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diff --git a/1855-h/1855-h.htm b/1855-h/1855-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..e9f14ac --- /dev/null +++ b/1855-h/1855-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2998 @@ +<!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>Ban and Arriere Ban, 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, Ban and Arriere Ban, by Andrew Lang, +Illustrated by Henry Justice Ford + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere 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 + + + + + +Title: Ban and Arriere Ban + A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: August 10, 2014 [eBook #1855] +[This file was first posted on December 24, 1998] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAN AND ARRIERE BAN*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1894 Longmans, Green and 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= +"Ban and Arrière ban frontispiece" +title= +"Ban and Arrière ban frontispiece" +src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>Ban and Arrière Ban</h1> +<p style="text-align: center">A RALLY OF FUGITIVE RHYMES</p> +<p style="text-align: center">BY ANDREW LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONDON<br /> +LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16TH +STREET</span><br /> +1894</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">[<i>All rights reserved</i>]</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagevi"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. vi</span><span class="GutSmall">Edinburgh: T. +and A. Constable, Printers to Her Majesty</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span><span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR</h2> +<p class="poetry">‘<i>Ban and Arrière +Ban</i>!’ <i>a host</i><br /> + <i>Broken</i>, <i>beaten</i>, <i>all unled</i>,<br +/> +<i>They return as doth a ghost</i><br /> + <i>From the dead</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Sad or glad my rallied rhymes</i>,<br /> + <i>Sought our dusty papers through</i>,<br /> +<i>For the sake of other times</i><br /> + <i>Come to you</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Times and places new we know</i>,<br /> + <i>Faces fresh and seasons strange</i><br /> +<i>But the friends of long ago</i><br /> + <i>Do not change</i>.</p> +<p><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. ix</span><span +class="smcap">Many</span> of the verses in this collection have +appeared in Magazines: ‘How they held the Bass’ was +in ‘Blackwood’s Magazine’; the ‘Ballad of +the Philanthropist’ in ‘Punch’; ‘Calais +Sands’ in ‘The Magazine of Art’ (Messrs. +Cassell and Co.); and others are recaptured from +‘Longman’s Magazine,’ +‘Scribner’s,’ ‘The Illustrated London +News,’ ‘The English Illustrated Magazine,’ +‘Wit and Wisdom’ (lines from Omar Khayyam), +‘The St. James’s Gazette,’ and possibly other +serials. Some pieces are from commendatory verses for +books, as for Mr. Jacobs’s ‘Æsop’; some +are from Mr. Rider Haggard’s ‘World’s +Desire,’ and ‘Cleopatra,’ two are from +Kirk’s ‘Secret Commonwealth’ (Nutt, 1893), and +‘Neiges d’Antan,’ are from the author’s +‘Ballads and Lyrics of Old France,’ now long out of +print.</p> +<h2><a name="pagexi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xi</span>CONTENTS</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Scot to Jeanne d’Arc</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>How they held the Bass for King +James—1691–1693</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page4">4</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Three portraits of Prince Charles</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page11">11</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>From Omar Khayyam</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page14">14</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Æsop</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page16">16</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Les Roses de Sâdi</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page18">18</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Haunted Tower</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Boat-song</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page22">22</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lost Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Promise of Helen</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page26">26</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Restoration of Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Central American Antiquities</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page30">30</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On Calais Sands</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page32">32</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xii</span>Ballade of Yule</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Poscimur</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On his Dead Sea-Mew</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>From Meleager</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page39">39</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Galloway Garland</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page41">41</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Celia’s Eyes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Britannia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Gallia</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page45">45</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Fairy Minister</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page46">46</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>To Robert Louis Stevenson</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page48">48</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>For Mark Twain’s Jubilee</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page50">50</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Poems Written under the Influence of +Wordsworth</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Mist</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lines</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page56">56</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Lines</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page58">58</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexiii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiii</span>Ode to Golf</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page60">60</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Freshman’s Term</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page62">62</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Toast</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page64">64</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Death in June</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page66">66</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>To Correspondents</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page68">68</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Difficult Rhymes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page70">70</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballant o’ Ballantrae</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page72">72</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Song by the Sub-Conscious Self</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page74">74</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Haunted Homes of England</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Disappointment</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>To the Gentle Reader</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page80">80</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Sonnet</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page84">84</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Tournay of the Heroes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page85">85</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballad of the Philanthropist</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Neiges d’Antan</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>In Ercildoune</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>For a Rose’s Sake</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Brigand’s Grave</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagexiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +xiv</span>The New-Liveried Year</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>More Strong than Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Silentia Lunae</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>His Lady’s Tomb</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page108">108</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Poet’s Apology</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page109">109</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Notes</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page115">115</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2>ERRATUM</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Reader</span>, a blot hath escaped the +watchfulness of the setter forth: if thou wilt thou mayst amend +it. The sonnet on the forty-fourth page, against all right +Italianate laws, hath but thirteen lines withal: add another to +thy liking, if thou art a Maker; or, if thou art none, even be +content with what is set before thee. If it be scant +measure, be sure it is choicely good.</p> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>A SCOT +TO JEANNE D’ARC</h2> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">Dark</span> Lily without blame,<br /> + Not upon us the shame,<br /> +Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true,<br /> + They, by the Maiden’s +side,<br /> + Victorious fought and died,<br /> +One stood by thee that fiery torment through,<br /> + Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had +passed,<br /> +And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.</p> +<p class="poetry"> Once only +didst thou see<br /> + In artist’s imagery,<br /> +Thine own face painted, and that precious thing<br /> + Was in an Archer’s hand<br +/> + From the leal Northern land.<br /> +<a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 2</span>Alas, what +price would not thy people bring<br /> + To win that portrait of the ruinous<br /> +Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Born of a +lowly line,<br /> + Noteless as once was thine,<br /> +One of that name I would were kin to me,<br /> + Who, in the Scottish Guard<br /> + Won this for his reward,<br /> +To fight for France, and memory of thee:<br /> + Not upon us, dark Lily without blame,<br /> +Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame.</p> +<p class="poetry"> On France +and England both<br /> + The shame of broken troth,<br /> +Of coward hate and treason black must be;<br /> + If England slew thee, France<br /> + Sent not one word, one lance,<br +/> +One coin to rescue or to ransom thee.<br /> + And still thy Church unto the Maid denies<br /> +The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>But yet thy +people calls<br /> + Within the rescued walls<br /> +Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee;<br /> + What though the Church have +chidden<br /> + These orisons forbidden,<br /> +Yet art thou with this earth’s immortal Three,<br /> + With him in Athens that of hemlock died,<br /> +And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified.