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diff --git a/1645-h/1645-h.htm b/1645-h/1645-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8db3a0b --- /dev/null +++ b/1645-h/1645-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3355 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Rhymes a la Mode, by Andrew Lang</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES A LA MODE*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1885 Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. edition +by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Book cover" +title= +"Book cover" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Man at harpsichord" +title= +"Man at harpsichord" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>RHYMES A LA MODE</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">BY A. LANG</p> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: right"><i>Hom</i>, +<i>c’est une ballade</i>!<br /> +<span class="smcap">Vadius</span></p> +</blockquote> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic: Arbor Scientiæ, Arbor Vitæ" +title= +"Decorative graphic: Arbor Scientiæ, Arbor Vitæ" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">LONDON</span><br /> +<i>KEGAN PAUL</i>, <i>TRENCH & CO</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MDCCCLXXXV</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p><a name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. iv</span>Many of +these verses have appeared in periodicals, English or American, +and some were published in an American collection called +<i>Ballades and Verses Vain</i>. None of them have +previously been put forth in book form in England. The +<i>Rondeaux of the Galleries</i> were published in the +<i>Magazine of Art</i>, and are reprinted by permission of +Messrs. Cassell and Co. (Limited).</p> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Ballade +Dedicatory</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagevii">vii</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Fortunate +Islands</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page3">3</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The New +Millenium</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page13">13</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Almae Matres</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page23">23</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Desiderium</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Rhymes a la +Mode</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Middle Age</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Last Cast</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page33">33</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Twilight</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page37">37</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Summer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Christmas Ghosts</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Love’s Easter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of the Girton Girl</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ronsard’s Grave</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>San Terenzo</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of his own Country</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page52">52</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Triolets after Moschus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Cricket</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Last Maying</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Homeric Unity</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>In Tintagel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Pisidicê</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>From the East to the West</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Love the Vampire</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of the Book-man’s Paradise</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of a Friar</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page76">76</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Neglected Merit</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Railway Novels</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Cloud Chorus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page82">82</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of Literary Fame</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Νήνεμος +Αἰών</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Art</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page89">89</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>A very woful Ballade of the Art Critic</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Art’s Martyr</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Palace of Bric-à-brac</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Rondeaux of the Galleries</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Science</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Barbarous Bird-Gods</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Man and the Ascidian</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Ballade of the Primitive Jest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page113">113</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Cameos</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Cameos</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page117">117</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Helen on the walls</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page118">118</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>The Isles of the Blessed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page119">119</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page121">121</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Nysa</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page122">122</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Colonus (I.)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>,, (II.)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page124">124</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Passing of Œdipous</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Taming of Tyro</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page126">126</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>To Artemis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Criticism of Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page128">128</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Amaryllis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page129">129</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Cannibal Zeus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page130">130</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>Invocation of Isis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page132">132</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p>The Coming of Isis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">The Spinet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page134">134</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p><span class="smcap">Notes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page135">135</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span><i>BALLADE DEDICATORY</i>.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall"><i>TO</i></span><br /> +<i>MRS. ELTON</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>OF WHITE STAUNTON</i></span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>The</i></span><i> +painted Briton built his mound</i>,<br /> +<i>And left his celts and clay</i>,<br /> +<i>On yon fair slope of sunlit ground</i><br /> +<i>That fronts your garden gay</i>;<br /> +<i>The Roman came</i>, <i>he bore the sway</i>,<br /> +<i>He bullied</i>, <i>bought</i>, <i>and sold</i>,<br /> +<i>Your fountain sweeps his works away</i><br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>But still his crumbling urns are +found</i><br /> +<i>Within the window-bay</i>,<br /> +<i>Where once he listened to the sound</i><br /> +<i>That lulls you day by day</i>;—<br /> +<a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. x</span><i>The sound +of summer winds at play</i>,<br /> +<i>The noise of waters cold</i><br /> +<i>To Yarty wandering on their way</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The Roman fell</i>: <i>his firm-set +bound</i><br /> +<i>Became the Saxon’s stay</i>;<br /> +<i>The bells made music all around</i><br /> +<i>For monks in cloisters grey</i>,<br /> +<i>Till fled the monks in disarray</i><br /> +<i>From their warm chantry’s fold</i>,<br /> +<i>Old Abbots slumber as they may</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap"><i>Envoy</i></span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Creeds</i>, <i>empires</i>, <i>peoples</i>, +<i>all decay</i>,<br /> +<i>Down into darkness</i>, <i>rolled</i>;<br /> +<i>May life that’s fleet be sweet</i>, <i>I pray</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>THE +FORTUNATE ISLANDS.</h2> +<h3><a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>A DREAM +IN JUNE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> twilight of the +longest day<br /> + I lingered over Lucian,<br /> +Till ere the dawn a dreamy way<br /> + My spirit found, untrod of man,<br /> +Between the green sky and the grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">Amid the soft dusk suddenly<br /> + More light than air I seemed to sail,<br /> +Afloat upon the ocean sky,<br /> + While through the faint blue, clear and pale,<br /> +I saw the mountain clouds go by:<br /> + My barque had thought for helm and sail,<br /> +And one mist wreath for canopy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +4</span>Like torches on a marble floor<br /> + Reflected, so the wild stars shone,<br /> +Within the abysmal hyaline,<br /> + Till the day widened more and more,<br /> +And sank to sunset, and was gone,<br /> +And then, as burning beacons shine<br /> + On summits of a mountain isle,<br /> + A light to folk on sea that +fare,<br /> + So the sky’s beacons for a while<br /> + Burned in these islands of the +air.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then from a starry island set<br /> + Where one swift tide of wind there flows,<br /> +Came scent of lily and violet,<br /> + Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose,<br /> +Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine,<br /> +So delicate is the air and fine:<br /> +And forests of all fragrant trees<br /> + Sloped seaward from the central hill,<br /> +And ever clamorous were these</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>With singing of glad birds; and still<br /> + Such music came as in the woods<br /> +Most lonely, consecrate to Pan,<br /> + The Wind makes, in his many moods,<br /> +Upon the pipes some shepherd Man,<br /> + Hangs up, in thanks for victory!<br /> +On these shall mortals play no more,<br /> + But the Wind doth touch them, over and +o’er,<br /> +And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the daylight and the dark<br /> + That island lies in silver air,<br /> +And suddenly my magic barque<br /> + Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there;<br /> +And by me stood the sentinel<br /> + Of them who in the island dwell;<br /> + All smiling did he bind my +hands,<br /> + With rushes green and rosy +bands,<br /> +They have no harsher bonds than these<br /> + The people of the pleasant lands<br /> +Within the wash of the airy seas!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +6</span>Then was I to their city led:<br /> + Now all of ivory and gold<br /> +The great walls were that garlanded<br /> +The temples in their shining fold,<br /> + (Each fane of beryl built, and each<br /> + Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,)<br /> +And all about the town, and through,<br /> +There flowed a River fed with dew,<br /> + As sweet as roses, and as clear<br /> + As mountain crystals pure and +cold,<br /> +And with his waves that water kissed<br /> +The gleaming altars of amethyst<br /> + That smoke with victims all the year,<br /> +And sacred are to the Gods of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">There sat three Judges by the Gate,<br /> + And I was led before the Three,<br /> +And they but looked on me, and straight<br /> + The rosy bonds fell down from me<br /> + Who, being innocent, was free;<br /> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>And I might +wander at my will<br /> +About that City on the hill,<br /> + Among the happy people clad<br /> + In purple weeds of woven air<br /> +Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves<br /> +At shut of languid summer eves<br /> + So light their raiment seemed; and glad<br /> +Was every face I looked on there!