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diff --git a/1645-0.txt b/1645-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c3c1c30 --- /dev/null +++ b/1645-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2900 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Rhymes a la Mode, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Rhymes a la Mode + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: September 16, 2014 [eBook #1645] +[This file was first posted on 21 September 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES A LA MODE*** + + +Transcribed from the 1885 Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + [Picture: Man at harpsichord] + + + + + + RHYMES A LA MODE + + + BY A. LANG + + _Hom_, _c’est une ballade_! + VADIUS + + [Picture: Decorative graphic: Arbor Scientiæ, Arbor Vitæ] + + LONDON + _KEGAN PAUL_, _TRENCH & CO_ + MDCCCLXXXV + + * * * * * + +Many of these verses have appeared in periodicals, English or American, +and some were published in an American collection called _Ballades and +Verses Vain_. None of them have previously been put forth in book form +in England. The _Rondeaux of the Galleries_ were published in the +_Magazine of Art_, and are reprinted by permission of Messrs. Cassell and +Co. (Limited). + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE +BALLADE DEDICATORY vii +THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS 3 +THE NEW MILLENIUM 13 +ALMAE MATRES 23 +DESIDERIUM 27 +RHYMES A LA MODE 29 + Ballade of Middle Age 31 + The Last Cast 33 + Twilight 37 + Ballade of Summer 39 + Ballade of Christmas Ghosts 41 + Love’s Easter 42 + Ballade of the Girton Girl 43 + Ronsard’s Grave 45 + San Terenzo 48 + Romance 50 + Ballade of his own Country 52 + Villanelle 55 + Triolets after Moschus 57 + Ballade of Cricket 59 + The Last Maying 61 + Homeric Unity 65 + In Tintagel 66 + Pisidicê 68 + From the East to the West 71 + Love the Vampire 72 + Ballade of the Book-man’s Paradise 74 + Ballade of a Friar 76 + Ballade of Neglected Merit 78 + Ballade of Railway Novels 80 + The Cloud Chorus 82 + Ballade of Literary Fame 85 + Νήνεμος Αἰών 87 +ART 89 + A very woful Ballade of the Art Critic 91 + Art’s Martyr 94 + The Palace of Bric-à-brac 97 + Rondeaux of the Galleries 100 +SCIENCE 103 + The Barbarous Bird-Gods 105 + Man and the Ascidian 110 + Ballade of the Primitive Jest 113 +CAMEOS 115 + Cameos 117 + Helen on the walls 118 + The Isles of the Blessed 119 + Death 121 + Nysa 122 + Colonus (I.) 123 + ,, (II.) 124 + The Passing of Œdipous 125 + The Taming of Tyro 126 + To Artemis 127 + Criticism of Life 128 + Amaryllis 129 + The Cannibal Zeus 130 + Invocation of Isis 132 + The Coming of Isis 133 +THE SPINET 134 +NOTES 135 + + + + +_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_. + + + + +THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS. + + +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_. + + + +THE NEW MILLENIUM. + + + (_THE UNFORTUNATE ISLANDS_.) + + + +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. + + + + +RHYMES A LA MODE. + + +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 π. + + 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 π. + + 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 κεν and on καὶ, + And her service is swift and oblique, + But her forte’s to evaluate π. + + 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. + + + Αίαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾱπον ὄλωνται + ὕστερον άυ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι + άμμες δ’ οι μεγάλοι καὶ χαρτερί οι σοφοὶ ἄνδρες + ὁππότε πρᾱτα θάνωμες άνάχοοι ἔν χθονὶ χοίλα + ‘εύδομες ἔυ μάλα μαχρὸν ἀπέμονα νήγρετον ‘ύπνον. + + 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 Mycenæ, 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! + + + +PISIDICÊ. + + +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 Pisidicê! + + 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, Pisidicê! + + 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 Pisidicê. + + 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 Pisidicê. + + 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, Pisidicê! + + + +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. + + + Ο ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ’Σ ΤΟΝ ΤΑΦΟ. + + 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 desirèd 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 _Frère Lubin_, though translated by Longfellow and +others, has not hitherto been rendered into the original measure, of +_ballade à double refrain_.) + + SOME ten or twenty times a day, + To bustle to the town with speed, + To dabble in what dirt he may,— + Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need! + But any sober life to lead + Upon an exemplary plan, + Requires a Christian indeed,— + Le Frère 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 Frère 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 Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + An honest girl to lead astray, + With subtle saw and promised meed, + Requires no cunning crone and grey,— + Le Frère 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 Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + ENVOY. + + In good to fail, in ill succeed, + Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need! + In honest works to lead the van, + Le Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + + +BALLADE OF NEGLECTED MERIT. {78} + + + 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 {80} + 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 Mæotis 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! + + + +Νήνεμος ’Αἰών + + + 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 Himâlayan 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! + + + + +ART. + + +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_ æsthetic blacks! + + + +THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-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! + + + + +SCIENCE. + + +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 {105} tail! + Then the Hawk {106a} 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, {106b} 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. {106c} + 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! {107a} + 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.{107b} + 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. {108a} + 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_ {108b} belong to the + self-same _kobong_ {108c} 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. {108d} + 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! + Palæolithic 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 Æschylus 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 Scæan portals came, + Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus, + Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus, + 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 Achæan 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. + + + (_Æsch._, _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, + Pæan, 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; _Æsch._, _Fr._, 56.) + + ON these Nysæan 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 Mænads 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. + + + (_Œd. 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 ŒDIPOUS. + + + (_Œd. Col._, 1655–1666.) + + HOW Œdipous 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._, 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 + + Καὶ ἔθυσε τὸ βρέφος, καὶ ἔσπεισεν ἐπὶ τοῦ βωμοῦ τὸ ‘αῖμχ—έπὶ τούτου + βωμοῦ τῷ Δὺ θύουσιν ἐν ἀποῤῥήτῳ.—_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 {130} 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. + + +Page 3. _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 mediæval 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. + +Page 20. _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. + +Page 36. _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. + +Page 45. _Ronsard’s Grave_. This version ventures to condense the +original which, like most of the works of the Pleiad, is unnecessarily +long. + +Page 46. _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. + +Page 50. _Romance_. Suggested by a passage in La Faustin, by M. E. de +Goncourt, a curious moment of poetry in a repulsive piece of +_naturalisme_. + +Page 55. _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. + +Page 61. _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_. + +Page 105. _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. + +Page 134. _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. + + +{78} N.B. There is only one veracious statement in this ballade, which +must not be accepted as autobiographical. + +{80} These lines do _not_ apply to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller, and +her delightful sisters, _Gades adituræ mecum_, in the pocket edition of +Mr. James’s novels, if ever I go to Gades. + +{105} Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well known to the Dacotahs and Zulus. + +{106a} The Hawk, in the myth of the Galinameros of Central California, +lit up the Sun. + +{106b} Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the demiurge and “culture-hero” of +several Australian tribes. + +{106c} The Creation of Man is thus described by the Australians. + +{107a} In Andaman, Thlinkeet, Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is the +Prometheus Purphoros; in Normandy this part is played by the Wren. + +{107b} Yehl: the Raven God of the Thlinkeets. + +{108a} 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. + +{108b} Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave Australians their marriage laws. + +{108c} _Lubra_, a woman; _kobong_, “totem;” or, to please Mr. Max +Müller, “otem.” + +{108d} The Crow was the Hawk’s rival. + +{130} Lycaon, the first werewolf. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES A LA MODE*** + + +******* This file should be named 1645-0.txt or 1645-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/6/4/1645 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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