</p> +<h2><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span>HOW THEY +HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES—1691–1693</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">Time of Narrating—1743</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> hae heard Whigs +crack o’ the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a gruesome +tale;<br /> +How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o’ +ha’penny ale!<br /> +But I’ll tell ye anither tale o’ the Bass, +that’ll hearten ye up to hear,<br /> +Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to +the Young Chevalier!</p> +<p class="poetry">The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league +or less to sea,<br /> +About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee,<br /> +There’s castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly +lay,<br /> +<a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 5</span>That made +their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day.<br /> +For twal’ years lang the caverns rang wi’ preaching, +prayer, and psalm,<br /> +Ye’d think the winds were soughing wild, when a’ the +winds were calm,<br /> +There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the +soldiers pass,<br /> +And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass,<br /> +As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae +blithe as she,<br /> +But a wind o’ ill worked his warlock will, and flang her +out to sea.<br /> +Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, +say they,<br /> +And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a +Saint away.<br /> +There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane +daur’d break the jail,<br /> +And still the sobbing o’ the sea might mix wi’ their +warlock wail,<br /> +<a name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>But then +came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine,<br /> +Wi’ Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a’ the dule +sin’ syne,<br /> +The Saints won free wi’ the power o’ the key, and +cavaliers maun pine!<br /> +It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar,<br /> +That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of +the war:<br /> +And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be +slain,<br /> +Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had +lain;<br /> +Four lads alone, ’gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their +names,<br /> +For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they +held it for King James!</p> +<p class="poetry">It isna by preaching half the night, +ye’ll burst a dungeon door,<br /> +<a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>It wasna by +dint o’ psalmody they broke the hold, they four,<br /> +For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard +gae swing,<br /> +And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands +for the King!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s but ae pass gangs up the Bass, +it’s guarded wi’ strong gates four,<br /> +And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, +door by door,<br /> +And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their +coals on shore.<br /> +Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton +gripped his man,<br /> +Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, +Swan;<br /> +Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were +free.<br /> +And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down +wi’ the boat by the sea!<br /> +<a name="page8"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 8</span>Then +Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice +garr’d the auld rocks ring,<br /> +‘Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the +Bass for the King?’</p> +<p class="poetry">They had nae desire to face the fire; it was +mair than men might do,<br /> +So they e’en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry +and shame-faced crew,<br /> +And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi’ the story of +their shames,<br /> +How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for +King James.</p> +<p class="poetry">King James he has sent them guns and men, and +the Whigs they guard the Bass,<br /> +But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships +that pass,<br /> +They fared wild and free as the birds o’ the sea, and at +night they went on the wing,<br /> +And they lifted the kye o’ Whigs far and nigh, and they +revelled and drank to the King.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +9</span>Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in +form,<br /> +And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock +they’ll storm.<br /> +After twa days’ fight they fled in the night, and glad +eneuch to go,<br /> +With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man +laid low.</p> +<p class="poetry">So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, +but a closer watch was set,<br /> +Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o’ meal was the +maist they’d get.<br /> +And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag +o’ truce,<br /> +And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard +that news.<br /> +Twa Lords they sent wi’ a strang intent to be dour on each +Cavalier,<br /> +But wi’ French cakes fine, and his last drap o’ wine, +did Middleton make them cheer,<br /> +<a name="page10"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 10</span>On the +muzzles o’ guns he put coats and caps, and he set them +aboot the wa’s,<br /> +And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the +Rightfu’ Cause.<br /> +So he got a’ he craved, and his men were saved, and nane +might say them nay,<br /> +Wi’ sword by side, and flag o’ pride, free men might +they gang their way,<br /> +They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the +better their grace to buy,<br /> +Wullie Wanbeard’s purse maun pay the keep o’ the men +that did him defy!</p> +<p class="poetry">Men never hae gotten sic terms o’ peace +since first men went to war,<br /> +As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young +Dunbar.<br /> +Sae I drink to ye here, <i>To the Young Chevalier</i>! I +hae said ye an auld man’s say,<br /> +And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never +was nane sae gay!</p> +<h2><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span>THREE +PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES</h2> +<h3>1731</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Beautiful</span> face of a +child,<br /> + Lighted with laughter and glee,<br /> +Mirthful, and tender, and wild,<br /> + My heart is heavy for thee!</p> +<h3>1744</h3> +<p class="poetry">Beautiful face of a youth,<br /> + As an eagle poised to fly forth,<br /> +To the old land loyal of truth,<br /> + To the hills and the sounds of the North:<br /> +Fair face, daring and proud,<br /> + Lo! the shadow of doom, even now,<br /> +The fate of thy line, like a cloud,<br /> + Rests on the grace of thy brow!</p> +<h3><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span>1773</h3> +<p class="poetry">Cruel and angry face,<br /> + Hateful and heavy with wine,<br /> +Where are the gladness, the grace,<br /> + The beauty, the mirth that were thine?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, my Prince, it were well,—<br /> + Hadst thou to the gods been dear,—<br /> +To have fallen where Keppoch fell,<br /> + With the war-pipe loud in thine ear!<br /> +To have died with never a stain<br /> + On the fair White Rose of Renown,<br /> +To have fallen, fighting in vain,<br /> + For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown!<br /> +More than thy marble pile,<br /> + With its women weeping for thee,<br /> +Were to dream in thine ancient isle,<br /> + To the endless dirge of the sea!<br /> +But the Fates deemed otherwise,<br /> + Far thou sleepest from home,<br /> +From the tears of the Northern skies,<br /> + In the secular dust of Rome.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +13</span>A city of death and the dead,<br /> + But thither a pilgrim came,<br /> +Wearing on weary head<br /> + The crowns of years and fame:<br /> +Little the Lucrine lake<br /> + Or Tivoli said to him,<br /> +Scarce did the memories wake<br /> + Of the far-off years and dim.<br /> +For he stood by Avernus’ shore,<br /> + But he dreamed of a Northern glen<br /> +And he murmured, over and o’er,<br /> + ‘<i>For Charlie and his men</i>:’<br /> +And his feet, to death that went,<br /> + Crept forth to St. Peter’s shrine,<br /> +And the latest Minstrel bent<br /> + O’er the last of the Stuart line.</p> +<h2><a name="page14"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 14</span>FROM +OMAR KHAYYAM</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">RHYMED FROM +THE PROSE VERSION OF</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MR. JUSTIN HUNTLY +M‘CARTHY</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Paradise they +bid us fast to win<br /> +Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin<br /> + To live as we shall live in Paradise,<br /> +And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin?</p> +<p class="poetry">The wise may search the world from end to +end,<br /> +From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend,<br /> + And nothing better find than girls and wine,<br /> +Of all the things they neither make nor mend.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life’s +way,<br /> +Hast seen no lovelock of thy love’s grow grey<br /> + Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel<br /> +Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine,<br /> +Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine,<br /> + Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind,<br /> +The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine.</p> +<p class="poetry">Each morn I say, to-night I will repent,<br /> +Repent! and each night go the way I went—<br /> + The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose,<br /> +Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent.</p> +<p class="poetry">I wish to drink of wine—so deep, so +deep—<br /> +The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep,<br /> + And they, the revellers by Omar’s tomb,<br /> +Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep.</p> +<p class="poetry">Before the rent walls of a ruined town<br /> +Lay the King’s skull, whereby a bird flew down<br /> + ‘And where,’ he sang, ‘is all thy +clash of arms?<br /> +Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?’</p> +<h2><a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +16</span>ÆSOP</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">He</span> sat among the +woods, he heard<br /> + The sylvan merriment: he saw<br /> +The pranks of butterfly and bird,<br /> + The humours of the ape, the daw.</p> +<p class="poetry">And in the lion or the frog—<br /> + In all the life of moor and fen,<br /> +In ass and peacock, stork and dog,<br /> + He read similitudes of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Of these, from those,’ he cried, +‘we come,<br /> + Our hearts, our brains descend from these.’<br +/> +And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb,<br /> + But answered out of brakes and trees:</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Not ours,’ they cried; +‘Degenerate,<br /> + If ours at all,’ they cried again,<br /> +<a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 17</span>‘Ye +fools, who war with God and Fate,<br /> + Who strive and toil: strange race of men.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘For <i>we</i> are neither bond nor +free,<br /> + For <i>we</i> have neither slaves nor kings,<br /> +But near to Nature’s heart are we,<br /> + And conscious of her secret things.