</p> +<p class="poetry">There was no heavy heat, no cold,<br /> + The dwellers there wax never old,<br /> + Nor wither with the waning +time,<br /> +But each man keeps that age he had<br /> + When first he won the fairy +clime.<br /> +The Night falls never from on high,<br /> + Nor ever burns the heat of noon.<br /> +But such soft light eternally<br /> + Shines, as in silver dawns of June<br /> +Before the Sun hath climbed the sky!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +8</span>Within these pleasant streets and wide,<br /> + The souls of Heroes go and come,<br /> +Even they that fell on either side<br /> + Beneath the walls of Ilium;<br /> +And sunlike in that shadowy isle<br /> +The face of Helen and her smile<br /> + Makes glad the souls of them that knew<br /> +Grief for her sake a little while!<br /> +And all true Greeks and wise are there;<br /> +And with his hand upon the hair<br /> + Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates,<br /> +About him many youths and fair,<br /> + Hylas, Narcissus, and with these<br /> +Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew<br /> + By fleet Eurotas, unaware!</p> +<p class="poetry">All these their mirth and pleasure made<br /> + Within the plain Elysian,<br /> + The fairest meadow that may be,<br +/> +<a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>With all +green fragrant trees for shade<br /> + And every scented wind to fan,<br /> + And sweetest flowers to strew the +lea;<br /> +The soft Winds are their servants fleet<br /> + To fetch them every fruit at will<br /> + And water from the river chill;<br /> +And every bird that singeth sweet<br /> + Throstle, and merle, and nightingale<br /> + Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,—<br /> +Lily, and rose, and asphodel—<br /> + With these doth each guest twine his crown<br /> + And wreathe his cup, and lay him down<br /> + Beside some friend he loveth +well.</p> +<p class="poetry">There with the shining Souls I lay<br /> +When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say,<br /> + In far-off haunts of Memory,<br /> +<i>Whoso death taste the Dead Men’s bread</i>,<br /> +<i>Shall dwell for ever with these Dead</i>,<br /> + <i>Nor ever shall his body lie</i><br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span><i>Beside +his friends</i>, <i>on the grey hill</i><br /> +<i>Where rains weep</i>, <i>and the curlews shrill</i><br /> + <i>And the brown water wanders by</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then did a new soul in me wake,<br /> +The dead men’s bread I feared to break,<br /> +Their fruit I would not taste indeed<br /> +Were it but a pomegranate seed.<br /> +Nay, not with these I made my choice<br /> +To dwell for ever and rejoice,<br /> +For otherwhere the River rolls<br /> +That girds the home of Christian souls,<br /> +And these my whole heart seeks are found<br /> +On otherwise enchanted ground.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even so I put the cup away,<br /> + The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke,<br /> + And, nowise sorrowing, I woke<br /> +While, grey among the ruins grey<br /> +Chill through the dwellings of the dead,<br /> + The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea,<br /> +<a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>Then, in a +moment, flushed to red,<br /> + Flushed all the broken minster old,<br /> + And turned the shattered stones to gold,<br /> +And wakened half the world with me!</p> +<h4>L’Envoi.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">To E. W. G.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">(Who also had rhymed on the Fortune +Islands of Lucian).</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Each in the self-same field we glean</i><br +/> +<i>The field of the Samosatene</i>,<br /> +<i>Each something takes and something leaves</i><br /> + <i>And this must choose</i>, <i>and that +forego</i><br /> +<i>In Lucian’s visionary sheaves</i>,<br /> + <i>To twine a modern posy so</i>;<br /> +<i>But all any gleanings</i>, <i>truth to tell</i>,<br /> +<i>Are mixed with mournful asphodel</i>,<br /> +<i>While yours are wreathed with poppies red</i>,<br /> + <i>With flowers that Helen’s feet have +kissed</i>,<br /> +<a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 12</span><i>With +leaves of vine that garlanded</i><br /> + <i>The Syrian Pantagruelist</i>,<br /> +<i>The sage who laughed the world away</i>,<br /> + <i>Who mocked at Gods</i>, <i>and men</i>, <i>and +care</i>,<br /> +<i>More sweet of voice than Rabelais</i>,<br /> + <i>And lighter-hearted than Voltaire</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span>THE +NEW MILLENIUM.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>THE UNFORTUNATE +ISLANDS</i>.)</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 15</span>A +VISION IN THE STRAND.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> jaded light of +late July<br /> + Shone yellow down the dusty Strand,<br /> +The anxious people bustled by,<br /> +Policeman, Pressman, you and I,<br /> + And thieves, and judges of the land.</p> +<p class="poetry">So swift they strode they had not time<br /> + To mark the humours of the Town,<br /> +But I, that mused an idle rhyme,<br /> + Looked here and there, and up and down,<br /> +And many a rapid cart I spied<br /> + That drew, as fast as ponies can,<br /> +The Newspapers of either side,<br /> + These joys of every Englishman!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>The <i>Standard</i> here, the <i>Echo</i> there,<br /> +And cultured ev’ning papers fair,<br /> +With din and fuss and shout and blare<br /> +Through all the eager land they bare,<br /> + The rumours of our little span.</p> +<p class="poetry">’Midst these, but ah, more slow of +speed,<br /> + A biggish box of sanguine hue<br /> +Was tugged on a velocipede,<br /> + And in and out the crowd, and through,<br /> +An earnest stripling urged it well<br /> +Perched on a cranky tricycle!</p> +<p class="poetry">A seedy tricycle he rode,<br /> + Perchance some three miles in the hour,<br /> +But, on the big red box that glowed<br /> + Behind him, was a name of Power,<br /> +<span class="smcap"><i>Justice</i></span>, (I read it e’er +I wist,)<br /> +<i>The Organ of the Socialist</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>The paper carts fled fleetly by<br /> + And vanished up the roaring Strand,<br /> +And eager purchasers drew nigh<br /> + Each with his penny in his hand,<br /> +But <i>Justice</i>, scarce more fleet than I,<br /> + Began to permeate the land,<br /> +And dark, methinks, the twilight fell,<br /> + Or ever <i>Justice</i> reached Pall Mall.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh Man, (I stopped to moralize,)<br /> + How eager thou to fight with Fate,<br /> +To bring Astraea from the skies;<br /> + Yet ah, how too inadequate<br /> +The means by which thou fain wouldst cope<br /> +With Laws and Morals, King and Pope!<br /> +“<i>Justice</i>!”—how prompt the +witling’s sneer,—<br /> +“Justice! Thou wouldst have Justice here!<br /> +And each poor man should be a squire,<br /> +Each with his competence a year,<br /> +Each with sufficient beef and beer,<br /> + <a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>And all things matched to his desire,<br /> +While all the Middle Classes should<br /> + With every vile Capitalist<br /> +Be clean reformed away for good,<br /> + And vanish like a morning mist!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ah splendid Vision, golden time,<br /> +An end of hunger, cold, and crime.<br /> +An end of Rent, an end of Rank,<br /> +An end of balance at the Bank,<br /> +An end of everything that’s meant<br /> +To bring Investors five per cent!”</p> +<p class="poetry">How fair doth Justice seem, I cried,<br /> + Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers<br /> +That war against on every side<br /> + Justice, and this great dream of ours,<br /> +And what have we to plead our cause<br /> +’Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws,<br /> +What but a big red box indeed,<br /> +<a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>With +copies of a weekly screed,<br /> + That’s slowly jolted, up and down,<br /> +Behind an old velocipede<br /> + To clamour <i>Justice</i> through the town:<br /> +How touchingly inadequate<br /> +These arms wherewith we’d vanquish Fate!</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, the old Order shall endure<br /> + And little change the years shall know,<br /> +And still the Many shall be poor,<br /> + And still the Poor shall dwell in woe;<br /> +Firm in the iron Law of things<br /> + The strong shall be the wealthy still,<br /> +And (called Capitalists or Kings)<br /> + Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill.<br /> +Leaving the weaker for their gain,<br /> + Leaving the gentler for their prize<br /> +Such dens and husks as beasts disdain,—<br /> + Till slowly from the wrinkled skies<br /> +The fireless frozen Sun shall wane,<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 20</span>Nor Summer +come with golden grain;<br /> + Till men be glad, mid frost and snow<br /> +To live such equal lives of pain<br /> + As now the hutted Eskimo!<br /> +Then none shall plough nor garner seed,<br /> + Then, on some last sad human shore,<br /> +Equality shall reign indeed,<br /> + The Rich shall be with us no more,<br /> +Thus, and not otherwise, shall come<br /> +The new, the true Millennium!</p> +<h2><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>ALMAE +MATRES.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page23"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 23</span>(ST. ANDREWS, 1862. OXFORD, +1865)</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>St. Andrews by the Northern sea</i>,<br /> + <i>A haunted town it is to me</i>!<br /> +A little city, worn and grey,<br /> + The grey North Ocean girds it round.<br /> +And o’er the rocks, and up the bay,<br /> + The long sea-rollers surge and sound.<br /> +And still the thin and biting spray<br /> + Drives down the melancholy street,<br /> +And still endure, and still decay,<br /> + Towers that the salt winds vainly beat.<br /> +Ghost-like and shadowy they stand<br /> +Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>St. Leonard’s chapel, long ago<br /> + We loitered idly where the tall<br /> +Fresh budded mountain ashes blow<br /> + Within thy desecrated wall:<br /> +The tough roots rent the tomb below,<br /> + The April birds sang clamorous,<br /> +We did not dream, we could not know<br /> + How hardly Fate would deal with us!</p> +<p class="poetry">O, broken minster, looking forth<br /> + Beyond the bay, above the town,<br /> +O, winter of the kindly North,<br /> + O, college of the scarlet gown,<br /> +And shining sands beside the sea,<br /> + And stretch of links beyond the sand,<br /> +Once more I watch you, and to me<br /> + It is as if I touched his hand!</p> +<p class="poetry">And therefore art thou yet more dear,<br /> + O, little city, grey and sere,<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>Though +shrunken from thine ancient pride<br /> + And lonely by thy lonely sea,<br /> +Than these fair halls on Isis’ side,<br /> + Where Youth an hour came back to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of waters green and clear,<br /> + Of willows and of poplars tall,<br /> +And, in the spring time of the year,<br /> + The white may breaking over all,<br /> +And Pleasure quick to come at call.<br /> + And summer rides by marsh and wold,<br /> +And Autumn with her crimson pall<br /> + About the towers of Magdalen rolled;<br /> +And strange enchantments from the past,<br /> + And memories of the friends of old,<br /> +And strong Tradition, binding fast<br /> + The “flying terms” with bands of +gold,—</p> +<p class="poetry">All these hath Oxford: all are dear,<br /> + But dearer far the little town,<br /> +<a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>The +drifting surf, the wintry year,<br /> + The college of the scarlet gown,<br /> + <i>St. Andrews by the Northern +sea</i>,<br /> + <i>That is a haunted town to +me</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>DESIDERIUM.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">IN MEMORIAM S. F. A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> call of homing +rooks, the shrill<br /> + Song of some bird that watches late,<br /> +The cries of children break the still<br /> + Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">And o’er your far-off tomb the grey<br /> + Sad twilight broods, and from the trees<br /> +The rooks call on their homeward way,<br /> + And are you heedless quite of these?</p> +<p class="poetry">The clustered rowan berries red<br /> + And Autumn’s may, the clematis,<br /> +They droop above your dreaming head,<br /> + And these, and all things must you miss?