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diff --git a/old/bnabn10.txt b/old/bnabn10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3e692f1 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/bnabn10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2485 @@ +The Project Gutenberg Etext Ban and Arriere Ban, by Andrew Lang +#15 in our series by Andrew Lang + + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check +the copyright laws for your country before posting these files!! + +Please take a look at the important information in this header. +We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an +electronic path open for the next readers. Do not remove this. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations* + +Information on contacting Project Gutenberg to get Etexts, and +further information is included below. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.04.29.93*END* + + + + + +This etext was prepared by David Price, email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk +from the 1894 Longmans, Green and Co. edition. + + + + + +Ban and Arriere Ban--A Rally of Fugitive Rhymes + + + + +Contents + +Dedication +A Scot to Jeanne d'Arc +How they held the Bass for King James +Three portraits of Prince Charles +From Omar Khayyam +Aesop +Les Roses de Sadi +The Haunted Tower +Boat-song +Lost Love +The Promise of Helen +The Restoration of Romance +Central American Antiquities in South Kensington Museum +On Calais Sands +Ballade of Yule +Poscimur +On his Dead Sea-Mew +From Meleager +On the Garland Sent to Rhodocleia +A Galloway Garland +Celia's Eyes +Britannia +Gallia +The Fairy Minister +To Robert Louis Stevenson +For Mark Twain's Jubilee +Poems Written under the Influence of Wordsworth + Mist + Lines + Lines + Ode to Golf + Freshman's Term + A toast + Death in June + To Correspondents + Ballade of Difficult Rhymes + Ballant o'Ballantrae + Song by the Sub-Conscious Self + The Haunted Homes of England + The Disappointment + To the Gentle Reader + The Sonnet + The Tournay of the Heroes + Ballad of the Philanthropist +Neiges d'Antan + In Ercildoune + For a Rose's Sake + The Brigand's Grave + The New-Liveried Year + More Strong than Death + Silentia Lunae + His Lady's Tomb + The Poet's Apology +Notes + + + +DEDICATION: TO ELEANOR CHARLOTTE SELLAR + + + +'Ban and Arriere Ban!' a host +Broken, beaten, all unled, +They return as doth a ghost +From the dead. + +Sad or glad my rallied rhymes, +Sought our dusty papers through, +For the sake of other times +Come to you. + +Times and places new we know, +Faces fresh and seasons strange +But the friends of long ago +Do not change. + + + +ERRATUM: Reader, 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. + + + +A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC + + + +Dark Lily without blame, +Not upon us the shame, +Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true, +They, by the Maiden's side, +Victorious fought and died, +One stood by thee that fiery torment through, +Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed, +And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last. + +Once only didst thou see +In artist's imagery, +Thine own face painted, and that precious thing +Was in an Archer's hand +From the leal Northern land. +Alas, what price would not thy people bring +To win that portrait of the ruinous +Gulf of devouring years that hide the Maid from us! + +Born of a lowly line, +Noteless as once was thine, +One of that name I would were kin to me, +Who, in the Scottish Guard +Won this for his reward, +To fight for France, and memory of thee: +Not upon us, dark Lily without blame, +Not on the North may fall the shadow of that shame. + +On France and England both +The shame of broken troth, +Of coward hate and treason black must be; +If England slew thee, France +Sent not one word, one lance, +One coin to rescue or to ransom thee. +And still thy Church unto the Maid denies +The halo and the palms, the Beatific prize. + +But yet thy people calls +Within the rescued walls +Of Orleans; and makes its prayer to thee; +What though the Church have chidden +These orisons forbidden, +Yet art thou with this earth's immortal Three, +With him in Athens that of hemlock died, +And with thy Master dear whom the world crucified. + + + +HOW THEY HELD THE BASS FOR KING JAMES--1691-1693 + + + +[Time of Narrating--1743] + +Ye hae heard Whigs crack o' the Saints in the Bass, my faith, a +gruesome tale; +How the Remnant paid at a tippeny rate, for a quart o' ha'penny +ale! +But I'll tell ye anither tale o' the Bass, that'll hearten ye up to +hear, +Sae I pledge ye to Middleton first in a glass, and a health to the +Young Chevalier! + +The Bass stands frae North Berwick Law a league or less to sea, +About its