</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Content are we to fall asleep,<br /> + And well content to wake no more,<br /> +We do not laugh, we do not weep,<br /> + Nor look behind us and before;</p> +<p class="poetry">‘But were there cause for moan or +mirth,<br /> + ’Tis <i>we</i>, not you, should sigh or +scorn,<br /> +Oh, latest children of the Earth,<br /> + Most childish children Earth has borne.’</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p> +<p class="poetry">They spoke, but that misshapen slave<br /> + Told never of the thing he heard,<br /> +And unto men their portraits gave,<br /> + In likenesses of beast and bird!</p> +<h2><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 18</span>LES +ROSES DE SÂDI</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">This</span> morning I vowed +I would bring thee my Roses,<br /> +They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses,<br /> +But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free.<br /> +The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together<br /> +Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather,<br /> +And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">And the sea was as red as when sunset +uncloses,<br /> +But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses,<br /> +Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be.</p> +<h2><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 19</span>THE +HAUNTED TOWER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SUGGESTED BY +A POEM OF THÉOPHILE GAUTIER</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> front he saw the +donjon tall<br /> + Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan<br /> +The guards that slept along the wall,<br /> + Or dozed upon the bartizan.<br /> +He marked the drowsy flag that hung<br /> + Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,<br /> +He listened to the birds that sung<br /> + <i>Go forth and win the haunted tower</i>!<br /> +The tangled brake made way for him,<br /> + The twisted brambles bent aside;<br /> +And lo, he pierced the forest dim,<br /> + And lo, he won the fairy bride!<br /> +For <i>he</i> was young, but ah! we find,<br /> + All we, whose beards are flecked with grey,<br /> +Our fairy castle’s far behind,<br /> + We watch it from the darkling way:<br /> +<a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>’Twas ours, that palace, in our youth,<br /> + We revelled there in happy cheer:<br /> +Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,<br /> + Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!<br /> +For not the boughs of forest green<br /> + Begird that castle far away,<br /> +There is a mist where we have been<br /> + That weeps about it, cold and grey.<br /> +And if we seek to travel back<br /> + ’Tis through a thicket dim and sere,<br /> +With many a grave beside the track,<br /> + And many a haunting form of fear.<br /> +Dead leaves are wet among the moss,<br /> + With weed and thistle overgrown—<br /> +A ruined barge within the fosse,<br /> + A castle built of crumbling stone!<br /> +The drawbridge drops from rusty chains,<br /> + There comes no challenge from the hold;<br /> +No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains,<br /> + Of all who dwelt with us of old.<br /> +And there is silence in the hall<br /> + No sound of songs, no ray of fire;<br /> +<a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 21</span>But gloom +where all was glad, and all<br /> + Is darkened with a vain desire.<br /> +And every picture’s fading fast,<br /> + Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.<br /> +Lo, the white shadows hurrying past,<br /> + Below the boughs of dripping trees!</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry">* * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah rise, and march, and look not back,<br /> + Now the long way has brought us here;<br /> +We may not turn and seek the track<br /> + To the old Château de Souvenir!</p> +<h2><a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +22</span>BOAT-SONG</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Adrift</span>, with starlit +skies above,<br /> + With starlit seas below,<br /> +We move with all the suns that move,<br /> + With all the seas that flow:<br /> +For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea,<br /> + Wheel with one central will,<br /> +And thy heart drifteth on to me,<br /> + And only Time stands still.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between two shores of death we drift,<br /> + Behind are things forgot,<br /> +Before, the tide is racing swift<br /> + To shores man knoweth not.<br /> +Above, the sky is far and cold,<br /> + Below, the moaning sea<br /> +Sweeps o’er the loves that were of old,<br /> + But thou, Love, love thou me.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +23</span>Ah, lonely are the ocean ways,<br /> + And dangerous the deep,<br /> +And frail the fairy barque that strays<br /> + Above the seas asleep.<br /> +Ah, toil no more with helm or oar,<br /> + We drift, or bond or free,<br /> +On yon far shore the breakers roar,<br /> + But thou, Love, love thou me!</p> +<h2><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 24</span>LOST +LOVE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Who</span> wins his Love +shall lose her,<br /> + Who loses her shall gain,<br /> +For still the spirit woos her,<br /> + A soul without a stain;<br /> +And Memory still pursues her<br /> + With longings not in vain!</p> +<p class="poetry">He loses her who gains her,<br /> + Who watches day by day<br /> +The dust of time that stains her,<br /> + The griefs that leave her grey,<br /> +The flesh that yet enchains her<br /> + Whose grace hath passed away!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, happier he who gains not<br /> + The Love some seem to gain:<br /> +<a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 25</span>The joy +that custom stains not<br /> + Shall still with him remain,<br /> +The loveliness that wanes not,<br /> + The Love that ne’er can wane.</p> +<p class="poetry">In dreams she grows not older<br /> + The lands of Dream among,<br /> +Though all the world wax colder,<br /> + Though all the songs be sung,<br /> +In dreams doth he behold her<br /> + Still fair and kind and young.</p> +<h2><a name="page26"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 26</span>THE +PROMISE OF HELEN</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whom</span> hast thou +longed for most,<br /> + True love of mine?<br /> +Whom hast thou loved and lost?<br /> + Lo, she is thine!</p> +<p class="poetry">She that another wed<br /> + Breaks from her vow;<br /> +She that hath long been dead<br /> + Wakes for thee now.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreams haunt the hapless bed,<br /> + Ghosts haunt the night,<br /> +Life crowns her living head,<br /> + Love and Delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, not a dream nor ghost,<br /> + Nay, but Divine,<br /> +She that was loved and lost<br /> + Waits to be thine!</p> +<h2><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 27</span>THE +RESTORATION OF ROMANCE.</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO H. R. H., +R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W.</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">King</span> Romance was +wounded deep,<br /> + All his knights were dead and gone,<br /> +All his court was fallen on sleep,<br /> + In a vale of Avalon!<br /> +<i>Nay</i>, men said, <i>he will not come</i>,<br /> + <i>Any night or any morn</i>.<br /> +<i>Nay</i>, <i>his puissant voice is dumb</i>,<br /> + <i>Silent his enchanted horn</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">King Romance was forfeited,<br /> + Banished from his Royal home,<br /> +With a price upon his head,<br /> + Driven with sylvan folk to roam.<br /> +<i>King Romance is fallen</i>, <i>banned</i>,<br /> + Cried his foemen overbold,<br /> +<i>Broken is the wizard wand</i>,<br /> + <i>All the stories have been told</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>Then you came from South and North,<br /> + From Tugela, from the Tweed,<br /> +Blazoned his achievements forth,<br /> + King Romance is come indeed!<br /> +All his foes are overthrown,<br /> + All their wares cast out in scorn,<br /> +King Romance hath won his own,<br /> + And the lands where he was born!</p> +<p class="poetry">Marsac at adventure rides,<br /> + Felon men meet felon scathe,<br /> +Micah Clarke is taking sides<br /> + For King Monmouth and the Faith;<br /> +For a Cause or for a lass<br /> + Men are willing to be slain,<br /> +And the dungeons of the Bass<br /> + Hold a prisoner again.</p> +<p class="poetry">King Romance with wand of gold<br /> + Sways the realms he ruled of yore.<br /> +Hills Dalgetty roamed of old,<br /> + Valleys of enchanted Kôr:<br /> +<a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 29</span>Waves his +sceptre o’er the isles,<br /> + Claims the pirates’ treasuries,<br /> +Through innumerable miles<br /> + Of the siren-haunted seas!</p> +<p class="poetry">Elfin folk of coast and cave,<br /> + Laud him in the woven dance,<br /> +All the tribes of wold and wave<br /> + Bow the knee to King Romance!<br /> +Wand’ring voices Chaucer knew<br /> + On the mountain and the main,<br /> +Cry the haunted forest through,<br /> + <i>King Romance has come again</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">IN SOUTH +KENSINGTON MUSEUM</span></p> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Youth</span> and +crabbed age<br /> + Cannot live together;’<br /> + + +So they say.</p> +<p class="poetry">On this little page<br /> + See you when and whether<br /> + + +That they may.</p> +<p class="poetry">Age was very old—<br /> + Stones from Chichimec<br /> + + +Hardly wrung;</p> +<p class="poetry">Youth had hair of gold<br /> + Knotted on her neck—<br /> + + +Fair and young!</p> +<p class="poetry">Age was carved with odd<br /> + Slaves, and priests that slew +them—<br /> + + +God and Beast;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>Man and Beast and God—<br /> + There she sat and drew them,<br /> + + +King and Priest!</p> +<p class="poetry">There she sat and drew<br /> + Many a monstrous head<br /> + + +And antique;</p> +<p class="poetry">Horrors from Peru,<br /> + <i>Huacas</i> doubly dead,<br /> + + +Dead cacique!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere Pizarro came<br /> + These were lords of men<br /> + + +Long ago;</p> +<p class="poetry">Gods without a name,<br /> + Born or how or when,<br /> + + +None may know!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now from Yucatan<br /> + These doth Science bear<br /> + + +Over seas;</p> +<p class="poetry">And methinks a man<br /> + Finds youth doubly fair,<br /> + + +Sketching these!</p> +<h2><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 32</span>ON +CALAIS SANDS</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> Calais Sands the +grey began,<br /> + Then rosy red above the grey,<br /> +The morn with many a scarlet van<br /> + Leap’d, and the world was glad with May!<br /> +The little waves along the bay<br /> + Broke white upon the shelving strands;<br /> +The sea-mews flitted white as they<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<p class="poetry">On Calais Sands must man with man<br /> + Wash honour clean in blood to-day;<br /> +On spaces wet from waters wan<br /> + How white the flashing rapiers play,<br /> +Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray<br /> + Shifts for a while, then mournful stands<br /> +The Victor: life ebbs fast away<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page33"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +33</span>On Calais Sands a little space<br /> + Of silence, then the plash and spray,<br /> +The sound of eager waves that ran<br /> + To kiss the perfumed locks astray,<br /> +To touch these lips that ne’er said ‘Nay,’<br +/> + To dally with the helpless hands;<br /> +Till the deep sea in silence lay<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the lilac and the may<br /> + She waits her love from alien lands;<br /> +Her love is colder than the clay<br /> + + +On Calais Sands!