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Ah, you that loved the twilight air,<br /> + The dim lit hour of quiet best,<br /> +At last, at last you have your share<br /> + Of what life gave so seldom, rest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep,<br /> + Or labour, nearer the Divine,<br /> +And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep,<br /> + And gentle as thy soul, is thine!</p> +<p class="poetry">So let it be! But could I know<br /> + That thou in this soft autumn eve,<br /> +This hush of earth that pleased thee so,<br /> + Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.</p> +<h2><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>RHYMES +A LA MODE.</h2> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Our</span> youth began with +tears and sighs,<br /> +With seeking what we could not find;<br /> +Our verses all were threnodies,<br /> +In elegiacs still we whined;<br /> +Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,<br /> +We sought and knew not what we sought.<br /> +We marvel, now we look behind:<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!<br /> +Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!<br /> +What? not content with seas and skies,<br /> +With rainy clouds and southern wind,<br /> +<a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>With +common cares and faces kind,<br /> +With pains and joys each morning brought?<br /> +Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though youth “turns spectre-thin and +dies,”<br /> +To mourn for youth we’re not inclined;<br /> +We set our souls on salmon flies,<br /> +We whistle where we once repined.<br /> +Confound the woes of human-kind!<br /> +By Heaven we’re “well deceived,” I wot;<br /> +Who hum, contented or resigned,<br /> +“Life’s more amusing than we thought!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>O nate mecum</i>, worn and lined<br /> +Our faces show, but <i>that</i> is naught;<br /> +Our hearts are young ’neath wrinkled rind:<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<h3><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 33</span>THE +LAST CAST.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">THE ANGLER’S APOLOGY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Just</span> one cast more! +how many a year<br /> + Beside how many a pool and stream,<br /> +Beneath the falling leaves and sere,<br /> + I’ve sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my +dream!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreamed of the sport since April first<br /> + Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,<br /> +Adown the pastoral valleys burst<br /> + Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreamed of the singing showers that break,<br +/> + And sting the lochs, or near or far,<br /> +And rouse the trout, and stir “the take”<br /> + From Urigil to Lochinvar.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>Dreamed of the kind propitious sky<br /> + O’er Ari Innes brooding grey;<br /> +The sea trout, rushing at the fly,<br /> + Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Brief are man’s days at best; +perchance<br /> + I waste my own, who have not seen<br /> +The castled palaces of France<br /> + Shine on the Loire in summer green.</p> +<p class="poetry">And clear and fleet Eurotas still,<br /> + You tell me, laves his reedy shore,<br /> +And flows beneath his fabled hill<br /> + Where Dian drave the chase of yore.</p> +<p class="poetry">And “like a horse unbroken” yet<br +/> + The yellow stream with rush and foam,<br /> +’Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,<br /> + Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>I may not see them, but I doubt<br /> + If seen I’d find them half so fair<br /> +As ripples of the rising trout<br /> + That feed beneath the elms of Yair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, Spring I’d meet by Tweed or Ail,<br +/> + And Summer by Loch Assynt’s deep,<br /> +And Autumn in that lonely vale<br /> + Where wedded Avons westward sweep,</p> +<p class="poetry">Or where, amid the empty fields,<br /> + Among the bracken of the glen,<br /> +Her yellow wreath October yields,<br /> + To crown the crystal brows of Ken.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal,<br /> + Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide,<br /> +You never heard the ringing reel,<br /> + The music of the water side!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>Though Gods have walked your woods among,<br /> + Though nymphs have fled your banks along;<br /> +You speak not that familiar tongue<br /> + Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.</p> +<p class="poetry">My cradle song,—nor other hymn<br /> + I’d choose, nor gentler requiem dear<br /> +Than Tweed’s, that through death’s twilight dim,<br +/> + Mourned in the latest Minstrel’s ear!</p> +<h3><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>TWILIGHT.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">SONNET.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER RICHEPIN.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Light</span> has flown!<br +/> +Through the grey<br /> +The wind’s way<br /> +The sea’s moan<br /> +Sound alone!<br /> + For the day<br /> + These repay<br /> +And atone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarce I know,<br /> +Listening so<br /> + To the streams<br /> + Of the sea,<br /> + If old dreams<br /> + Sing to me!</p> +<h3><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>BALLADE OF SUMMER.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO C. H. ARKCOLL</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> strawberry +pottles are common and cheap,<br /> +Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,<br /> +When midnight dances are murdering sleep,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And far from Fleet Street, far from here,<br /> +The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,<br /> +And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">When clamour that doves in the lindens keep<br +/> +Mingles with musical plash of the weir,<br /> +Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And better a crust and a beaker of beer,<br /> +With rose-hung hedges on either hand,<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>Than a +palace in town and a prince’s cheer,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">When big trout late in the twilight leap,<br /> +When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,<br /> +When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer,<br /> +Where kine knee deep in the water stand,<br /> +On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,<br +/> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Between</span> the +moonlight and the fire<br /> +In winter twilights long ago,<br /> +What ghosts we raised for your desire<br /> +To make your merry blood run slow!<br /> +How old, how grave, how wise we grow!<br /> +No Christmas ghost can make us chill,<br /> +Save <i>those</i> that troop in mournful row,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<p class="poetry">The beasts can talk in barn and byre<br /> +On Christmas Eve, old legends know,<br /> +As year by year the years retire,<br /> +We men fall silent then I trow,<br /> +Such sights hath Memory to show,<br /> +Such voices from the silence thrill,<br /> +<a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>Such +shapes return with Christmas snow,—<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, children of the village choir,<br /> +Your carols on the midnight throw,<br /> +Oh bright across the mist and mire<br /> +Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!<br /> +Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,<br /> +Let’s cheerily descend the hill;<br /> +Be welcome all, to come or go,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, <i>sursum corda</i>, soon or slow<br /> +We part, like guests who’ve joyed their fill;<br /> +Forget them not, nor mourn them so,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>LOVE’S EASTER.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">SONNET</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> died here<br /> +Long ago;—<br /> +O’er his bier,<br /> + Lying low,<br /> + Poppies throw;<br /> + Shed no tear;<br /> + Year by year,<br /> + Roses blow!</p> +<p class="poetry">Year by year,<br /> +Adon—dear<br /> + To Love’s Queen—<br /> + Does not die!<br /> + Wakes when green<br /> + May is nigh!</p> +<h3><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> has just +“put her gown on” at Girton,<br /> + She is learned in Latin and Greek,<br /> +But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on<br /> + That the prudish remark with a shriek.<br /> +In her accents, perhaps, she is weak<br /> + (Ladies <i>are</i>, one observes with a sigh),<br /> +But in Algebra—<i>there</i> she’s unique,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p class="poetry">She can talk about putting a “spirt +on”<br /> + (I admit, an unmaidenly freak),<br /> +And she dearly delighteth to flirt on<br /> + A punt in some shadowy creek;<br /> +Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak,<br /> + She can swim as a swallow can fly;<br /> +<a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>She can +fence, she can put with a cleek,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p class="poetry">She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton,<br /> + Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,<br /> +Old tiles with the secular dirt on,<br /> + Old marbles with noses to seek.<br /> +And her Cobet she quotes by the week,<br /> + And she’s written on κεν and +on καὶ,<br /> +And her service is swift and oblique,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Princess, like a rose is her cheek,<br /> + And her eyes are as blue as the sky,<br /> +And I’d speak, had I courage to speak,<br /> + But—her forte’s to evaluate pi.</p> +<h3><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>RONSARD’S GRAVE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> wells, ye founts +that fall<br /> +From the steep mountain wall,<br /> + That fall, and flash, and fleet<br /> + With silver feet,</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye woods, ye streams that lave<br /> +The meadows with your wave,<br /> + Ye hills, and valley fair,<br /> + Attend my prayer!</p> +<p class="poetry">When Heaven and Fate decree<br /> +My latest hour for me,<br /> + When I must pass away<br /> + From pleasant day,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +46</span>I ask that none my break<br /> +The marble for my sake,<br /> + Wishful to make more fair<br /> + My sepulchre.</p> +<p class="poetry">Only a laurel tree<br /> +Shall shade the grave of me,<br /> + Only Apollo’s bough<br /> + Shall guard me now!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now shall I be at rest<br /> +Among the spirits blest,<br /> + The happy dead that dwell—<br /> + Where,—who may tell?</p> +<p class="poetry">The snow and wind and hail<br /> +May never there prevail,<br /> + Nor ever thunder fall<br /> + Nor storm at all.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>But always fadeless there<br /> +The woods are green and fair,<br /> + And faithful ever more<br /> + Spring to that shore!</p> +<p class="poetry">There shall I ever hear<br /> +Alcaeus’ music clear,<br /> + And sweetest of all things<br /> + There <span +class="smcap">Sappho</span> sings.</p> +<h3><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>SAN +TERENZO.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(The village in the bay of Spezia, +near which Shelley was living before the wreck of the Don +Juan.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mid</span> April seemed +like some November day,<br /> + When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,<br /> +Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,<br /> + Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,<br +/> + Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay<br /> +Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,<br /> +The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,—<br /> + His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen<br +/> + Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.<br +/> + Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>When +suddenly the forest glades were stirred<br /> + With waving pinions, and a great sea bird<br /> +Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1880.</p> +<h3><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>ROMANCE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> Love dwelt in a +Northern land.<br /> + A grey tower in a forest green<br /> +Was hers, and far on either hand<br /> + The long wash of the waves was seen,<br /> +And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,<br /> + The woven forest boughs between!