feet the breakers beat, abune the sea-maws flee, +There's castle stark and dungeon dark, wherein the godly lay, +That made their rant for the Covenant through mony a weary day. +For twal' years lang the caverns rang wi' preaching, prayer, and +psalm, +Ye'd think the winds were soughing wild, when a' the winds were +calm, +There wad they preach, each Saint to each, and glower as the +soldiers pass, +And Peden wared his malison on a bonny leaguer lass, +As she stood and daffed, while the warders laughed, and wha sae +blithe as she, +But a wind o' ill worked his warlock will, and flang her out to +sea. +Then wha sae bright as the Saints that night, and an angel came, +say they, +And sang in the cell where the Righteous dwell, but he took na a +Saint away. +There yet might they be, for nane could flee, and nane daur'd break +the jail, +And still the sobbing o' the sea might mix wi' their warlock wail, +But then came in black echty-echt, and bluidy echty-nine, +Wi' Cess, and Press, and Presbytery, and a' the dule sin' syne, +The Saints won free wi' the power o' the key, and cavaliers maun +pine! +It was Halyburton, Middleton, and Roy and young Dunbar, +That Livingstone took on Cromdale haughs, in the last fight of the +war: +And they were warded in the Bass, till the time they should be +slain, +Where bluidy Mitchell, and Blackader, and Earlston lang had lain; +Four lads alone, 'gainst a garrison, but Glory crowns their names, +For they brought it to pass that they took the Bass, and they held +it for King James! + +It isna by preaching half the night, ye'll burst a dungeon door, +It wasna by dint o' psalmody they broke the hold, they four, +For lang years three that rock in the sea bade Wullie Wanbeard gae +swing, +And England and Scotland fause may be, but the Bass Rock stands for +the King! + +There's but ae pass gangs up the Bass, it's guarded wi' strong +gates four, +And still as the soldiers went to the sea, they steikit them, door +by door, +And this did they do when they helped a crew that brought their +coals on shore. +Thither all had gone, save three men alone: then Middleton gripped +his man, +Halyburton felled the sergeant lad, Dunbar seized the gunner, Swan; +Roy bound their hands, in hempen bands, and the Cavaliers were +free. +And they trained the guns on the soldier loons that were down wi' +the boat by the sea! +Then Middleton cried frae the high cliff-side, and his voice garr'd +the auld rocks ring, +'Will ye stand or flee by the land or sea, for I hold the Bass for +the King?' + +They had nae desire to face the fire; it was mair than men might +do, +So they e'en sailed back in the auld coal-smack, a sorry and shame- +faced crew, +And they hirpled doun to Edinburgh toun, wi' the story of their +shames, +How the prisoners bold had broken hold, and kept the Bass for King +James. + +King James he has sent them guns and men, and the Whigs they guard +the Bass, +But they never could catch the Cavaliers, who took toll of ships +that pass, +They fared wild and free as the birds o' the sea, and at night they +went on the wing, +And they lifted the kye o' Whigs far and nigh, and they revelled +and drank to the King. + +Then Wullie Wanbeard sends his ships to siege the Bass in form, +And first shall they break the fortress down, and syne the Rock +they'll storm. +After twa days' fight they fled in the night, and glad eneuch to +go, +With their rigging rent, and their powder spent, and many a man +laid low. + +So for lang years three did they sweep the sea, but a closer watch +was set, +Till nae food had they, but twa ounce a day o' meal was the maist +they'd get. +And men fight but tame on an empty wame, so they sent a flag o' +truce, +And blithe were the Privy Council then, when the Whigs had heard +that news. +Twa Lords they sent wi' a strang intent to be dour on each +Cavalier, +But wi' French cakes fine, and his last drap o' wine, did Middleton +make them cheer, +On the muzzles o' guns he put coats and caps, and he set them aboot +the wa's, +And the Whigs thocht then he had food and men to stand for the +Rightfu' Cause. +So he got a' he craved, and his men were saved, and nane might say +them nay, +Wi' sword by side, and flag o' pride, free men might they gang +their way, +They might fare to France, they might bide at hame, and the better +their grace to buy, +Wullie Wanbeard's purse maun pay the keep o' the men that did him +defy! + +Men never hae gotten sic terms o' peace since first men went to +war, +As got Halyburton, and Middleton, and Roy, and the young Dunbar. +Sae I drink to ye here, To the Young Chevalier! I hae said ye an +auld man's say, +And there may hae been mightier deeds of arms, but there never was +nane sae gay! + + + +THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES + + + +1731 + +Beautiful face of a child, +Lighted with laughter and glee, +Mirthful, and tender, and wild, +My heart is heavy for thee! + +1744 + +Beautiful face of a youth, +As an eagle poised to fly forth, +To the old land loyal of truth, +To the hills and the sounds of the North: +Fair face, daring and proud, +Lo! the shadow of doom, even now, +The fate of thy line, like a cloud, +Rests on the grace of thy brow! + +1773 + +Cruel and angry face, +Hateful and heavy with wine, +Where are the gladness, the grace, +The beauty, the mirth that were thine? + +Ah, my Prince, it were well,-- +Hadst thou to the gods been dear, - +To have fallen where Keppoch fell, +With the war-pipe loud in thine ear! +To have died with never a stain +On the fair White Rose of Renown, +To have fallen, fighting in vain, +For thy father, thy faith, and thy crown! +More than thy marble pile, +With its women weeping for thee, +Were to dream in thine ancient isle, +To the endless dirge of the sea! +But the Fates deemed otherwise, +Far thou sleepest from home, +From the tears of the Northern skies, +In the secular dust of Rome. + +* * * + +A city of death and the dead, +But thither a pilgrim came, +Wearing on weary head +The crowns of years and fame: +Little the Lucrine lake +Or Tivoli said to him, +Scarce did the memories wake +Of the far-off years and dim. +For he stood by Avernus' shore, +But he dreamed of a Northern glen +And he murmured, over and o'er, +'For Charlie and his men:' +And his feet, to death that went, +Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine, +And the latest Minstrel bent +O'er the last of the Stuart line. + + + +FROM OMAR KHAYYAM + + + +[Rhymed from the prose version of Mr. Justin Huntly M'Carthy] + +The Paradise they bid us fast to win +Hath Wine and Women; is it then a sin +To live as we shall live in Paradise, +And make a Heaven of Earth, ere Heaven begin? + +The wise may search the world from end to end, +From dusty nook to dusty nook, my friend, +And nothing better find than girls and wine, +Of all the things they neither make nor mend. + +Nay, listen thou who, walking on Life's way, +Hast seen no lovelock of thy love's grow grey +Listen, and love thy life, and let the Wheel +Of Heaven go spinning its own wilful way. + +Man is a flagon, and his soul the wine, +Man is a lamp, wherein the Soul doth shine, +Man is a shaken reed, wherein that wind, +The Soul, doth ever rustle and repine. + +Each morn I say, to-night I will repent, +Repent! and each night go the way I went - +The way of Wine; but now that reigns the rose, +Lord of Repentance, rage not, but relent. + +I wish to drink of wine--so deep, so deep - +The scent of wine my sepulchre shall steep, +And they, the revellers by Omar's tomb, +Shall breathe it, and in Wine shall fall asleep. + +Before the rent walls of a ruined town +Lay the King's skull, whereby a bird flew down +'And where,' he sang, 'is all thy clash of arms? +Where the sonorous trumps of thy renown?' + + + +AESOP + + + +He sat among the woods, he heard +The sylvan merriment: he saw +The pranks of butterfly and bird, +The humours of the ape, the daw. + +And in the lion or the frog - +In all the life of moor and fen, +In ass and peacock, stork and dog, +He read similitudes of men. + +'Of these, from those,' he cried, 'we come, +Our hearts, our brains descend from these.' +And lo! the Beasts no more were dumb, +But answered out of brakes and trees: + +'Not ours,' they cried; 'Degenerate, +If ours at all,' they cried again, +'Ye fools, who war with God and Fate, +Who strive and toil: strange race of men. + +'For WE are neither bond nor free, +For WE have neither slaves nor kings, +But near to Nature's heart are we, +And conscious of her secret things. + +'Content are we to fall asleep, +And well content to wake no more, +We do not laugh, we do not weep, +Nor look behind us and before; + +'But were there cause for moan or mirth, +'Tis WE, not you, should sigh or scorn, +Oh, latest children of the Earth, +Most childish children Earth has borne.' + +* * * + +They spoke, but that misshapen slave +Told never of the thing he heard, +And unto men their portraits gave, +In likenesses of beast and bird! + + + +LES ROSES DE SADI + + + +This morning I vowed I would bring thee my Roses, +They were thrust in the band that my bodice encloses, +But the breast-knots were broken, the Roses went free. +The breast-knots were broken; the Roses together +Floated forth on the wings of the wind and the weather, +And they drifted afar down the streams of the sea. + +And the sea was as red as when sunset uncloses, +But my raiment is sweet from the scent of the Roses, +Thou shalt know, Love, how fragrant a memory can be. + + + +THE HAUNTED TOWER + + + +[Suggested by a poem of Theophile Gautier] + +In