</p> +<h2><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>BALLADE OF YULE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><i>This life’s most jolly</i>, Amiens +said,<br /> + Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he.<br /> +As the good Duke was comforted<br /> + In forest exile, so may we!<br /> +The years may darken as they flee,<br /> + And Christmas bring his melancholy:<br /> +But round the old mahogany tree<br /> + We drink, we sing <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though some are dead and some are fled<br /> + To lands of summer over sea,<br /> +The holly berry keeps his red,<br /> + The merry children keep their glee;<br /> +They hoard with artless secresy<br /> + This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,<br /> +And Santa Claus he turns the key<br /> + On Christmas Eve, <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +35</span>Amid the snow the birds are fed,<br /> + The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,<br /> +The skies are shining overhead,<br /> + The robin’s tame that was so free.<br /> +Far North, at home, the ‘barley bree’<br /> + They brew; they give the hour to folly,<br /> +How ‘Rab and Allan cam to pree,’<br /> + They sing, we sing <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<h3>ENVOI</h3> +<p class="poetry">Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,<br /> + The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!<br /> +It is a duty so to be,<br /> + Though half we sigh, <i>Heigh-ho</i>, <i>the +Holly</i>!</p> +<h2><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>POSCIMUR</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM +HORACE</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hush</span>, for they +call! If in the shade,<br /> +My lute, we twain have idly strayed,<br /> +And song for many a season made,<br /> + Once more +reply;<br /> +Once more we’ll play as we have played,<br /> + My lute and +I!</p> +<p class="poetry">Roman the song: the strain you know,<br /> +The Lesbian wrought it long ago.<br /> +Now singing as he charged the foe,<br /> + Now in the +bay,<br /> +Where safe in the shore-water’s flow<br /> + His galleys +lay.</p> +<p class="poetry">So sang he Bacchus and the Nine,<br /> +And Venus and her boy divine,<br /> +<a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 37</span>And Lycus +of the dusky eyne,<br /> + The dusky +hair;<br /> +So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine,<br /> + Of all things +fair;</p> +<p class="poetry">Apollo’s glory! Sounding shell,<br +/> +Thou lute, to Jove desirable,<br /> +When soft thine accents sigh and swell<br /> + At +festival—<br /> +Delight more dear than words can tell,<br /> + Attend my +call!</p> +<h2><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 38</span>ON HIS +DEAD SEA-MEW</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM THE +GREEK</span></p> +<h3>I</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Bird</span> of the graces, +dear sea-mew, whose note<br /> + Was like the halcyon’s +song,<br /> +In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float<br /> + Still paths of the night +along!</p> +<h3>II<br /> +THE SAILOR’S GRAVE</h3> +<p class="poetry">Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I,<br /> + But thou, sail on!<br /> +For homeward safe did other vessels fly,<br /> + Though we were gone.</p> +<h2><a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>FROM +MELEAGER</h2> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">love</span> not the +wine-cup, but if thou art fain<br /> + I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to +me;<br /> +If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain,<br /> + It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to +flee;<br /> +For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain<br /> + Does it speak of the grace that was given it by +thee.</p> +<h2><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 40</span>ON THE +GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">RUFINUS</span></p> +<h3>GOLDEN EYES</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Ah</span>, Golden +Eyes, to win you yet,<br /> +I bring mine April coronet,<br /> +The lovely blossoms of the spring,<br /> +For you I weave, to you I bring<br /> +These roses with the lilies set,<br /> +The dewy dark-eyed violet,<br /> +Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet:<br /> +Wilt thou disdain mine offering?<br /> + + +Ah, Golden Eyes!</p> +<p class="poetry">Crowned with thy lover’s flowers, +forget<br /> +The pride wherein thy heart is set,<br /> +For thou, like these or anything,<br /> +Has but a moment of thy spring,<br /> +Thy spring, and then—the long regret!<br /> + + +Ah, Golden Eyes!’</p> +<h2><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 41</span>A +GALLOWAY GARLAND</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> know not, on +these hills of ours,<br /> + The fabled asphodel of Greece,<br /> +That filleth with immortal flowers<br /> + Fields where the heroes are at peace!<br /> + Not ours are myrtle buds like these<br /> +That breathe o’er isles where memories dwell<br /> + Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!</p> +<p class="poetry">We meet not, on our upland moor,<br /> + The singing Maid of Helicon,<br /> +You may not hear her music pure<br /> + Float on the mountain meres withdrawn;<br /> + The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!<br /> +But we have songs that please us well<br /> + And flowers we love to look upon.</p> +<p class="poetry">More sweet than Southern myrtles far<br /> + The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen;<br /> +<a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 42</span>Parnassus +names the flower, the star,<br /> + That shines among the well-heads green<br /> + The bright Marsh-asphodels between—<br /> +Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel<br /> + May crown the Northern Muse a queen</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>CELIA’S EYES</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">PASTICHE</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Tell</span> me not that +babies dwell<br /> + In the deeps of Celia’s eyes;<br /> +Cupid in each hazel well<br /> + Scans his beauties with surprise,<br /> + And would, like Narcissus, +drown<br /> + In my Celia’s eyes of +brown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tell me not that any goes<br /> + Safe by that enchanted place;<br /> +Eros dwells with Anteros<br /> + In the garden of her Face,<br /> + Where like friends who late were +foes<br /> + Meet the white and crimson +Rose.</p> +<h2><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +44</span>BRITANNIA</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM JULES +LEMAÎTRE</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thy</span> mouth is fresh +as cherries on the bough,<br /> + Red cherries in the dawning, and more white<br /> +Than milk or white camellias is thy brow;<br /> + And as the golden corn thy hair is bright,<br /> +The corn that drinks the Sun’s less fair than thou;<br /> +While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now—<br /> + Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau’s +delight.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these<br /> +Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys<br /> + Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone,<br +/> +Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil,<br /> +Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale,<br /> + Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and +intone?</p> +<h2><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>GALLIA</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Lady</span>, lady neat<br +/> + Of the roguish eye,<br /> + Wherefore dost thou hie,<br /> +Stealthy, down the street,<br /> +On well-booted feet?<br /> + From French novels I<br /> + Gather that you fly,<br /> +Guy or Jules to meet.</p> +<p class="poetry">Furtive dost thou range,<br /> +Oft thy cab dost change;<br /> + So, at least, ’tis said:<br /> +Oh, the sad old tale<br /> +Passionately stale,<br /> + We’ve so often read!</p> +<h2><a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>THE +FAIRY MINISTER</h2> +<p style="text-align: center">The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was +carried away by the Fairies in 1692.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">People</span> of Peace! a +peaceful man,<br /> + Well worthy of your love was he,<br /> +Who, while the roaring Garry ran<br /> + Red with the life-blood of Dundee,<br /> +While coats were turning, crowns were falling,<br /> + Wandered along his valley still,<br /> +And heard your mystic voices calling<br /> + From fairy knowe and haunted hill.<br /> +He heard, he saw, he knew too well<br /> + The secrets of your fairy clan;<br /> +You stole him from the haunted dell,<br /> + Who never more was seen of man.<br /> +Now far from heaven, and safe from hell,<br /> + Unknown of earth, he wanders free.<br /> +<a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 47</span>Would that +he might return and tell<br /> + Of his mysterious Company!<br /> +For we have tired the Folk of Peace;<br /> + No more they tax our corn and oil;<br /> +Their dances on the moorland cease,<br /> + The Brownie stints his wonted toil.<br /> +No more shall any shepherd meet<br /> + The ladies of the fairy clan,<br /> +Nor are their deathly kisses sweet<br /> + On lips of any earthly man.<br /> +And half I envy him who now,<br /> + Clothed in her Court’s enchanted green,<br /> +By moonlit loch or mountain’s brow<br /> + Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen.</p> +<h2><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 48</span>TO +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON</h2> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">WITH +KIRK’S ‘SECRET COMMONWEALTH’</span></p> +<p class="poetry">O <span class="smcap">Louis</span>! you that +like them maist,<br /> +Ye’re far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,<br /> +And fairy dames, no unco chaste,<br /> + And haunted +cell.<br /> +Among a heathen clan ye’re placed,<br /> + That kensna +hell!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,<br /> +Nae trout in a’ yer burnies lurks,<br /> +There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,<br /> + An awfu’ +place!<br /> +Nane kens the Covenant o’ Works<br /> + Frae that +o’ Grace!</p> +<p class="poetry">But whiles, maybe, to them ye’ll read<br +/> +Blads o’ the Covenanting creed,<br /> +And whiles their pagan wames ye’ll feed<br /> + On halesome +parritch;<br /> +<a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 49</span>And syne +ye’ll gar them learn a screed<br /> + O’ the +Shorter Carritch.</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet thae uncovenanted shavers<br /> +Hae rowth, ye say, o’ clash and clavers<br /> +O’ gods and etins—auld wives’ havers,<br /> + But their +delight;<br /> +The voice o’ him that tells them quavers<br /> + Just wi’ +fair fright.