</p> +<p class="poetry">And through the silver Northern night<br /> + The sunset slowly died away,<br /> +And herds of strange deer, lily-white,<br /> + Stole forth among the branches grey;<br /> +About the coming of the light,<br /> + They fled like ghosts before the day!</p> +<p class="poetry">I know not if the forest green<br /> + Still girdles round that castle grey;<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>I know not +if the boughs between<br /> + The white deer vanish ere the day;<br /> +Above my Love the grass is green,<br /> + My heart is colder than the clay!</p> +<h3><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY.</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">scribbled</span> on a +fly-book’s leaves<br /> + Among the shining salmon-flies;<br /> +A song for summer-time that grieves<br /> + I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves.<br /> + Between grey sea and golden sheaves,<br /> +Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,<br /> +I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves<br /> + Among the shining salmon-flies.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">TO C. H. ARKCOLL</p> +<p class="poetry">Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed<br /> + By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;<br /> +In the isles of the East and the West<br /> + That are sweet with the cinnamon trees<br /> +Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas;<br /> + Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,<br /> +<a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span>We are +more than content, if you please,<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best<br /> + With the scent of the limes, when the bees<br /> +Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest,<br /> + While the vintagers lay at their ease,<br /> +Had he sung in our northern degrees,<br /> + He’d have sought a securer retreat,<br /> +He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest<br /> + And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,<br /> +And the soul of the Southron might rest,<br /> + And be perfectly happy with these;<br /> +But <i>we</i>, that were nursed on the knees<br /> + Of the hills of the North, we would fleet<br /> +Where our hearts might their longing appease<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 54</span><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah Constance, the land of our quest<br /> + It is far from the sounds of the street,<br /> +Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>VILLANELLE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF +“LES VILLANELLES.”)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Villanelle</span>, why art +thou mute?<br /> + Hath the singer ceased to sing?<br +/> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Many a pipe and scrannel flute<br /> + On the breeze their discords +fling;<br /> +Villanelle, why art <i>thou</i> mute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sound of tumult and dispute,<br /> + Noise of war the echoes bring;<br +/> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>Once he sang of bud and shoot<br /> + In the season of the Spring;<br /> +Villanelle, why art thou mute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Fading leaf and falling fruit<br /> + Say, “The year is on the +wing,<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere the axe lie at the root,<br /> + Ere the winter come as king,<br /> +Villanelle, why art thou mute?<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<h3><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.</h3> +<blockquote><p>Αίαῖ ταὶ +μαλάχαι μέν +ἐπὰν κατὰ +κᾱπον +ὄλωνται<br /> +ὕστερον άυ +ζώοντι καὶ +εἰς ἔτος +ἄλλο +φύοντι<br /> +άμμες δ’ οι +μεγάλοι +καὶ χαρτερί +οι σοφοὶ +ἄνδρες<br /> +ὁππότε πρᾱτα +θάνωμες +άνάχοοι ἔν +χθονὶ +χοίλα<br /> +‘εύδομες +ἔυ μάλα +μαχρὸν +ἀπέμονα +νήγρετον +‘ύπνον.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Alas</span>, for us no +second spring,<br /> + Like mallows in the garden-bed,<br /> +For these the grave has lost his sting,<br /> + Alas, for <i>us</i> no second spring,<br /> + Who sleep without awakening,<br /> +And, dead, for ever more are dead,<br /> + Alas, for us no second spring,<br /> + Like mallows in the +garden-bed!</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave<br /> + That boast themselves the sons of men!<br /> +<a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 58</span>Once they +go down into the grave—<br /> + Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,—<br /> + They perish and have none to save,<br /> + They are sown, and are not raised again;<br /> +Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,<br /> + That boast themselves the sons of men!</p> +<h3><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>BALLADE OF CRICKET.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO T. W. LANG.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> burden of hard +hitting: slog away!<br /> +Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a +“four,”<br /> +And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,<br /> +That thou art in for an uncommon score.<br /> +Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,<br /> +And thou to rival <span class="smcap">Thornton</span> shalt +aspire,<br /> +When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg +before,”—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The burden of much bowling, when the stay<br /> +Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower,<br /> +When “bailers” break not in their wonted way,<br /> +And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore,<br /> +<a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>When +length balls shoot no more, ah never more,<br /> +When all deliveries lose their former fire,<br /> +When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The burden of long fielding, when the clay<br +/> +Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower’s downpour,<br /> +And running still thou stumblest, or the ray<br /> +Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,<br /> +And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,<br /> +Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer,”<br /> +And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither +shore<br /> +Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,<br /> +Than King among the old, who play no more,—<br /> +“<i>This</i> is the end of every man’s +desire!”</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>THE +LAST MAYING.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“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.’”—<span +class="smcap">Edmund Gorliot</span>, “Of Phantasies and +Omens,” p. 149. (1573.)</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Whence</span> do ye +come, with the dew on your hair?<br /> +From what far land are the boughs ye bear,<br /> + The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses,<br +/> +The light burned white in your faces fair?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“In a falling fane have we built our +house,<br /> +With the dying Gods we have held carouse,<br /> + And our lips are wan from their wild caresses,<br /> +Our hands are filled with their holy boughs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>As we crossed the lawn in the dying day<br /> +No fairy led us to meet the May,<br /> + But the very Goddess loved by lovers,<br /> +In mourning raiment of green and grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was not decked as for glee and game,<br /> +She was not veiled with the veil of flame,<br /> + The saffron veil of the Bride that covers<br /> +The face that is flushed with her joy and shame.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the laden branches the scent and dew<br /> +Mingled and met, and as snow to strew<br /> + The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses,<br /> +White flowers fell as the night wind blew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tears and kisses on lips and eyes<br /> +Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs<br /> + For grief that abides, and joy that passes,<br /> +For pain that tarries and mirth that flies.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>It chanced as the dawning grew to grey<br /> +Pale and sad on our homeward way,<br /> + With weary lips, and palled with pleasure<br /> +The Goddess met us, farewell to say.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye have made your choice, and the better +part,<br /> +Ye chose” she said, “and the wiser art;<br /> + In the wild May night drank all the measure,<br /> +The perfect pleasure of heart and heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye shall walk no more with the +May,” she said,<br /> +“Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead?<br /> + Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen,<br +/> +Sing as of old, and be happy and wed?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yea, they are glad as of old; but +you,<br /> +Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew,<br /> + Abide no more, for the springs are frozen,<br /> +And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>Ye shall never know Summer again like this;<br /> +Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis,<br /> + No more in the nymphs’ and dryads’ +playtime<br /> +Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Though the flowers in your golden hair +be bright,<br /> +Your golden hair shall be waste and white<br /> +On faded brows ere another May time<br /> + Bring the spring, but no more delight.”</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>HOMERIC UNITY.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sacred keep of +Ilion is rent<br /> +By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow<br /> +Through plains where Simois and Scamander went<br /> + To war with Gods and heroes long ago.<br /> + Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low<br /> +In rich Mycenæ, do the Fates relent:<br /> + The bones of Agamemnon are a show,<br /> +And ruined is his royal monument.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dust and awful treasures of the Dead,<br /> + Hath Learning scattered wide, but vainly thee,<br /> +Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead,<br /> + And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see<br +/> +The crown that burns on thine immortal head<br /> + Of indivisible supremacy!</p> +<h3><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>IN +TINTAGEL.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span> lady, lady, leave +the creeping mist,<br /> + And leave the iron castle by the sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, from the sea there came a ghost that +kissed<br /> + My lips, and so I cannot come to thee!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah lady, leave the cruel landward wind<br /> + That crusts the blighted flowers with bitter +foam!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, for his arms are cold and strong to +bind,<br /> + And I must dwell with him and make my home!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 67</span>LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, for the Spring is fair in Joyous Guard<br +/> + And down deep alleys sweet birds sing again.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I must tarry with the winter hard,<br /> + And with the bitter memory of pain,<br /> +Although the Spring be fair in Joyous Guard,<br /> + And in the gardens glad birds sing again!</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>PISIDICÊ.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> daughter of the +Lesbian king<br /> + Within her bower she watched the war,<br /> +Far off she heard the arrows ring,<br /> + The smitten harness ring afar;<br /> +And, fighting from the foremost car,<br /> + Saw one that smote where all must flee;<br /> +More fair than the Immortals are<br /> + He seemed to fair Pisidicê!</p> +<p class="poetry">She saw, she loved him, and her heart<br /> + Before Achilles, Peleus’ son,<br /> +<a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 69</span>Threw all +its guarded gates apart,<br /> + A maiden fortress lightly won!<br /> +And, ere that day of fight was done,<br /> + No more of land or faith recked she,<br /> +But joyed in her new life begun,—<br /> + Her life of love, Pisidicê!</p> +<p class="poetry">She took a gift into her hand,<br /> + As one that had a boon to crave;<br /> +She stole across the ruined land<br /> + Where lay the dead without a grave,<br /> +And to Achilles’ hand she gave<br /> + Her gift, the secret postern’s key.