front he saw the donjon tall +Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan +The guards that slept along the wall, +Or dozed upon the bartizan. +He marked the drowsy flag that hung +Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower, +He listened to the birds that sung +Go forth and win the haunted tower! +The tangled brake made way for him, +The twisted brambles bent aside; +And lo, he pierced the forest dim, +And lo, he won the fairy bride! +For HE was young, but ah! we find, +All we, whose beards are flecked with grey, +Our fairy castle's far behind, +We watch it from the darkling way: +'Twas ours, that palace, in our youth, +We revelled there in happy cheer: +Who scarce dare visit now in sooth, +Le Vieux Chateau de Souvenir! +For not the boughs of forest green +Begird that castle far away, +There is a mist where we have been +That weeps about it, cold and grey. +And if we seek to travel back +'Tis through a thicket dim and sere, +With many a grave beside the track, +And many a haunting form of fear. +Dead leaves are wet among the moss, +With weed and thistle overgrown - +A ruined barge within the fosse, +A castle built of crumbling stone! +The drawbridge drops from rusty chains, +There comes no challenge from the hold; +No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains, +Of all who dwelt with us of old. +And there is silence in the hall +No sound of songs, no ray of fire; +But gloom where all was glad, and all +Is darkened with a vain desire. +And every picture's fading fast, +Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise. +Lo, the white shadows hurrying past, +Below the boughs of dripping trees! + +* * * + +Ah rise, and march, and look not back, +Now the long way has brought us here; +We may not turn and seek the track +To the old Chateau de Souvenir! + + + +BOAT-SONG + + + +Adrift, with starlit skies above, +With starlit seas below, +We move with all the suns that move, +With all the seas that flow: +For, bond or free, earth, sky, and sea, +Wheel with one central will, +And thy heart drifteth on to me, +And only Time stands still. + +Between two shores of death we drift, +Behind are things forgot, +Before, the tide is racing swift +To shores man knoweth not. +Above, the sky is far and cold, +Below, the moaning sea +Sweeps o'er the loves that were of old, +But thou, Love, love thou me. + +Ah, lonely are the ocean ways, +And dangerous the deep, +And frail the fairy barque that strays +Above the seas asleep. +Ah, toil no more with helm or oar, +We drift, or bond or free, +On yon far shore the breakers roar, +But thou, Love, love thou me! + + + +LOST LOVE + + + +Who wins his Love shall lose her, +Who loses her shall gain, +For still the spirit woos her, +A soul without a stain; +And Memory still pursues her +With longings not in vain! + +He loses her who gains her, +Who watches day by day +The dust of time that stains her, +The griefs that leave her grey, +The flesh that yet enchains her +Whose grace hath passed away! + +Oh, happier he who gains not +The Love some seem to gain: +The joy that custom stains not +Shall still with him remain, +The loveliness that wanes not, +The Love that ne'er can wane. + +In dreams she grows not older +The lands of Dream among, +Though all the world wax colder, +Though all the songs be sung, +In dreams doth he behold her +Still fair and kind and young. + + + +THE PROMISE OF HELEN + + + +Whom hast thou longed for most, +True love of mine? +Whom hast thou loved and lost? +Lo, she is thine! + +She that another wed +Breaks from her vow; +She that hath long been dead +Wakes for thee now. + +Dreams haunt the hapless bed, +Ghosts haunt the night, +Life crowns her living head, +Love and Delight. + +Nay, not a dream nor ghost, +Nay, but Divine, +She that was loved and lost +Waits to be thine! + + + +THE RESTORATION OF ROMANCE. +TO H. R. H., R. L. S., A. C. D., AND S. W. + + + +King Romance was wounded deep, +All his knights were dead and gone, +All his court was fallen on sleep, +In a vale of Avalon! +Nay, men said, he will not come, +Any night or any morn. +Nay, his puissant voice is dumb, +Silent his enchanted horn! + +King Romance was forfeited, +Banished from his Royal home, +With a price upon his head, +Driven with sylvan folk to roam. +King Romance is fallen, banned, +Cried his foemen overbold, +Broken is the wizard wand, +All the stories have been told! + +Then you came from South and North, +From Tugela, from the Tweed, +Blazoned his achievements forth, +King Romance is come indeed! +All his foes are overthrown, +All their wares cast out in scorn, +King Romance hath won his own, +And the lands where he was born! + +Marsac at adventure rides, +Felon men meet felon scathe, +Micah Clarke is taking sides +For King Monmouth and the