee by all names men name thee by!
+Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat!
+Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh!
+Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet!
+
+Or, yet more dread, divine Persephone
+From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near;
+Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea;
+Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer:
+By all thy names and rites I summon thee;
+By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear!
+
+
+
+THE COMING OF ISIS
+
+
+
+So Lucius prayed, and sudden, from afar,
+Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright
+Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star;
+She came in deep blue raiment of the night,
+Above her robes that now were snowy white,
+Now golden as the moons of harvest are,
+Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bay,
+Now stained with all the lustre of the light.
+
+Then he who saw her knew her, and he knew
+The awful symbols borne in either hand;
+The golden urn that laves Demeter's dew,
+The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand;
+The shaken seistron's music, tinkling through
+The temples of that old Osirian land.
+
+
+
+THE SPINET
+
+
+
+My heart an old Spinet with strings
+To laughter chiefly turned, but some
+That Fate has practised hard on, dumb,
+They answer not whoever sings.
+The ghosts of half-forgotten things
+Will touch the keys with fingers numb,
+The little mocking spirits come
+And thrill it with their fairy wings.
+
+A jingling harmony it makes
+My heart, my lyre, my old Spinet,
+And now a memory it wakes,
+And now the music means "forget,"
+And little heed the player takes
+Howe'er the thoughtful critic fret.
+
+
+
+NOTES
+
+
+
+The Fortunate Islands.
+
+This piece is a rhymed loose version of a passage in the Vera
+Historia of Lucian.  The humorist was unable to resist the
+temptation to introduce passages of mockery, which are here
+omitted.  Part of his description of the Isles of the Blest has a
+close and singular resemblance to the New Jerusalem of the
+Apocalypse.  The clear River of Life and the prodigality of gold
+and of precious stones may especially be noticed.
+
+WHOSO DOTH TASTE THE DEAD MEN'S BREAD, &.c.  This belief that the
+living may visit, on occasion, the dwellings of the dead, but can
+never return to earth if they taste the food of the departed, is
+expressed in myths of worldwide distribution.  Because she ate the
+pomegranate seed, Persephone became subject to the spell of Hades.
+In Apuleius, Psyche, when she visits the place of souls, is
+advised to abstain from food.  Kohl found the myth among the
+Ojibbeways, Mr. Codrington among the Solomon Islanders; it occurs
+in Samoa, in the Finnish Kalewala (where Wainamoinen, in Pohjola,
+refrains from touching meat or drink), and the belief has left its
+mark on the mediaeval ballad of Thomas of Ercildoune.  When he is
+in Fairy Land, the Fairy Queen supplies him with the bread and
+wine of earth, and will not suffer him to touch the fruits which
+grow "in this countrie."  See also "Wandering Willie" in
+Redgauntlet.
+
+AS NOW THE HUTTED ESKIMO.  The Eskimo and the miserable Fuegians
+are almost the only Socialists who practise what European
+Anarchists preach.  The Fuegians go so far as to tear up any piece
+of cloth which one of the tribe may receive, so that each member
+may have a rag.  The Eskimo are scarcely such consistent walkers,
+and canoes show a tendency to accumulate in the hands of
+proprietors.  Formerly no Eskimo was allowed to possess more than
+one canoe.  Such was the wild justice of the Polar philosophers.
+
+THE LATEST MINSTREL.  "The sound of all others dearest to his ear,
+the gentle ripple of Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly
+audible as we knelt around the bed and his eldest son kissed and
+closed his eyes."--Lockhart's Life of Scott, vii., 394.
+
+RONSARD'S GRAVE.  This version ventures to condense the original
+which, like most of the works of the Pleiad, is unnecessarily
+long.
+
+THE SNOW, AND WIND, AND HAIL.  Ronsard's rendering of the famous
+passage in Odyssey, vi., about the dwellings of the Olympians.
+The vision of a Paradise of learned lovers and poets constantly
+recurs in the poetry of Joachim du Bellay, and of Ronsard.
+
+ROMANCE.  Suggested by a passage in La Faustin, by M. E. de
+Goncourt, a curious moment of poetry in a repulsive piece of
+naturalisme.
+
+M. BOULMIER, author of Les Villanelles, died shortly after this
+villanelle was written; he had not published a larger collection
+on which he had been at work.
+
+EDMUND GORLIOT.  The bibliophile will not easily procure Gorliot's
+book, which is not in the catalogues.  Throughout The Last Maying
+there is reference to the Pervigilium Veneris.
+
+BIRD-GODS.  Apparently Aristophanes preserved, in a burlesque
+form, the remnants of a genuine myth.  Almost all savage religions
+have their bird-gods, and it is probable that Aristophanes did not
+invent, but only used a surviving myth of which there are scarcely
+any other traces in Greek literature.
+
+SPINET.  The accent is on the last foot, even when the word is
+written spinnet.  Compare the remarkable Liberty which Pamela took
+with the 137th Psalm.
+
+My Joys and Hopes all overthrown,
+My Heartstrings almost broke,
+Unfit my Mind for Melody,
+Much more to bear a Joke.
+But yet, if from my Innocence
+I, even in Thought, should slide,
+Then, let my fingers quite forget
+The sweet Spinnet to guide!
+
+Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, vol. i., p. 184., 1785
+
+
+
+Footnotes:
+
+
+
+{1}  N.B.  There is only one veracious statement in this ballade,
+which must not be accepted as autobiographical.
+
+{2}  These lines do NOT apply to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller,
+and her delightful sisters, Gades aditurae mecum, in the pocket
+edition of Mr. James's novels, if ever I go to Gades.
+
+{3}  Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well known to the Dacotahs and
+Zulus.
+
+{4}  The Hawk, in the myth of the Galinameros of Central
+California, lit up the Sun.
+
+{5}  Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the demiurge and "culture-hero"
+of several Australian tribes.
+
+{6}  The Creation of Man is thus described by the Australians.
+
+{7}  In Andaman, Thlinkeet, Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is
+the Prometheus Purphoros; in Normandy this part is played by the
+Wren.
+
+{8}  Yehl:  the Raven God of the Thlinkeets.
+
+{9}  Indra stole Soma as a Hawk and as a Quail.  For Odin's feat
+as a Bird, see Bragi's Telling in the Younger Edda.
+
+{10}  Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave Australians their marriage
+laws.
+
+{11}  Lubra, a woman; kobong, "totem;" or, to please Mr. Max
+Muller, "otem."
+
+{12}  The Crow was the Hawk's rival.
+
+{13}  Lycaon, the first werewolf.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of The Project Gutenberg Etext of Rhymes a la Mode, by Andrew Lang
+
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