<br /> +“To-morrow let me be thy slave!”<br /> + Moaned to her love Pisidicê.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere dawn the Argives’ clarion call<br /> + Rang down Methymna’s burning street;<br /> +They slew the sleeping warriors all,<br /> + They drove the women to the fleet,<br /> +<a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 70</span>Save one, +that to Achilles’ feet<br /> + Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he:<br /> +“For her no doom but death is meet,”<br /> + And there men stoned Pisidicê.</p> +<p class="poetry">In havens of that haunted coast,<br /> + Amid the myrtles of the shore,<br /> +The moon sees many a maiden ghost<br /> + Love’s outcast now and evermore.<br /> +The silence hears the shades deplore<br /> + Their hour of dear-bought love; but <i>thee</i><br +/> +The waves lull, ’neath thine olives hoar,<br /> + To dreamless rest, Pisidicê!</p> +<h3><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 71</span>FROM +THE EAST TO THE WEST.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Returning</span> from what +other seas<br /> + Dost thou renew thy murmuring,<br /> +Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of these<br /> + To tell, the shores where float and cling<br /> +My love, my hope, my memories?</p> +<p class="poetry">Say does my lady wake to note<br /> + The gold light into silver die?<br /> +Or do thy waves make lullaby,<br /> + While dreams of hers, like angels, float<br /> +Through star-sown spaces of the sky?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, would such angels came to me<br /> + That dreams of mine might speak with hers,<br /> +Nor wake the slumber of the sea<br /> +With words as low as winds that be<br /> + Awake among the gossamers!</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 72</span>LOVE +THE VAMPIRE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">Ο +ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ’Σ +ΤΟΝ ΤΑΦΟ.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> level sands and grey,<br /> + Stretch leagues and leagues away,<br /> +Down to the border line of sky and foam,<br /> + A spark of sunset burns,<br /> + The grey tide-water turns,<br /> +Back, like a ghost from her forbidden home!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Here, without pyre or +bier,<br /> + Light Love was buried here,<br /> +Alas, his grave was wide and deep enough,<br /> + Thrice, with averted head,<br /> + We cast dust on the dead,<br /> +And left him to his rest. An end of Love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page73"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 73</span>“No stone to roll away,<br /> + No seal of snow or clay,<br /> +Only soft dust above his wearied eyes,<br /> + But though the sudden sound<br /> + Of Doom should shake the ground,<br /> +And graves give up their ghosts, he will not rise!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> So each to each we said!<br +/> + Ah, but to either bed<br /> +Set far apart in lands of North and South,<br /> + Love as a Vampire came<br /> + With haggard eyes aflame,<br /> +And kissed us with the kisses of his mouth!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thenceforth in dreams must +we<br /> + Each other’s shadow see<br /> +Wand’ring unsatisfied in empty lands,<br /> + Still the desirèd face<br /> + Fleets from the vain embrace,<br /> +And still the shape evades the longing hands.</p> +<h3><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN’S PARADISE.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> <i>is</i> a +Heaven, or here, or there,—<br /> +A Heaven there is, for me and you,<br /> +Where bargains meet for purses spare,<br /> +Like ours, are not so far and few.<br /> +Thuanus’ bees go humming through<br /> +The learned groves, ’neath rainless skies,<br /> +O’er volumes old and volumes new,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">There treasures bound for Longepierre<br /> +Keep brilliant their morocco blue,<br /> +There Hookes’ <i>Amanda</i> is not rare,<br /> +Nor early tracts upon Peru!<br /> +<a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>Racine is +common as Rotrou,<br /> +No Shakespeare Quarto search defies,<br /> +And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Eve,—not our first mother +fair,—<br /> +But Clovis Eve, a binder true;<br /> +Thither does Bauzonnet repair,<br /> +Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!<br /> +But never come the cropping crew<br /> +That dock a volume’s honest size,<br /> +Nor they that “letter” backs askew,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, do not Heber and De Thou,<br /> +And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise,<br /> +<i>La chasse au bouquin</i> still pursue<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise?</p> +<h3><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>BALLADE OF A FRIAR.</h3> +<p>(Clement Marot’s <i>Frère Lubin</i>, though +translated by Longfellow and others, has not hitherto been +rendered into the original measure, of <i>ballade à double +refrain</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Some</span> ten or twenty +times a day,<br /> +To bustle to the town with speed,<br /> +To dabble in what dirt he may,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +But any sober life to lead<br /> +Upon an exemplary plan,<br /> +Requires a Christian indeed,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p class="poetry">Another’s wealth on his to lay,<br /> +With all the craft of guile and greed,<br /> +To leave you bare of pence or pay,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +<a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>But watch +him with the closest heed,<br /> +And dun him with what force you can,—<br /> +He’ll not refund, howe’er you plead,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p class="poetry">An honest girl to lead astray,<br /> +With subtle saw and promised meed,<br /> +Requires no cunning crone and grey,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +He preaches an ascetic creed,<br /> +But,—try him with the water can—<br /> +A dog will drink, whate’er his breed,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">In good to fail, in ill succeed,<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +In honest works to lead the van,<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<h3><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>BALLADE OF NEGLECTED MERIT. <a name="citation78"></a><a +href="#footnote78" class="citation">[78]</a></h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">have</span> scribbled in +verse and in prose,<br /> +I have painted “arrangements in greens,”<br /> +And my name is familiar to those<br /> +Who take in the high class magazines;<br /> +I compose; I’ve invented machines;<br /> +I have written an “Essay on Rhyme”;<br /> +For my county I played, in my teens,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I have lived, as a chief, with the Crows;<br /> +I have “interviewed” Princes and Queens;<br /> +I have climbed the Caucasian snows;<br /> +I abstain, like the ancients, from beans,—<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>I’ve +a guess what Pythagoras means,<br /> +When he says that to eat them’s a crime,—<br /> +I have lectured upon the Essenes,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve a fancy as morbid as Poe’s,<br +/> +I can tell what is meant by “Shebeens,”<br /> +I have breasted the river that flows<br /> +Through the land of the wild Gadarenes;<br /> +I can gossip with Burton on <i>skenes</i>,<br /> +I can imitate Irving (the Mime),<br /> +And my sketches are quainter than Keene’s,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">So the tower of mine eminence leans<br /> +Like the Pisan, and mud is its lime;<br /> +I’m acquainted with Dukes and with Deans,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<h3><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +80</span>BALLADE OF RAILWAY NOVELS.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> others praise +analysis<br /> + And revel in a “cultured” style,<br /> +And follow the subjective Miss <a name="citation80"></a><a +href="#footnote80" class="citation">[80]</a><br /> + From Boston to the banks of Nile,<br /> +Rejoice in anti-British bile,<br /> + And weep for fickle hero’s woe,<br /> +These twain have shortened many a mile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.</p> +<p class="poetry">These damsels of +“Democracy’s,”<br /> + How long they stop at every stile!<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>They +smile, and we are told, I wis,<br /> + Ten subtle reasons <i>why</i> they smile.<br /> +Give <i>me</i> your villains deeply vile,<br /> + Give me Lecoq, Jottrat, and Co.,<br /> +Great artists of the ruse and wile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, novel readers, tell me this,<br /> + Can prose that’s polished by the file,<br /> +Like great Boisgobey’s mysteries,<br /> + Wet days and weary ways beguile,<br /> +And man to living reconcile,<br /> + Like these whose every trick we know?<br /> +The agony how high they pile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, friend, how many and many a while<br /> + They’ve made the slow time fleetly flow,<br /> +And solaced pain and charmed exile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.</p> +<h3><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>THE +CLOUD CHORUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(FROM ARISTOPHANES.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><i>Socrates +speaks</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Hither, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and +unveil yourselves here;<br /> +Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,<br +/> +Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens +clear,<br /> +Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile’s +overflow,<br /> +Or whether you dwell by Mæotis mere<br /> +Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!<br /> +And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><i>The Clouds +sing</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 83</span>Of the +father of streams, from the sounding sea,<br /> +Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar.<br /> +Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we!<br /> +Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest,<br /> + On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,<br /> +On the waters that murmur east and west<br /> + On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice,<br /> +For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,<br /> + And the bright rays gleam;<br /> +Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare<br /> +In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere<br /> + From the height of the heaven, on the land and +air,<br /> + And the Ocean stream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,<br +/> + Let us gaze on Pallas’ citadel,<br /> + In the country of Cecrops, fair +and dear<br /> + The mystic land of the holy +cell,<br /> + Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,<br /> + And the gifts of the Gods that +know not stain<br /> +<a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>And a +people of mortals that know not fear.<br /> +For the temples tall, and the statues fair,<br /> +And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there,<br /> +The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers<br /> + And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,<br /> +And the musical voices that fill the hours,<br /> + And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing!</p> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +85</span>BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">“All these for +Fourpence.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, where are the +endless Romances<br /> +Our grandmothers used to adore?<br /> +The Knights with their helms and their lances,<br /> +Their shields and the favours they wore?<br /> +And the Monks with their magical lore?<br /> +They have passed to Oblivion and <i>Nox</i>,<br /> +They have fled to the shadowy shore,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p class="poetry">And where the poetical fancies<br /> +Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?<br /> +The lyric’s melodious expanses,<br /> +The Epics in cantos a score?<br /> +<a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 86</span>They have +been and are not: no more<br /> +Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,<br /> +Nor the ladies their languors deplore,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p class="poetry">And the Music! The songs and the +dances?<br /> +The tunes that Time may not restore?<br /> +And the tomes where Divinity prances?