Faith; +For a Cause or for a lass +Men are willing to be slain, +And the dungeons of the Bass +Hold a prisoner again. + +King Romance with wand of gold +Sways the realms he ruled of yore. +Hills Dalgetty roamed of old, +Valleys of enchanted Kor: +Waves his sceptre o'er the isles, +Claims the pirates' treasuries, +Through innumerable miles +Of the siren-haunted seas! + +Elfin folk of coast and cave, +Laud him in the woven dance, +All the tribes of wold and wave +Bow the knee to King Romance! +Wand'ring voices Chaucer knew +On the mountain and the main, +Cry the haunted forest through, +KING ROMANCE HAS COME AGAIN! + + + +CENTRAL AMERICAN ANTIQUITIES IN SOUTH KENSINGTON MUSEUM + + + +'Youth and crabbed age +Cannot live together;' +So they say. + +On this little page +See you when and whether +That they may. + +Age was very old - +Stones from Chichimec +Hardly wrung; + +Youth had hair of gold +Knotted on her neck - +Fair and young! + +Age was carved with odd +Slaves, and priests that slew them - +God and Beast; + +Man and Beast and God - +There she sat and drew them, +King and Priest! + +There she sat and drew +Many a monstrous head +And antique; + +Horrors from Peru, +HUACAS doubly dead, +Dead cacique! + +Ere Pizarro came +These were lords of men +Long ago; + +Gods without a name, +Born or how or when, +None may know! + +Now from Yucatan +These doth Science bear +Over seas; + +And methinks a man +Finds youth doubly fair, +Sketching these! + + + +ON CALAIS SANDS + + + +On Calais Sands the grey began, +Then rosy red above the grey, +The morn with many a scarlet van +Leap'd, and the world was glad with May! +The little waves along the bay +Broke white upon the shelving strands; +The sea-mews flitted white as they +On Calais Sands! + +On Calais Sands must man with man +Wash honour clean in blood to-day; +On spaces wet from waters wan +How white the flashing rapiers play, +Parry, riposte! and lunge! The fray +Shifts for a while, then mournful stands +The Victor: life ebbs fast away +On Calais Sands! + +On Calais Sands a little space +Of silence, then the plash and spray, +The sound of eager waves that ran +To kiss the perfumed locks astray, +To touch these lips that ne'er said 'Nay,' +To dally with the helpless hands; +Till the deep sea in silence lay +On Calais Sands! + +Between the lilac and the may +She waits her love from alien lands; +Her love is colder than the clay +On Calais Sands! + + + +BALLADE OF YULE + + + +This life's most jolly, Amiens said, +Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he. +As the good Duke was comforted +In forest exile, so may we! +The years may darken as they flee, +And Christmas bring his melancholy: +But round the old mahogany tree +We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly! + +Though some are dead and some are fled +To lands of summer over sea, +The holly berry keeps his red, +The merry children keep their glee; +They hoard with artless secresy +This gift for Maude, and that for Molly, +And Santa Claus he turns the key +On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly! + +Amid the snow the birds are fed, +The snow lies deep on lawn and lea, +The skies are shining overhead, +The robin's tame that was so free. +Far North, at home, the 'barley bree' +They brew; they give the hour to folly, +How 'Rab and Allan cam to pree,' +They sing, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly! + +ENVOI + +Friend, let us pay the wonted fee, +The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly! +It is a duty so to be, +Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly! + + + +POSCIMUR--FROM HORACE + + + +Hush, for they call! If in the shade, +My lute, we twain have idly strayed, +And song for many a season made, +Once more reply; +Once more we'll play as we have played, +My lute and I! + +Roman the song: the strain you know, +The Lesbian wrought it long ago. +Now singing as he charged the foe, +Now in the bay, +Where safe in the shore-water's flow +His galleys lay. + +So sang he Bacchus and the Nine, +And Venus and her boy divine, +And Lycus of the dusky eyne, +The dusky hair; +So shalt thou sing, ah, Lute of mine, +Of all things fair; + +Apollo's glory! Sounding shell, +Thou lute, to Jove desirable, +When soft thine accents sigh and swell +At festival - +Delight more dear than words can tell, +Attend my call! + + + +ON HIS DEAD SEA-MEW +FROM THE GREEK + + + +I + +Bird of the graces, dear sea-mew, whose note +Was like the halcyon's song, +In death thy wings and thy sweet spirit float +Still paths of the night along! + +II + +THE SAILOR'S GRAVE + +Tomb of a shipwrecked seafarer am I, +But thou, sail on! +For homeward safe did other vessels fly, +Though we were gone. + + + +FROM MELEAGER + + + +I love not the wine-cup, but if thou