</p> +<p class="poetry">And ye might tell, ayont the faem,<br /> +Thae Hieland clashes o’ our hame<br /> +To speak the truth, I takna shame<br /> + To half believe +them;<br /> +And, stamped wi’ <i>Tusitala’s</i> name,<br /> + They’ll +a’ receive them.</p> +<p class="poetry">And folk to come ayont the sea<br /> +May hear the yowl o’ the Banshie,<br /> +And frae the water-kelpie flee,<br /> + Ere a’ +things cease,<br /> +And island bairns may stolen be<br /> + By the Folk +o’ Peace.</p> +<h2><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 50</span>FOR +MARK TWAIN’S JUBILEE</h2> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">To</span> brave Mark Twain, +across the sea,<br /> +The years have brought his jubilee;<br /> + One hears it half with pain,<br /> +That fifty years have passed and gone<br /> +Since danced the merry star that shone<br /> + Above the babe, Mark Twain!</p> +<p class="poetry">How many and many a weary day,<br /> +When sad enough were we, ‘Mark’s way’<br /> + (Unlike the Laureate’s Mark’s)<br /> +Has made us laugh until we cried,<br /> +And, sinking back exhausted, sighed,<br /> + Like Gargery, <i>Wot larx</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">We turn his pages, and we see<br /> +The Mississippi flowing free;<br /> + We turn again, and grin<br /> +<a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 51</span>O’er +all <i>Tom Sawyer</i> did and planned,<br /> +With him of the Ensanguined Hand,<br /> + With <i>Huckleberry Finn</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells<br /> +Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells<br /> + Across the Atlantic main,<br /> +Grant that Mark’s laughter never die,<br /> +That men, through many a century,<br /> + May chuckle o’er Mark Twain!</p> +<h2><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 53</span><span +class="GutSmall">III</span><br /> +POEMS<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF +WORDSWORTH</span></h2> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>MIST</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mist</span>, though I love +thee not, who puttest down<br /> + Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,<br /> + At least on fly, in mere or river-pool<br /> +When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,<br /> +And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,<br /> + The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to +cool<br /> + The blatant declamations of the fool<br /> +Who raves reciting through the heather brown.</p> +<p class="poetry">Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass<br /> + Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not +spare<br /> +When light and shadow on the mountain pass,—<br /> + Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,<br /> +O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass,<br +/> + To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look +there!’</p> +<h3><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>LINES</h3> +<p>Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil +on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, +while waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports +on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of +<i>Belinda</i>, a Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is +regretted.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> solemn is the +front of this Hotel,<br /> + When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,<br /> +And none can speak of scenery, nor tell<br /> + Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of +‘amethyst.’<br /> +Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell,<br /> + Here <i>Sara</i> flirted with whoever list,<br /> +<i>Belinda</i> loved not wisely but too well,<br /> + And <i>Mr. Ford</i> played the Philologist!<br /> +<a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 57</span>Haunted +the house is, and the balcony<br /> + Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near,<br /> +And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,<br /> + While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere,<br /> +And all our hearts go forth into the cry,<br /> + Would that the teller of the tale were here!</p> +<h3><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>LINES</h3> +<p>Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading +an advertisement of sunlight soap, and <i>Poems</i>, by William +Wordsworth.</p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">passed</span> upon the +wings of Steam<br /> + Along Tay’s valley fair,<br /> +The book I read had such a theme<br /> + As bids the Soul despair.</p> +<p class="poetry">A tale of miserable men<br /> + Of hearts with doubt distraught,<br /> +Wherein a melancholy pen<br /> + With helpless problems fought.</p> +<p class="poetry">Where many a life was brought to dust,<br /> + And many a heart laid low,<br /> +And many a love was smirched with lust—<br /> + I raised mine eyes, and, oh!—</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>I marked upon a common wall,<br /> + These simple words of hope,<br /> +That mute appeal to one and all,<br /> + <i>Cheer up</i>! <i>Use Sunlight Soap</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Our moral energies have range<br /> + Beyond their seeming scope,<br /> +How tonic were the words, how strange,<br /> + <i>Cheer up</i>! <i>Use Sunlight Soap</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner +touch<br /> + That lifts the Soul through cares!’<br /> +I loved that Soap-boiler so much<br /> + I blessed him unawares!</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance he is some vulgar man,<br /> + Engrossed in £ s. d.<br /> +But, ah! through Nature’s holy plan<br /> + He whispered hope to me!</p> +<h3><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 60</span>ODE TO +GOLF</h3> +<p class="poetry">‘<span class="smcap">Delusive</span> +Nymph, farewell!’<br /> + How oft we’ve said or sung,<br /> +When balls evasive fell,<br /> +Or in the jaws of ‘Hell,’<br /> + Or salt sea-weeds among,<br /> +’Mid shingle and sea-shell!</p> +<p class="poetry">How oft beside the Burn,<br /> + We play the sad ‘two more’;<br /> +How often at the turn,<br /> +The heather must we spurn;<br /> + How oft we’ve ‘topped and +swore,’<br /> +In bent and whin and fern!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, when the broken head<br /> + Bounds further than the ball,<br /> +The heart has inly bled.<br /> +<a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 61</span>Ah! and +the lips have said<br /> + Words we would fain recall—<br /> +Wild words, of passion bred!</p> +<p class="poetry">In bunkers all unknown,<br /> + Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw,<br /> +Where never ball had flown—<br /> +Reached by ourselves alone—<br /> + Caddies have heard with awe<br /> +The music of our moan!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet, Nymph, if once alone,<br /> + The ball hath featly fled—<br /> +Not smitten from the bone—<br /> +That drive doth still atone;<br /> + And one long shot laid dead<br /> +Our grief to the winds hath blown!</p> +<p class="poetry">So, still beside the tee,<br /> + We meet in storm or calm,<br /> +Lady, and worship thee;<br /> +While the loud lark sings free,<br /> + Piping his matin psalm<br /> +Above the grey sad sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>FRESHMAN’S TERM</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Return</span> again, thou +Freshman’s year,<br /> + When bloom was on the rye,<br /> +When breakfast came with bottled beer,<br /> + When Pleasure walked the High;<br +/> +When Torpid Bumps were more by far<br /> + To every opening mind<br /> +Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War,<br /> + To senior humankind;<br /> +When ribbons of outrageous hues<br /> + Were worn with honest pride,<br /> +When much was talked of boats and crews,<br /> + When Proctors were defied:<br /> +When Tick was in its early bloom,<br /> + When Schools were far away,<br /> +As vaguely distant as the tomb,<br /> + Nor more regarded—they!<br +/> +<a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 63</span>When arm +was freely linked with arm<br /> + Beneath the College limes,<br /> +When Sunday grinds possessed a charm<br /> + Denied to <i>College +Rhymes</i>:<br /> +When ices were in much request<br /> + Beside the April fire,<br /> +When men were very strangely dressed<br /> + By Standen or by Prior.<br /> +Return, ye Freshman’s Terms! They <i>do</i><br /> + Return, and much the same,<br /> +To boys, who, just like me and you,<br /> + Play the absurd old game!</p> +<h3><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 64</span>A +TOAST</h3> +<p>Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard’s and +St. Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> learned are all +‘in a swither,’<br /> + (They don’t very often +agree,)<br /> +They know not her ‘whence’ nor her +‘whither,’<br /> +The Maiden we drink to together,<br /> + The College’s Kate +Kennedie!</p> +<p class="poetry">Did she shine in days early or later?<br /> + Did she ever achieve a degree?<br +/> +Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or<br /> +Live lonely? And who was the <i>pater</i><br /> + Of mystical Kate Kennedie?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>The learned may scorn her and scout her,<br /> + But true to her colours are +<i>we</i>,<br /> +The learned may mock her and flout her,<br /> +But surely we’ll rally about her,<br /> + In the College that stands by the +Sea!</p> +<p class="poetry">So here’s to her memory! here to<br /> + The mystical Maiden drink we,<br +/> +We pledge her, and we’ll persevere too,<br /> +Though the reason is not very clear to<br /> + The critical mind, nor to +<i>me</i>.<br /> +Here’s to Kate! she’s our own, and she’s dear +to<br /> + The College that stands by the +Sea.</p> +<h3><a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>DEATH +IN JUNE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FOR +CRICKETERS ONLY</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>June is the month of +Suicides</i></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Why</span> do we slay +ourselves in June,<br /> + When life, if ever, seems so sweet?<br /> +When “Moon,” and “tune,” and +“afternoon,”<br /> + And other happy rhymes we meet,<br /> +When strawberries are coming soon?<br /> + Why do we do it?’ you repeat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, careless butterfly, to thee<br /> + The strawberry seems passing good;<br /> +And sweet, on Music’s wings, to flee<br /> + Amid the waltzing multitude,<br /> +And revel late—perchance till three—<br /> + For Love is monarch of thy mood!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>Alas! to <i>us</i> no solace shows<br /> + For sorrows we endure—at Lord’s,<br /> +When Oxford’s bowling <i>always</i> goes<br /> + For ‘fours,’ for ever to the +cords—<br /> +Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;—<br /> + These things can pierce the heart like swords!</p> +<p class="poetry">And thus it is though woods are green,<br /> + Though mayflies down the Test are rolling,<br /> +Though sweet, the silver showers between,<br /> + The finches sing in strains consoling,<br /> +We cut our throats for very spleen,<br /> + And very shame of Oxford’s bowling!</p> +<h3><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 68</span>TO +CORRESPONDENTS</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> Postman, though I +fear thy tread,<br /> + And tremble as thy foot draws nearer,<br /> +’Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread,<br /> + <i>My</i> mortal foe is much severer,—<br /> +The Unknown Correspondent, who,<br /> + With undefatigable pen,<br /> +And nothing in the world to do,<br /> + Perplexes literary men.