<br /> +And the pamphlets where Heretics roar?<br /> +They have ceased to be even a bore,—<br /> +The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,—<br /> +They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to +the core,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,<br /> +On the chest without cover or locks,<br /> +Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,—<br /> +They are <i>all</i> in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +87</span>Νήνεμος +’Αἰών</h3> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">would</span> my days had +been in other times,<br /> +A moment in the long unnumbered years<br /> +That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk,<br /> +In peaceful lands that border on the Nile.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn<br /> +Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade<br /> +And shelter of the cool Himâlayan hills.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +That I in some old abbey of Touraine<br /> +Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life,<br /> +Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +88</span>I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +When quiet life to death not terrible<br /> +Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead<br /> +Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!</p> +<h2><a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +89</span>ART.</h2> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>A VERY +WOFUL BALLADE OF THE ART CRITIC.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(TO E. A. ABBEY.)</p> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">spirit</span> came to my +sad bed,<br /> +And weary sad that night was I,<br /> +Who’d tottered, since the dawn was red,<br /> +Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery,<br /> +Yea, leagues of long Academy<br /> +Awaited me when morn grew white,<br /> +’Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh,<br /> +“Take up the pen, my friend, and write!</p> +<p class="poetry">“Of many a portrait grey as lead,<br /> +Of many a mustard-coloured sky,<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>Say much, +where little should be said,<br /> +Lay on thy censure dexterously,<br /> +With microscopic glances pry<br /> +At textures, Tadema’s delight,<br /> +Praise foreign swells they always sky,<br /> +Take up the pen, my friend, and write!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I answered, “’Tis for daily +bread,<br /> +A sorry crust, I ween, and dry,<br /> +That still, with aching feet and head,<br /> +I push this lawful industry,<br /> +’Mid pictures hung or low, or high,<br /> +But, touching that which I indite,<br /> +Do artists hold me lovingly?<br /> +Take up the pen, my friend, and write.”</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 93</span><i>The Spirit +writeth in form of</i></p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">“They fain would black thy dexter eye,<br +/> +They hate thee with a bitter spite,<br /> +But scribble since thou must, or die,<br /> +Take tip the pen, my friend, and write!”</p> +<h3><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +94</span>ART’S MARTYR.</h3> +<p>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.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>He</i></span><i> +said</i>, The China on the shelf<br /> + Is very fair to view,<br /> +And wherefore should mine outer self,<br /> + Not correspond thereto?<br /> + In blue<br /> + My frame I must tattoo.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where may tattooing men abound,<br /> + And ah, where might they be?<br /> +Nay, well I wot they are not found<br /> + In lands of Christentie,<br /> + <a +name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>(<i>Quoth +he</i>)<br /> + But I must cross the sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">So forth he sailed to Borneo,<br /> + (A land that culture lacks,)<br /> +And there his money did bestow<br /> + To purchase pricks and hacks,<br /> + (Dyacks<br /> + Are famed tattooing blacks.)</p> +<p class="poetry">But European commerce had<br /> + Debased the savage kind,<br /> +And they this most unhappy lad<br /> + Before (and eke behind)<br /> + Designed<br /> + In colours to their mind!</p> +<p class="poetry">Such awful colours as are blent<br /> + On terrible placards<br /> +<a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 96</span>Where +flames the fierce advertisement<br /> + Yea, or on Christmas cards<br /> + (Not +Ward’s,<br /> + But common Christmas cards!)</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus never more to Chelsea might<br /> + The luckless boy return,<br /> +He knew himself too dreadful, quite,<br /> + A thing his friends would spurn,<br /> + And turn<br /> + To praise some Grecian urn!</p> +<p class="poetry">But still he dwells in Borneo,<br /> + A land that culture lacks,<br /> +And there they all admire him so,<br /> + They bring him heads in sacks,<br /> + Dyacks<br /> + Are <i>not</i> æsthetic blacks!</p> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>THE +PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span>, where old +Nankin glitters,<br /> + Here, where men’s tumult seems<br /> +As faint as feeble twitters<br /> + Of sparrows heard in dreams,<br /> + We watch Limoges enamel,<br /> + An old chased silver camel,<br /> + A shawl, the gift of Schamyl,<br +/> + And manuscripts in reams.</p> +<p class="poetry">Here, where the hawthorn pattern<br /> + On flawless cup and plate<br /> +Need fear no housemaid slattern,<br /> + Fell minister of fate,<br /> + ’Mid webs divinely woven,<br +/> + And helms and hauberks cloven,<br +/> + <a name="page98"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 98</span>On music of Beethoven<br /> + We dream and meditate.</p> +<p class="poetry">We know not, and we need not<br /> + To know how mortals fare,<br /> +Of Bills that pass, or speed not,<br /> + Time finds us unaware,<br /> + Yea, creeds and codes may +crumble,<br /> + And Dilke and Gladstone +stumble,<br /> + And eat the pie that’s +humble,<br /> + We neither know nor care!</p> +<p class="poetry">Can kings or clergies alter<br /> + The crackle on one plate?<br /> +Can creeds or systems palter<br /> + With what is truly great?<br /> + With Corots and with Millets,<br +/> + With April daffodillies,<br /> + Or make the maiden lilies<br /> + Bloom early or bloom late?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>Nay, here ’midst Rhodian roses,<br /> + ’Midst tissues of Cashmere,<br /> +The Soul sublime reposes,<br /> + And knows not hope nor fear;<br /> + Here all she sees her own is,<br +/> + And musical her moan is,<br /> + O’er Caxtons and Bodonis,<br +/> + Aldine and Elzevir!</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Camelot</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> Camelot how grey +and green<br /> +The Damsels dwell, how sad their teen,<br /> +In Camelot how green and grey<br /> +The melancholy poplars sway.<br /> +I wis I wot not what they mean<br /> +Or wherefore, passionate and lean,<br /> +The maidens mope their loves between,<br /> +Not seeming to have much to say,<br /> + + +In Camelot.<br /> +Yet there hath armour goodly sheen<br /> +The blossoms in the apple treen,<br /> +(To spell the Camelotian way)<br /> +Show fragrant through the doubtful day,<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>And +Master’s work is often seen<br /> + + +In Camelot!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Philistia</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Philistia! Maids in muslin white<br /> +With flannelled oarsmen oft delight<br /> +To drift upon thy streams, and float<br /> +In Salter’s most luxurious boat;<br /> +In buff and boots the cheery knight<br /> +Returns (quite safe) from Naseby fight;<br /> +Thy humblest folk are clean and bright,<br /> +Thou still must win the public vote,<br /> + + +Philistia!<br /> +Observe the High Church curate’s coat,<br /> +The realistic hansom note!<br /> +Ah, happy land untouched of blight,<br /> +Smirks, Bishops, Babies, left and right,<br /> +We know thine every charm by rote,<br /> + + +Philistia!</p> +<h2><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>SCIENCE.</h2> +<h3><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>THE +BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS: A SAVAGE PARABASIS.</h3> +<p>In the <i>Aves</i> 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.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Birds sing</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> would have you to +wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked on the spit, and +are baked in the pan,<br /> +Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and +made war ere the making of Man!<br /> +For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the +world like a barque without rudder or sail<br /> +Floated on through the night, ’twas a Bird struck a light, +’twas a flash from the bright feather’d +Tonatiu’s <a name="citation105"></a><a href="#footnote105" +class="citation">[105]</a> tail!<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>Then the +Hawk <a name="citation106a"></a><a href="#footnote106a" +class="citation">[106a]</a> with some dry wood flew up in the +sky, and afar, safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon,<br /> +And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they +recked not of care that should come on them soon.<br /> +For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, <a +name="citation106b"></a><a href="#footnote106b" +class="citation">[106b]</a> and a-musing he fell at the close of +the day;<br /> +Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some +bark of the best, and a clawful of clay. <a +name="citation106c"></a><a href="#footnote106c" +class="citation">[106c]</a><br /> +And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without +feathers (his game was a puzzle to all);<br /> +Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, +lastly, he uttered a magical call:<br /> +Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped +up, who but they, and embracing they fell,<br /> +<a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 107</span>And +<i>this</i> was the baking of Man, and his making; but now +he’s forsaking his Father, Pundjel!<br /> +Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to +crown their desire who was found but the Wren?<br /> +To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for +this has a name in the memory of men! <a +name="citation107a"></a><a href="#footnote107a" +class="citation">[107a]</a><br /> +And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it +through without falter or fail?<br /> +Why the Hawk ’twas again, and great Indra to men would +appear, now and then, in the shape of a Quail,<br /> +While the Thlinkeet’s delight is the Bird of the Night, the +beak and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl.<a +name="citation107b"></a><a href="#footnote107b" +class="citation">[107b]</a><br /> +And who for man’s need brought the famed Suttung’s +mead? why ’tis told in the creed of the Sagamen strong,<br +/> +<a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>’Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from +the blue, and gave mortals the brew that’s the fountain of +song. <a name="citation108a"></a><a href="#footnote108a" +class="citation">[108a]</a><br /> +Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young +brave overawes when in need of a squaw,<br /> +Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct +you blame if he thus breaks the law?<br /> +For you still hold it wrong if a <i>lubra</i> <a +name="citation108b"></a><a href="#footnote108b" +class="citation">[108b]</a> belong to the self-same <i>kobong</i> +<a name="citation108c"></a><a href="#footnote108c" +class="citation">[108c]</a> that is Father of you,<br /> +To take <i>her</i> as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give +her a wide berth; quite right of you, too.<br /> +For her father, you know, is <i>your</i> father, the Crow, and no +blessing but woe from the wedding would spring.<br /> +Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and +were strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. <a +name="citation108d"></a><a href="#footnote108d" +class="citation">[108d]</a><br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>Thus on +Earth’s little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your +gratitude’s small for the favours they’ve done,<br /> +And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you +plunder and kill the bright birds one by one;<br /> +There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and +the Moa has fled from the sight of the sun!</p> +<h3><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 110</span>MAN +AND THE ASCIDIAN.