art fain +I should drink, do thou taste it, and bring it to me; +If it touch but thy lips it were hard to refrain, +It were hard from the sweet maid who bears it to flee; +For the cup ferries over the kisses, and plain +Does it speak of the grace that was given it by thee. + + + +ON THE GARLAND SENT TO RHODOCLEIA--RUFINUS + + + +GOLDEN EYES + +'Ah, Golden Eyes, to win you yet, +I bring mine April coronet, +The lovely blossoms of the spring, +For you I weave, to you I bring +These roses with the lilies set, +The dewy dark-eyed violet, +Narcissus, and the wind-flower wet: +Wilt thou disdain mine offering? +Ah, Golden Eyes! + +Crowned with thy lover's flowers, forget +The pride wherein thy heart is set, +For thou, like these or anything, +Has but a moment of thy spring, +Thy spring, and then--the long regret! +Ah, Golden Eyes!' + + + +A GALLOWAY GARLAND + + + +We know not, on these hills of ours, +The fabled asphodel of Greece, +That filleth with immortal flowers +Fields where the heroes are at peace! +Not ours are myrtle buds like these +That breathe o'er isles where memories dwell +Of Sappho, in enchanted seas! + +We meet not, on our upland moor, +The singing Maid of Helicon, +You may not hear her music pure +Float on the mountain meres withdrawn; +The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone! +But we have songs that please us well +And flowers we love to look upon. + +More sweet than Southern myrtles far +The bruised Marsh-myrtle breatheth keen; +Parnassus names the flower, the star, +That shines among the well-heads green +The bright Marsh-asphodels between - +Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel +May crown the Northern Muse a queen + + + +CELIA'S EYES--PASTICHE + + + +Tell me not that babies dwell +In the deeps of Celia's eyes; +Cupid in each hazel well +Scans his beauties with surprise, +And would, like Narcissus, drown +In my Celia's eyes of brown. + +Tell me not that any goes +Safe by that enchanted place; +Eros dwells with Anteros +In the garden of her Face, +Where like friends who late were foes +Meet the white and crimson Rose. + + + +BRITANNIA--FROM JULES LEMAITRE + + + +Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough, +Red cherries in the dawning, and more white +Than milk or white camellias is thy brow; +And as the golden corn thy hair is bright, +The corn that drinks the Sun's less fair than thou; +While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now - +Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau's delight. + +Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these +Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys +Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone, +Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil, +Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale, +Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and intone? + + + +GALLIA + + + +Lady, lady neat +Of the roguish eye, +Wherefore dost thou hie, +Stealthy, down the street, +On well-booted feet? +From French novels I +Gather that you fly, +Guy or Jules to meet. + +Furtive dost thou range, +Oft thy cab dost change; +So, at least, 'tis said: +Oh, the sad old tale +Passionately stale, +We've so often read! + + + +THE FAIRY MINISTER + + + +[The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was carried away by the Fairies in +1692.] + +People of Peace! a peaceful man, +Well worthy of your love was he, +Who, while the roaring Garry ran +Red with the life-blood of Dundee, +While coats were turning, crowns were falling, +Wandered along his valley still, +And heard your mystic voices calling +From fairy knowe and haunted hill. +He heard, he saw, he knew too well +The secrets of your fairy clan; +You stole him from the haunted dell, +Who never more was seen of man. +Now far from heaven, and safe from hell, +Unknown of earth, he wanders free. +Would that he might return and tell +Of his mysterious Company! +For we have tired the Folk of Peace; +No more they tax our corn and oil; +Their dances on the moorland cease, +The Brownie stints his wonted toil. +No more shall any shepherd meet +The ladies of the fairy clan, +Nor are their deathly kisses sweet +On lips of any earthly man. +And half I envy him who now, +Clothed in her Court's enchanted green, +By moonlit loch or mountain's brow +Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen. + + + +TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON +WITH KIRK'S 'SECRET COMMONWEALTH' + + + +O Louis! you that like them maist, +Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist, +And fairy dames, no unco chaste, +And haunted cell. +Among a heathen clan ye're placed, +That kensna hell! + +Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks, +Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks, +There