</p> +<p class="poetry">From Pentecost and Ponder’s End<br /> + They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah,<br /> +The people of the Shetlands send<br /> + No inconsiderable quota;<br /> +They write for <i>autographs</i>; in vain,<br /> + In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora,<br /> +They write that Allan Quatermain<br /> + Is not at all the book for Brora.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>They write to say that they have met<br /> + This writer ‘at a garden party,<br /> +And though’ this writer ‘<i>may</i> forget,’<br +/> + <i>Their</i> recollection’s keen and +hearty.<br /> +‘And will you praise in your reviews<br /> + A novel by our distant cousin?’<br /> +These letters from Provincial Blues<br /> + Assail us daily by the dozen!</p> +<p class="poetry">O friends with time upon your hands,<br /> + O friends with postage-stamps in plenty,<br /> +O poets out of many lands,<br /> + O youths and maidens under twenty,<br /> +Seek out some other wretch to bore,<br /> + Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours,<br /> +And leave me to my dusty lore<br /> + And my unprofitable labours!</p> +<h3><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">With</span> certain rhymes +’tis hard to deal;<br /> + For ‘silver’ we have ne’er a +rhyme.<br /> +On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel)<br /> + The bard has slipped full many a time.<br /> +With ‘babe’ there’s scarce a sound will +chime,<br /> + Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove;<br +/> +But, ye that on Parnassus climb,<br /> + Why, why are rhymes so rare to <i>Love</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry">A rhyme to ‘cusp,’ to beg or +steal,<br /> + I’ve sought, from evensong to prime,<br /> +But vain is my poetic zeal,<br /> + There’s not one sound is worth a +‘dime’:<br /> +‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ +‘window’—deeds of crime<br /> + I’d do to gain the rhymes thereof;<br /> +Nor shrink from acts of moral grime—<br /> + Why, why are rhymes so rare to <i>Love</i>?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel<br /> + Like butterflies on banks of thyme.<br /> +‘Above’?—or ‘shove’—alas! I +feel,<br /> + They’re too much used to be sublime.<br /> +I scorn with angry pantomime,<br /> + The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as +<i>muv</i>).<br /> +Ah, in Apollo’s golden clime<br /> + Why, why are rhymes so rare to <i>Love</i>?</p> +<h4>ENVOI</h4> +<p class="poetry">Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal<br /> + New rhymes, fresh minted, from above,<br /> +Nor still be deaf to our appeal.<br /> + Why, <i>why</i> are rhymes so rare to +<i>Love</i>?</p> +<h3><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>BALLANT O’ BALLANTRAE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">TO ROBERT +LOUIS STEVENSON</span></p> +<p>Written in wet weather, this conveyed to the Master of +Ballantrae a wrong idea of a very beautiful and charming place, +with links, a river celebrated by Burns, good sea-fishing, and, +on the river, a ruined castle at every turn of the stream. +‘Try Ballantrae’ is a word of wisdom.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Whan</span> suthern wunds +gar spindrift flee<br /> +Abune the clachan, faddums hie,<br /> +Whan for the cluds I canna see<br /> + The bonny +lift,<br /> +I’d fain indite an Ode to <i>thee</i><br /> + Had I the +gift!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ken ye the coast o’ wastland Ayr?<br /> +Oh mon, it’s unco bleak and bare!<br /> +Ye daunder here, ye daunder there,<br /> + And mak’ +your moan,<br /> +They’ve rain and wund eneuch to tear<br /> + The suthern +cone!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>Ye’re seekin’ sport! There’s +nane ava’,<br /> +Ye’ll sit and glower ahint the wa’<br /> +At bleesin’ breakers till ye staw,<br /> + If that’s +yer wush;<br /> +‘There’s aye the Stinchar.’ Hoot +awa’,<br /> + She wunna +fush!</p> +<p class="poetry">She wunna fush at ony gait,<br /> +She’s roarin’ reid in wrathfu’ spate;<br /> +Maist like yer kimmer when ye’re late<br /> + Frae Girvan +Fair!<br /> +Forbye to speer for leave I’m blate<br /> + For +fushin’ there!</p> +<p class="poetry">O Louis, you that writes in Scots,<br /> +Ye’re far awa’ frae stirks and stots,<br /> +Wi’ drookit hurdies, tails in knots,<br /> + An unco way!<br +/> +<i>My</i> mirth’s like thorns aneth the pots<br /> + In +Ballantrae!</p> +<h3><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 74</span>SONG +BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">RHYMES MADE +IN A DREAM</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">know</span> not what my +secret is,<br /> + I know but it is mine;<br /> +I know to dwell with it were bliss,<br /> + To die for it divine.<br /> +I cannot yield it in a kiss,<br /> + Nor breathe it in a sigh.<br /> +I know that I have lived for this;<br /> + For this, my love, I die.</p> +<h3><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 75</span>THE +HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> Haunted Homes of +England,<br /> + How eerily they stand,<br /> +While through them flit their ghosts—to wit,<br /> + The Monk with the Red Hand,<br /> +The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook—<br /> + To stop the boldest breath,<br /> +The boy that inked his copybook,<br /> + And so got ‘wopped’ to death!</p> +<p class="poetry">Call them not shams—from haunted +Glamis<br /> + To haunted Woodhouselea,<br /> +I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts<br /> + I hear the fell Banshie!<br /> +I know the spectral dog that howls<br /> + Before the death of Squires;<br /> +In my ‘Ghosts’-guide’ addresses hide<br /> + For Podmore and for Myers!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>I see the Vampire climb the stairs<br /> + From vaults below the church;<br /> +And hark! the Pirate’s spectre swears!<br /> + O Psychical Research,<br /> +Canst <i>thou</i> not hear what meets my ear,<br /> + The viewless wheels that come?<br /> +The wild Banshie that wails to thee?<br /> + The Drummer with his drum?</p> +<p class="poetry">O Haunted Homes of England,<br /> + Though tenantless ye stand,<br /> +With none content to pay the rent,<br /> + Through all the shadowy land,<br /> +Now, Science true will find in you<br /> + A sympathetic perch,<br /> +And take you all, both Grange and Hall,<br /> + For Psychical Research!</p> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 77</span>THE +DISAPPOINTMENT</h3> +<p class="poetry">A <span class="smcap">house</span> I took, and +many a spook<br /> + Was deemed to haunt that House,<br /> +I bade the glum Researchers come<br /> + With Bogles to carouse.<br /> +That House I’d sought with anxious thought,<br /> + ’Twas old, ’twas dark as sin,<br /> +And <i>deeds of bale</i>, so ran the tale,<br /> + Had oft been done therein.</p> +<p class="poetry">Full many a child its mother wild,<br /> + Men said, had strangled there,<br /> +Full many a sire, in heedless ire,<br /> + Had slain his daughter fair!<br /> +’Twas rarely let: I can’t forget<br /> + A recent tenant’s dread,<br /> +This widow lone had heard a moan<br /> + Proceeding from her bed.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>The tenants next were chiefly vexed<br /> + By spectres grim and grey.<br /> +A Headless Ghost annoyed them most,<br /> + And so they did not stay.<br /> +The next in turn saw corpse lights burn,<br /> + And also a Banshie,<br /> +A spectral Hand they could not stand,<br /> + And left the House to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then came my friends for divers ends,<br /> + Some curious, some afraid;<br /> +No direr pest disturbed their rest<br /> + Than a neat chambermaid.<br /> +The grisly halls were gay with balls,<br /> + One melancholy nook<br /> +Where ghosts <i>galore</i> were seen before<br /> + Now yielded ne’er a spook.</p> +<p class="poetry">When man and maid, all unafraid,<br /> + ‘Sat out’ upon the stairs,<br /> +No spectre dread, with feet of lead,<br /> + Came past them unawares.<br /> +<a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 79</span>I know not +why, but alway I<br /> + Have found that it is so,<br /> +That when the glum Researchers come<br /> + The brutes of bogeys—go!</p> +<h3><a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>TO THE +GENTLE READER</h3> +<blockquote><p>‘A French writer (whom I love well) speaks +of three kinds of companions,—men, women, and +books.’</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Sir John +Davys</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Three</span> kinds of +companions, men, women, and books,<br /> +Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends.<br /> +And the women we deem that he chose for their looks,<br /> +And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends:<br /> +‘Man delights me not,’ often, ‘nor +woman,’ but books<br /> +Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks.</p> +<p class="poetry">For man will be wrangling—for woman will +fret<br /> +About anything infinitesimal small:<br /> +Like the Sage in our Plato, I’m ‘anxious to get<br /> +On the side’—on the sunnier side—‘of a +wall.’<br /> +<a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 81</span>Let the +wind of the world toss the nations like rooks,<br /> +If only you’ll leave me at peace with my Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">And which are my books? why, ’tis much as +you please,<br /> +For, given ’tis a book, it can hardly be wrong,<br /> +And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease,<br /> +Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song;<br /> +And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks,<br /> +‘Tom Brown,’ and Plotinus, they’re all of them +Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Fielding to lap one in currents +of mirth;<br /> +There’s Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay;<br /> +Or good Maître Françoys to bring one to earth,<br /> +If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away:<br /> +There’s Müller on Speech, there is Gurney on +Spooks,<br /> +There is Tylor on Totems, there’s all sorts of Books.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +82</span>There’s roaming in regions where every one’s +been,<br /> +Encounters where no one was ever before,<br /> +There’s ‘Leaves’ from the Highlands we owe to +the Queen,<br /> +There’s Holly’s and Leo’s adventures in +Kôr:<br /> +There’s Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks,<br /> +You can cover a great deal of country in Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There are books, highly thought of, that nobody +reads,<br /> +There is Geusius’ dearly delectable tome<br /> +Of the Cannibal—he on his neighbour who feeds—<br /> +And in blood-red morocco ’tis bound, by Derome;<br /> +There’s Montaigne here (a Foppens), there’s Roberts +(on Flukes),<br /> +There’s Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius’ Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Bunyan, there’s Walton, in +early editions,<br /> +There’s many a quarto uncommonly rare;<br /> +<a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>There’s quaint old Quevedo adream with his +visions,<br /> +There’s Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare;<br /> +There’s Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the +‘Crooks<br /> +In the Lots’ of us mortals, who bargain for Books.</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Ruskin to keep one exclaiming +‘What next?’