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">A MORALITY.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">The</span> Ancestor +remote of Man,”<br /> +Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,”<br /> +A scanty sort of water-beast<br /> +That, ninety million years at least<br /> +Before Gorillas came to be,<br /> +Went swimming up and down the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their ancestors the pious praise,<br /> +And like to imitate their ways;<br /> +How, then, does our first parent live,<br /> +What lesson has his life to give?</p> +<p class="poetry">Th’ Ascidian tadpole, young and gay,<br +/> +Doth Life with one bright eye survey,<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>His +consciousness has easy play.<br /> +He’s sensitive to grief and pain,<br /> +Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain,<br /> +And everything that fits the state<br /> +Of creatures we call vertebrate.<br /> +But age comes on; with sudden shock<br /> +He sticks his head against a rock!<br /> +His tail drops off, his eye drops in,<br /> +His brain’s absorbed into his skin;<br /> +He does not move, nor feel, nor know<br /> +The tidal water’s ebb and flow,<br /> +But still abides, unstirred, alone,<br /> +A sucker sticking to a stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">And we, his children, truly we<br /> +In youth are, like the Tadpole, free.<br /> +And where we would we blithely go,<br /> +Have brains and hearts, and feel and know.<br /> +Then Age comes on! To Habit we<br /> +Affix ourselves and are not free;<br /> +<a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +112</span>Th’ Ascidian’s rooted to a rock,<br /> +And we are bond-slaves of the clock;<br /> +Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law,<br /> +From these our heads we cannot draw:<br /> +Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in,<br /> +And daily thicker grows our skin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know<br /> +The wide world’s moving ebb and flow,<br /> +The clanging currents ring and shock,<br /> +But we are rooted to the rock.<br /> +And thus at ending of his span,<br /> +Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man<br /> +Revert to the Ascidian.</p> +<h3><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at +before the tall blonde Aryan drove him into the corners of +Europe?”—<i>Brander Matthews</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> an ancient +Jest!<br /> +Palæolithic man<br /> +In his arboreal nest<br /> +The sparks of fun would fan;<br /> +My outline did he plan,<br /> +And laughed like one possessed,<br /> +’Twas thus my course began,<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am an early Jest!<br /> +Man delved, and built, and span;<br /> +Then wandered South and West<br /> +The peoples Aryan,<br /> +<a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 114</span><i>I</i> +journeyed in their van;<br /> +The Semites, too, confessed,—<br /> +From Beersheba to Dan,—<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am an ancient Jest,<br /> +Through all the human clan,<br /> +Red, black, white, free, oppressed,<br /> +Hilarious I ran!<br /> +I’m found in Lucian,<br /> +In Poggio, and the rest,<br /> +I’m dear to Moll and Nan!<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, you may storm and ban—<br /> +Joe Millers <i>are</i> a pest,<br /> +Suppress me if you can!<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<h2><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +115</span>CAMEOS.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>SONNETS FROM THE +ANTIQUE</i>.</p> +<p>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.</p> +<h3><a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +117</span>CAMEOS.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>The</i></span><i> graver +by Apollo’s shrine</i>,<br /> + <i>Before the Gods had fled</i>, <i>would +stand</i>,<br /> + <i>A shell or onyx in his hand</i>,<br /> +<i>To copy there the face divine</i>,<br /> +<i>Till earnest touches</i>, <i>line by line</i>,<br /> + <i>Had wrought the wonder of the land</i><br /> + <i>Within a beryl’s golden band</i>,<br /> +<i>Or on some fiery opal fine</i>.<br /> +<i>Ah</i>! <i>would that as some ancient ring</i><br /> +<i>To us</i>, <i>on shell or stone</i>, <i>doth bring</i>,<br /> + <i>Art’s marvels perished long ago</i>,<br /> +<i>So I</i>, <i>within the sonnet’s space</i>,<br /> +<i>The large Hellenic lines might trace</i>,<br /> + <i>The statue in the cameo</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +118</span>HELEN ON THE WALLS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Iliad</i>, iii. 146.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Helen to the +Scæan portals came,<br /> +Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus,<br /> +Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus,<br /> +And many another of a noble name,<br /> +Famed warriors, now in council more of fame.<br /> +Always above the gates, in converse thus<br /> +They chattered like cicalas garrulous;<br /> +Who marking Helen, swore “it is no shame<br /> +That armed Achæan knights, and Ilian men<br /> +For such a woman’s sake should suffer long.<br /> +Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she.<br /> +Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again<br /> +Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong<br /> +To us, and children’s children yet to be.”</p> +<h3><a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>THE +ISLES OF THE BLESSED.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Pindar</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 106, 107 +(95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the light of the +sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls of the True<br /> + Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where +reigneth the rose;<br /> +And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits +o’er them and through<br /> + Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where +the frankincense blows:<br /> +Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it +glows,<br /> + And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the +pleasures on Earth that they knew,<br /> +<a name="page120"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 120</span>And in +chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy +those,<br /> + And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and +rises anew.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from +ancient pollution and stain,<br /> + These at the end of the age be they prince, be they +singer, or seer;<br /> +These to the world, shall be born as of old, shall be sages +again;<br /> + These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and +shall die, and shall hear<br /> +Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them +amain,<br /> + And their glory shall dwell in the land where they +dwelt, while year calls unto year!</p> +<h3><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>DEATH.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Æsch.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, +156.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all Gods Death +alone<br /> + Disdaineth sacrifice:<br /> +No man hath found or shown<br /> + The gift that Death would prize.<br /> + In vain are songs or sighs,<br /> +Pæan, or praise, or moan,<br /> + Alone beneath the skies<br /> +Hath Death no altar-stone!</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no head so dear<br /> + That men would grudge to Death;<br /> +Let Death but ask, we give<br /> +All gifts that we may live;<br /> +But though Death dwells so near,<br /> + We know not what he saith.</p> +<h3><a name="page122"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +122</span>NYSA.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Soph.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 235; +<i>Æsch.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 56.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> these +Nysæan shores divine<br /> + The clusters ripen in a day.<br /> + At dawn the blossom shreds away;<br /> +The berried grapes are green and fine<br /> +And full by noon; in day’s decline<br /> + They’re purple with a bloom of grey,<br /> + And e’er the twilight plucked are they,<br /> +And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">But through the night with torch in hand<br /> + Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare;<br /> + The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare,<br /> +The muffled timbrels swell and sound,<br /> + And drown the clamour of the band<br /> +Like thunder moaning underground.</p> +<h3><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>COLONUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Œd. Col.</i>, +667–705.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> be the fairest +homes the land can show,<br /> +The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here<br /> +The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear,<br /> +For well the deep green gardens doth she know.<br /> +Groves of the God, where winds may never blow,<br /> + Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer<br /> + Among the myriad-berried ivy dear,<br /> +Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.</p> +<p class="poetry">For here he loves to dwell, and here resort<br +/> +These Nymphs that are his nurses and his court,<br /> +And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs<br /> + The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair<br /> + Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair,<br +/> +Demeter, and to wreathe the Maiden’s brows!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yea</span>, here the dew of +Heaven upon the grain<br /> + Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring,<br /> + Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering,<br /> +That day by day revisiteth the plain.<br /> +Nor do the Goddesses the grove disdain,<br /> + But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing,<br /> + And here they love to weave their dancing ring,<br +/> +With Aphrodite of the golden rein.</p> +<p class="poetry">And here there springs a plant that knoweth +not<br /> + The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle,<br /> +Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot<br /> + It dwells, the grey-leaved olive; ne’er shall +guile<br /> +Nor force of foemen root it from the spot:<br /> + Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!</p> +<h3><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>THE +PASSING OF ŒDIPOUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Œd. Col.</i>, +1655–1666.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> Œdipous +departed, who may tell<br /> + Save Theseus only? for there neither came<br /> + The burning bolt of thunder, and the flame<br /> +To blast him into nothing, nor the swell<br /> +Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell.<br /> + But some diviner herald none may name<br /> + Called him, or inmost Earth’s abyss became<br +/> +The painless place where such a soul might dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Howe’er it chanced, untouched of +malady,<br /> + Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament,<br /> +With comfort on the twilight way he went,<br /> + Passing, if ever man did, wondrously;<br /> +From this world’s death to life divinely rent,<br /> + Unschooled in Time’s last lesson, how we +die.</p> +<h3><a name="page126"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 126</span>THE +TAMING OF TYRO.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Soph.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, +587.)</p> +<p>(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.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> fierce +Sidero’s word the thralls drew near,<br /> + And shore the locks of Tyro,—like ripe corn<br +/> + They fell in golden harvest,—but forlorn<br /> +The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear,<br /> + Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn<br /> +Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer,<br /> +And drive her where, within the waters clear,<br /> + She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart<br /> + Who marking that wild thing made weak and tame,<br +/> + Broken, and grieving for her glory +gone,<br /> +Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart<br /> + Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came<br /> +And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!</p> +<h3><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>TO +ARTEMIS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hippol.</i>, <i>Eurip.