<br /> +There’s Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff,<br /> +And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed,<br /> +And good <span class="smcap">Marcus Tvainus</span> to lend you a +laugh;<br /> +There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks,<br /> +And I’ve frequently found them the best kind of Books.</p> +<h3><a name="page84"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 84</span>THE +SONNET</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Poet</span>, beware! +The sonnet’s primrose path<br /> + Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread.<br /> + Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread,<br /> +Because the sated reader roars in wrath:<br /> +‘Little indeed to say the singer hath,<br /> + And little sense in all that he hath said;<br /> + Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read,<br /> +And naught but stubble is his aftermath!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine<br +/> + Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes,<br /> +There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine,<br /> + With other minor poets, pallid shapes,<br /> +Who come a long way short of the divine,<br /> + Tormented souls of imitative apes.</p> +<h3><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>THE +TOURNAY OF THE HEROES</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ho</span>, warders, cry a +tournay! ho, heralds, call the knights!<br /> +What gallant lance for old Romance ’gainst modern fiction +fights?<br /> +The lists are set, the Knights are met, I ween, a dread array,<br +/> +St. Chad to shield, a stricken field shall we behold to-day!<br +/> +First to the Northern barriers pricks Roland of Roncesvaux,<br /> +And by his side, in knightly pride, Wilfred of Ivanhoe,<br /> +The Templar rideth by his rein, two gallant foes were they;<br /> +And proud to see, <i>le brave Bussy</i> his colours doth +display.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span>Ready at need he comes with speed, William of +Deloraine,<br /> +And Hereward the Wake himself is pricking o’er the +plain.<br /> +The good knight of La Mancha’s here, here is Sir Amyas +Leigh,<br /> +And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry.<br /> +There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos +shines,<br /> +Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines,<br /> +With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from +Spain,<br /> +And Götz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain.</p> +<p class="poetry">But who upon the Modern side are +champions? With the sleeve<br /> +Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve,<br +/> +<a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>A +bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town,<br /> +But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down.<br /> +Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray,<br +/> +With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day.<br +/> +And Silas Lapham’s six-shooter is cocked: the +Colonel’s spry!<br /> +There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye;<br /> +There Zola’s ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in +hand,<br /> +And Flaubert’s crew of country doctors devastate the +land.<br /> +On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff,<br /> +<i>Nom Dé</i>! to see the clerics fight might make the +sourest laugh!<br /> +They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the +crown,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>So keep us +good St. Geneviève, Umslopogaas is down!<br /> +About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red,<br /> +Alas for ancient chivalry, <i>le brave Bussy</i> is sped!<br /> +Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly,<br /> +The Mummer (of <i>The Mummer’s Wife</i>) has got it in the +eye,<br /> +From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate,<br /> +And Silas Lapham’s smitten fair, right through his gallant +pate.<br /> +There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised;<br /> +<i>Ha</i>, <i>Beauséant</i>! still may such fate befall +the Circumcised!<br /> +The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe:<br /> +Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow:<br /> +The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming ‘<i>We are +betrayed</i>,’<br /> +<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>But loyal +Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid;<br /> +In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall,<br /> +Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them +all.<br /> +At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one.<br +/> +<i>Ma foy</i>, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath +done!<br /> +The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist!<br /> +’Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he +list.<br /> +The swords are crossed; <i>Doublez</i>, <i>dégagez</i>, +<i>vite</i>! great Porthos calls,<br /> +And David drops, that secret <i>botte</i> hath pierced his +overalls!<br /> +And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades,<br /> +Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees,<br /> +<a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>He writes +in gore upon his shield, ‘Romance, Romance, has +won!’<br /> +And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun.<br +/> +Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling +lea:<br /> +Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see!</p> +<h3><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 91</span>BALLAD +OF THE PHILANTHROPIST</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Pomona</span> Road and +Gardens, N.,<br /> +Were pure as they were fair—<br /> +In other districts much I fear,<br /> +That vulgar language shocks the ear,<br /> +But brawling wives or noisy men<br /> +Were never heard of <i>there</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">No burglar fixed his dread abode<br /> +In that secure retreat,<br /> +There were no public-houses nigh,<br /> +But chapels low and churches high,<br /> +You might have thought Pomona Road<br /> +A quite ideal beat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yet that was not at all the view<br /> +Taken by B. 13.<br /> +That active and intelligent<br /> +Policeman deemed that he was meant<br /> +<a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>Profound +detective deeds to do,<br /> +And that repose was mean.</p> +<p class="poetry">Now there was nothing to detect<br /> +Pomona Road along—<br /> +None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib,<br /> +Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,—<br /> +Minds cultivated and select<br /> +Slip rarely into wrong!</p> +<p class="poetry">Thus bored to desolation went<br /> +The Peeler on his beat;<br /> +He know not Love, he did not care,<br /> +If Love be born on mountains bare;<br /> +Nay, crime to punish, or prevent,<br /> +Was more than dalliance sweet!</p> +<p class="poetry">The weary wanderer, day by day,<br /> +Was marked by Howard Fry—<br /> +A neighbouring philanthropist,<br /> +Who saw what that Policeman missed—<br /> +A sympathetic ‘Well-a-day’<br /> +He’d moan, and pipe his eye.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>‘What <i>can</i> I do,’ asked Howard Fry,<br +/> +‘To soothe that brother’s pain?<br /> +His glance when first we met was keen,<br /> +Most martial and erect his mien’<br /> +(What mien may mean, I know not I)<br /> +‘But <i>he</i> must joy again.’</p> +<p class="poetry">‘I’ll start on a career of +crime,<br /> +I will,’ said Howard Fry—<br /> +He spake and acted! Deeds of bale<br /> +(With which I do not stain my tale)<br /> +He wrought like mad time after time,<br /> +Yet wrought them blushfully.</p> +<p class="poetry">And now when ’buses night by night<br /> +Were stopped, conductors slain,<br /> +When youths and men, and maids unwed,<br /> +Were stabbed or knocked upon the head,<br /> +Then B. 13 grew sternly bright,<br /> +And was himself again!</p> +<p class="poetry">Pomona Road and Gardens, N.,<br /> +Are now a name of fear.<br /> +<a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>Commercial +travellers flee in haste,<br /> +Revolvers girt about the waist<br /> +Are worn by city gentlemen<br /> +Who have their mansions near.</p> +<p class="poetry">But B. 13 elated goes,<br /> +Detection in his eye;<br /> +While Howard Fry does deeds of bale<br /> +(With which I do not stain my tale)<br /> +To lighten that Policeman’s woes,<br /> +But does them blushfully.</p> +<h4>MORAL</h4> +<p class="poetry">Such is Philanthropy, my friends,<br /> +Too often such her plan,<br /> +She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings<br /> +Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things.<br /> +Ah, not to serve her private ends,<br /> +But for the good of Man!</p> +<h2><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 95</span>NEIGES +D’ANTAN</h2> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>IN +ERCILDOUNE</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> light of sunrise +and sunsetting,<br /> +The long days lingered, in forgetting<br /> +That ever passion, keen to hold<br /> +What may not tarry, was of old<br /> +Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood<br /> +Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood.</p> +<p class="poetry">Was beauty once a thing that died?<br /> +Was pleasure never satisfied?<br /> +Was rest still broken by the vain<br /> +Desire of action, bringing pain,<br /> +To die in vapid rest again?<br /> +All this was quite forgotten, there<br /> +No winter brought us cold and care,<br /> +Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled,<br /> +Nor, with the heavy summer killed,<br /> +The languid days droop autumnwards.<br /> +So magical a season guards<br /> +<a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 98</span>The +constant prime of a green June.<br /> +So slumbrous is the river’s tune,<br /> +That knows no thunder of rushing rains,<br /> +Nor ever in the summer wanes,<br /> +Like waters of the summer-time<br /> +In lands far from the fairy clime.</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas! no words can bring the bloom<br /> +Of Fairyland, the lost perfume.<br /> +The sweet low light, the magic air,<br /> +To minds of who have not been there:<br /> +Alas! no words, nor any spell<br /> +Can lull the heart that knows too well<br /> +The towers that by the river stand,<br /> +The lost fair world of Fairyland.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, would that I had never been<br /> +The lover of the Fairy Queen.<br /> +Or would that I again might be<br /> +Asleep below the Eildon Tree,<br /> +And see her ride the forest way<br /> +As on that morning of the May!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>Or would that through the little town,<br /> +The grey old place of Ercildoune,<br /> +And all along the sleepy street<br /> +The soft fall of the white deer’s feet<br /> +Came, with the mystical command,<br /> +That I must back to Fairy Land!</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 100</span>FOR +A ROSE’S SAKE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FRENCH +FOLK-SONG</span></p> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">laved</span> my hands<br +/> + By the water-side,<br /> +With willow leaves<br /> + My hands I dried.</p> +<p class="poetry">The nightingale sang<br /> + On the bough of a tree,<br /> +Sing, sweet nightingale,<br /> + It is well with thee.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou hast heart’s delight,<br /> + I have sad heart’s sorrow,<br /> +For a false false maid<br /> + That will wed to-morrow.