</i>, +73–87.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> thee soft crowns +in thine untrampled mead<br /> + I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear;<br /> +Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed,<br /> + Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there;<br /> + Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair<br +/> +The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed<br /> +Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead<br /> + About the grassy close that is her care!</p> +<p class="poetry">Souls only that are gracious and serene<br /> + By gift of God, in human lore unread,<br /> +May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green<br /> + That now I wreathe for thine immortal head,<br /> +I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen,<br /> + And by thy whispered voice am comforted.</p> +<h3><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>CRITICISM OF LIFE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hippol.</i>, <i>Eurip.</i>, +252–266.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Long</span> life hath +taught me many things, and shown<br /> + That lukewarm loves for men who die are best,<br /> + Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,<br /> +Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast;<br /> +Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,<br /> + Now cherished, now away at random thrown!<br /> + Grievous it is for other’s grief to moan,<br +/> +Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wise ruling this of life: but yet again<br /> + Perchance too rigid diet is not well;<br /> +He lives not best who dreads the coming pain<br /> + And shunneth each delight desirable:<br /> +<i>Flee thou extremes</i>, this word alone is plain,<br /> + Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!</p> +<h3><a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +129</span>AMARYLLIS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Theocritus</i>, <i>Idyll</i>, +iii.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Amaryllis, wilt +thou never peep<br /> + From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine?<br /> +Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep,<br /> + These didst thou long for, and all these are +thine.<br /> +Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep<br /> + Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine;<br /> +To watch thee waken, Love, and watch thee sleep,<br /> + Within thy grot below the shadowy pine.<br /> +Now know I Love, a cruel god is he,<br /> + The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear;<br +/> +And truly to the bone he burneth me.<br /> + But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne’er a tear,<br +/> +Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee;<br /> + Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.</p> +<h3><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 130</span>THE +CANNIBAL ZEUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">A.D.</span> +160</p> +<blockquote><p>Καὶ +ἔθυσε τὸ +βρέφος, καὶ +ἔσπεισεν +ἐπὶ τοῦ +βωμοῦ τὸ +‘αῖμχ—έπὶ +τούτου<br /> +βωμοῦ τῷ Δὺ +θύουσιν ἐν +ἀποῤῥήτῳ.—<i>Paus.</i> +viii. 38</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">None</span> elder city doth +the Sun behold<br /> + Than ancient Lycosura; ’twas begun<br /> + Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun,<br /> +And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold<br /> +The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: ’tis told<br /> + That whoso fares within that forest dun<br /> + Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the Sun,<br /> +Ay, and within the year his life is cold!</p> +<p class="poetry">Hard by dwelt he <a name="citation130"></a><a +href="#footnote130" class="citation">[130]</a> who, while the +Gods deigned eat<br /> +At good men’s tables, gave them dreadful meat,<br /> + A child he slew:—his mountain altar green<br +/> +<a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>Here +still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me,<br /> +Piteous, but as they are let these things be,<br /> + And as from the beginning they have been!</p> +<h3><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>INVOCATION OF ISIS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Apuleius</i>, <i>Metamorph. +XI</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> that art +sandalled on immortal feet<br /> + With leaves of palm, the prize of Victory;<br /> +Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet,<br /> + Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky,<br /> + I pray thee by all names men name thee by!<br /> +Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat!<br /> + Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh!<br /> +Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or, yet more dread, divine Persephone<br /> + From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near;<br +/> +Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea;<br /> + Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer:<br /> +By all thy names and rites I summon thee;<br /> + By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear!</p> +<h3><a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>THE +COMING OF ISIS.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">So</span> Lucius prayed, +and sudden, from afar,<br /> + Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright<br /> +Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star;<br /> + She came in deep blue raiment of the night,<br /> +Above her robes that now were snowy white,<br /> +Now golden as the moons of harvest are,<br /> +Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bay,<br /> + Now stained with all the lustre of the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he who saw her knew her, and he knew<br /> + The awful symbols borne in either hand;<br /> +The golden urn that laves Demeter’s dew,<br /> + The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand;<br +/> +The shaken seistron’s music, tinkling through<br /> + The temples of that old Osirian land.</p> +<h2><a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span><i>THE SPINET</i>.</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>My</i></span><i> heart +an old Spinet with strings</i><br /> + <i>To laughter chiefly turned</i>, <i>but +some</i><br /> + <i>That Fate has practised hard on</i>, +<i>dumb</i>,<br /> +<i>They answer not whoever sings</i>.<br /> +<i>The ghosts of half-forgotten things</i><br /> + <i>Will touch the keys with fingers numb</i>,<br /> + <i>The little mocking spirits come</i><br /> +<i>And thrill it with their fairy wings</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>A jingling harmony it makes</i><br /> + <i>My heart</i>, <i>my lyre</i>, <i>my old +Spinet</i>,<br /> +<i>And now a memory it wakes</i>,<br /> + <i>And now the music means</i> +“<i>forget</i>,”<br /> +<i>And little heed the player takes</i><br /> + <i>Howe’er the thoughtful critic fret</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +135</span>NOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 137</span>Page +<span class="indexpageno"><a href="#page3">3</a></span>. +<i>The Fortunate Islands</i>. This piece is a rhymed loose +version of a passage in the <i>Vera Historia</i> 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.</p> +<p><i>Whoso doth taste the Dead Men’s bread</i>, +&.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.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span>. <i>As now the hutted +Eskimo</i>. The Eskimo and the <a name="page138"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 138</span>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.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span>. <i>The latest +minstrel</i>. “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.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span>. <i>Ronsard’s +Grave</i>. This version ventures to condense the original +which, like most of the works of the Pleiad, is unnecessarily +long.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span>. <i>The snow</i>, <i>and +wind</i>, <i>and hail</i>. 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.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span>. <i>Romance</i>. +Suggested by a passage in La Faustin, by M. E. de Goncourt, a +curious moment of poetry in a repulsive piece of +<i>naturalisme</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span>. <i>M. Boulmier</i>, author of +<i>Les Villanelles</i>, died shortly after this villanelle was +written; he had not published a larger collection on which he had +been at work.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span>. <i>Edmund Gorliot</i>. +The bibliophile will not easily procure Gorliot’s book, +which is not in the catalogues. Throughout <i>The Last +Maying</i> there is reference to the <i>Pervigilium +Veneris</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span>. <i>Bird-Gods</i>. +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 <a +name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 139</span>did not +invent, but only used a surviving myth of which there are +scarcely any other traces in Greek literature.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page134">134</a></span>. <i>Spinet</i>. The +accent is on the last foot, even when the word is written +<i>spinnet</i>. Compare the remarkable Liberty which Pamela +took with the 137th Psalm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>My Joys and Hopes all overthrown</i>,<br /> +<i>My Heartstrings almost broke</i>,<br /> +<i>Unfit my Mind for Melody</i>,<br /> +<i>Much more to bear a Joke</i>.<br /> +<i>But yet</i>, <i>if from my Innocence</i><br /> +<i>I</i>, <i>even in Thought</i>, <i>should slide</i>,<br /> +<i>Then</i>, <i>let my fingers quite forget</i><br /> +<i>The sweet Spinnet to guide</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><i>Pamela</i>, <i>or +Virtue Rewarded</i>, vol. i.,<br /> +p. 184., 1785.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote78"></a><a href="#citation78" +class="footnote">[78]</a> N.B. There is only one +veracious statement in this ballade, which must not be accepted +as autobiographical.</p> +<p><a name="footnote80"></a><a href="#citation80" +class="footnote">[80]</a> These lines do <i>not</i> apply +to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller, and her delightful sisters, +<i>Gades adituræ mecum</i>, in the pocket edition of Mr. +James’s novels, if ever I go to Gades.</p> +<p><a name="footnote105"></a><a href="#citation105" +class="footnote">[105]</a> Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well +known to the Dacotahs and Zulus.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106a"></a><a href="#citation106a" +class="footnote">[106a]</a> The Hawk, in the myth of the +Galinameros of Central California, lit up the Sun.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106b"></a><a href="#citation106b" +class="footnote">[106b]</a> Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the +demiurge and “culture-hero” of several Australian +tribes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote106c"></a><a href="#citation106c" +class="footnote">[106c]</a> The Creation of Man is thus +described by the Australians.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107a"></a><a href="#citation107a" +class="footnote">[107a]</a> In Andaman, Thlinkeet, +Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is the Prometheus Purphoros; +in Normandy this part is played by the Wren.</p> +<p><a name="footnote107b"></a><a href="#citation107b" +class="footnote">[107b]</a> Yehl: the Raven God of the +Thlinkeets.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108a"></a><a href="#citation108a" +class="footnote">[108a]</a> Indra stole Soma as a Hawk and +as a Quail. For Odin’s feat as a Bird, see +<i>Bragi’s Telling</i> in the Younger Edda.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108b"></a><a href="#citation108b" +class="footnote">[108b]</a> Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave +Australians their marriage laws.</p> +<p><a name="footnote108c"></a><a href="#citation108c" +class="footnote">[108c]</a> <i>Lubra</i>, a woman; +<i>kobong</i>, “totem;” or, to please Mr. Max +Müller, “otem.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote108d"></a><a href="#citation108d" +class="footnote">[108d]</a> The Crow was the Hawk’s +rival.</p> +<p><a name="footnote130"></a><a href="#citation130" +class="footnote">[130]</a> Lycaon, the first werewolf.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES A LA MODE***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1645-h.htm or 1645-h.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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