</p> +<p class="poetry">It is all for a rose<br /> + That I gave her not,<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>And I +would that it grew<br /> + In the garden plot,</p> +<p class="poetry">And I would the rose-tree<br /> + Were still to set,<br /> +That my love Marie<br /> + Might love me yet!</p> +<h3><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>THE +BRIGAND’S GRAVE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">MODERN +GREEK</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> moon came up +above the hill,<br /> + The sun went down the sea,<br /> +‘Go, maids, and draw the well-water,<br /> + But, lad, come here to me.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gird on my jack, and my old sword,<br /> + For I have never a son,<br /> +And you must be the chief of all<br /> + When I am dead and gone.</p> +<p class="poetry">But you must take my old broadsword,<br /> + And cut the green boughs of the tree,<br /> +And strew the green boughs on the ground,<br /> + To make a soft death-bed for me.</p> +<p class="poetry">And you must bring the holy priest,<br /> + That I may sainèd be,<br /> +<a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 103</span>For I +have lived a roving life<br /> + Fifty years under the greenwood tree.</p> +<p class="poetry">And you shall make a grave for me,<br /> + And dig it deep and wide,<br /> +That I may turn about and dream<br /> + With my old gun by my side.</p> +<p class="poetry">And leave a window to the east<br /> + And the swallows will bring the spring,<br /> +And all the merry month of May<br /> + The nightingales will sing.’</p> +<h3><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 104</span>THE +NEW-LIVERIED YEAR</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM CHARLES +D’ORLÉANS</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> year has changed +his mantle cold<br /> + Of wind, of rain, of bitter air,<br /> +And he goes clad in cloth of gold<br /> + Of laughing suns and season fair;<br /> +No bird or beast of wood or wold<br /> + But doth in cry or song declare<br /> +‘The year has changed his mantle cold!’<br /> +All founts, all rivers seaward rolled<br /> + Their pleasant summer livery +wear<br /> + With silver studs on broidered +vair,<br /> +The world puts off its raiment old,<br /> +The year has changed his mantle cold.</p> +<h3><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>MORE +STRONG THAN DEATH</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM VICTOR +HUGO</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Since</span> I have set my +lips to your full cup, my sweet,<br /> +Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,<br /> +Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it,<br /> +And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade,</p> +<p class="poetry">Since it was given to me to hear one happy +while<br /> +The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,<br /> +Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,<br +/> +Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +106</span>Since I have known above my forehead glance and +gleam,<br /> +A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always,<br /> +Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime’s stream<br /> +Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;</p> +<p class="poetry">I now am bold to say to the swift-changing +hours,<br /> +Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old.<br /> +Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers,<br /> +One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your flying wings may smite, but they can never +spill<br /> +The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet,<br /> +My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill.<br /> +My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.</p> +<h3><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>SILENTIA LUNAE</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM +RONSARD</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hide</span> this one night +thy crescent, kindly Moon,<br /> + So shall Endymion faithful prove, +and rest<br /> + Loving and unawakened on thy +breast;<br /> +So shall no foul enchanter importune<br /> +Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon,<br /> + And through the friendly night +unseen I fare<br /> + Who dread the face of foemen +unaware,<br /> +And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou know’st, O Moon, the bitter power of +Love.<br /> +’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move<br /> + With a small gift thy heart; and +of your grace,<br /> +Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire,<br /> +Because on earth ye did not scorn desire,<br /> + Bethink ye, now ye hold your +heavenly place.</p> +<h3><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 108</span>HIS +LADY’S TOMB</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">FROM +RONSARD</span></p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">As</span> in the gardens, +all through May, the Rose,<br /> + Lovely, and young, and rich +apparelled,<br /> + Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy +red,<br /> +When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;<br /> + Graces and Loves within her breast repose,<br /> + The woods are faint with the sweet +odour shed,<br /> + Till rains and heavy suns have +smitten dead<br /> +The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose,—</p> +<p class="poetry">So this, the perfect beauty of our days,<br /> +When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise,<br /> + The fates have slain, and her +sweet soul reposes:<br /> +And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb<br /> +Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,<br /> + That, dead as living, Rose may be +with roses.</p> +<h3><a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>THE +POET’S APOLOGY</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">No</span>, the Muse has +gone away,<br /> +Does not haunt me much to-day.<br /> +Everything she had to say<br /> + + +Has been said!<br /> +’Twas not much at any time<br /> +She could hitch into a rhyme,<br /> +Never was the Muse sublime,<br /> + + +Who has fled!</p> +<p class="poetry">Any one who takes her in<br /> +May observe she’s rather thin;<br /> +Little more than bone and skin<br /> + + +Is the Muse;<br /> +Scanty sacrifice she won<br /> +When her very best she’d done,<br /> +And at her they poked their fun,<br /> + + +In Reviews.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>‘Rhymes,’ in truth, ‘are stubborn +things.’<br /> +And to Rhyme she clung, and clings,<br /> +But whatever song she sings<br /> + + +Scarcely sells.<br /> +If her tone be grave, they say<br /> +‘Give us something rather gay.’<br /> +If she’s skittish, then they pray<br /> + + +‘Something else!’</p> +<p class="poetry">Much she loved, for wading shod,<br /> +To go forth with line and rod,<br /> +Loved the heather, and the sod,<br /> + + +Loved to rest<br /> +On the crystal river’s brim<br /> +Where she saw the fishes swim,<br /> +And she heard the thrushes’ hymn,<br /> + + +By the Test!</p> +<p class="poetry">She, whatever way she went,<br /> +Friendly was and innocent,<br /> +Little need the Bard repent<br /> + + +Of her lay.<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Of the +babble and the rhyme,<br /> +And the imitative chime<br /> +That amused him on a time,—<br /> + + +Now he’s grey.</p> +<h2><a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +113</span>NOTES</h2> +<h3><a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>Page +1.</h3> +<p>Jeanne d’Arc is said to have led a Scottish force at +Lagny, when she defeated the Burgundian, Franquet +d’Arras. A Scottish artist painted her banner; he was +a James Polwarth, or a Hume of Polwarth, according to a +conjecture of Mr. Hill Burton’s. A monk of +Dunfermline, who continued Fordun’s Chronicle, avers that +he was with the Maiden in her campaigns, and at her +martyrdom. He calls her <i>Puella a spiritu sancto +excitata</i>. Unluckily his manuscript breaks off in the +middle of a sentence. At her trial, Jeanne said that she +had only once seen her own portrait: it was in the hands of a +Scottish archer. The story of the white dove which passed +from her lips as they opened to her last cry of <i>Jesus</i>! was +reported at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450–56).</p> +<h3><a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>Page +2.<br /> +<i>One of that Name</i>.</h3> +<p>Two archers of the name of Lang, Lain, or Laing were in the +French service about 1507. See the book on the Scottish +Guard, by Father Forbes Leith, S. J.</p> +<h3><i>Thy Church unto the Maid Denies</i>.</h3> +<p>These verses were written, curiously enough, the day before +the Maiden was raised to the rank of ‘Venerable,’ a +step towards her canonisation, which, we trust, will not be long +delayed. It is not easy for any one to understand the whole +miracle of the life and death of Jeanne d’Arc, and the +absolutely unparalleled grandeur and charm of her character, +without studying the full records of both her trials, as +collected and published by M. Quicherat, for the +Société de l’Histoire de France.</p> +<h3>Page 4.<br /> +<i>How they held the Bass</i>.</h3> +<p>This story is versified from the account in <i>Memoirs of the +Rev. John Blackader</i>, by Andrew Crichton, <a +name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>Minister of +the Gospel. Second Edition. Edinburgh, 1826. +Dunbar was retained as a prisoner, when negotiations for +surrender, in 1691, were broken off by Middleton’s return +with supplies. Halyburton was, it seems, captured later, +and only escaped hanging by virtue of the terms extorted by +Middleton. Patrick Walker tells the tale of Peden and the +girl. Wodrow, in his <i>Analecta</i>, has the story of the +Angel, or other shining spiritual presence, which is removed from +its context in the ballad. The sufferings from weak beer +are quoted in Mr. Blackader’s Memoirs. Mitchell was +the undeniably brave Covenanter who shot at Sharp, and hit the +Bishop of the Orkneys. He was tortured, and, by an act of +perjury (probably unconscious) on the part of Lauderdale, was +hanged. The sentiments of the poem are such as an old +cavalier, surviving to 1743, might perhaps have +entertained. ‘Wullie Wanbeard’ is a Jacobite +name for the Prince of Orange, perhaps invented only by the +post-Jacobite sentiment of the early nineteenth century.</p> +<h3>Page 44.<br /> +<i>Rousseau’s delight</i>.</h3> +<p>The <i>pervenche</i>, or periwinkle.</p> +<h3><a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Page +64.</h3> +<p>One of the college bells of St. Salvator, mentioned by +Ferguson, is called ‘Kate Kennedy’; the heroine is +unknown, but Bishop Kennedy founded the College. +‘Kate Kennedy’s Day’ was a kind of carnival, +probably a survival from that festivity.</p> +<h3>Page 77.<br /> +<i>The Disappointment</i>.</h3> +<p>As a matter of fact the Haunted House Committee of the Society +for Psychical Research have never succeeded in seeing a +ghost.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> + +<div class="gapmediumline"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by T. and A. <span +class="smcap">Constable</span>, Printers to Her Majesty,<br /> +at the Edinburgh University Press</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BAN AND ARRIERE BAN***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1855-h.htm or 1855-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/8/5/1855 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions 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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