are nae bonny U.P. kirks, +An awfu' place! +Nane kens the Covenant o' Works +Frae that o' Grace! + +But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read +Blads o' the Covenanting creed, +And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed +On halesome parritch; +And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed +O' the Shorter Carritch. + +Yet thae uncovenanted shavers +Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers +O' gods and etins--auld wives' havers, +But their delight; +The voice o' him that tells them quavers +Just wi' fair fright. + +And ye might tell, ayont the faem, +Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame +To speak the truth, I takna shame +To half believe them; +And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name, +They'll a' receive them. + +And folk to come ayont the sea +May hear the yowl o' the Banshie, +And frae the water-kelpie flee, +Ere a' things cease, +And island bairns may stolen be +By the Folk o' Peace. + + + +FOR MARK TWAIN'S JUBILEE + + + +To brave Mark Twain, across the sea, +The years have brought his jubilee; +One hears it half with pain, +That fifty years have passed and gone +Since danced the merry star that shone +Above the babe, Mark Twain! + +How many and many a weary day, +When sad enough were we, 'Mark's way' +(Unlike the Laureate's Mark's) +Has made us laugh until we cried, +And, sinking back exhausted, sighed, +Like Gargery, Wot larx! + +We turn his pages, and we see +The Mississippi flowing free; +We turn again, and grin +O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned, +With him of the Ensanguined Hand, +With Huckleberry Finn! + +Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells +Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells +Across the Atlantic main, +Grant that Mark's laughter never die, +That men, through many a century, +May chuckle o'er Mark Twain! + + + +MIST + + + +Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down +Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule, +At least on fly, in mere or river-pool +When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown, +And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown, +The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool +The blatant declamations of the fool +Who raves reciting through the heather brown. + +Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass +Who cries 'How lovely!' and who does not spare +When light and shadow on the mountain pass,-- +Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair, +O'er rock, and glade, and glen,--to shout, the Ass, +To me, to me the Poet, 'Oh, look there!' + + + +LINES + + + +[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 Belinda, a +Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.] + +How solemn is the front of this Hotel, +When now the hills are swathed in modest mist, +And none can speak of scenery, nor tell +Of 'tints of amber,' or of 'amethyst.' +Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell, +Here Sara flirted with whoever list, +Belinda loved not wisely but too well, +And Mr. Ford played the Philologist! +Haunted the house is, and the balcony +Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near, +And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh, +While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere, +And all our hearts go forth into the cry, +Would that the teller of the tale were here! + + + +LINES + + + +[Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an +advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.] + +I passed upon the wings of Steam +Along Tay's valley fair, +The book I read had such a theme +As bids the Soul despair. + +A tale of miserable men +Of hearts with doubt distraught, +Wherein a melancholy pen +With helpless problems fought. + +Where many a life was brought to dust, +And many a heart laid low, +And many a love was smirched with lust - +I raised mine eyes, and, oh! - + +I marked upon a common wall, +These simple words of hope, +That mute appeal to one and all, +Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap! + +Our moral energies have range +Beyond their seeming scope, +How tonic were the words, how strange, +Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap! + +'Behold,' I cried, 'the inner touch +That lifts the Soul through cares! +I loved that Soap-boiler so much +I blessed him unawares! + +Perchance he is some vulgar man, +Engrossed in pounds s. d. +But, ah! through Nature's holy plan +He whispered hope to me! + + + +ODE TO GOLF + + + +'Delusive Nymph, farewell!' +How oft we've said or sung, +When balls evasive fell, +Or in the jaws of 'Hell,' +Or salt sea-weeds among, +'Mid shingle and sea-shell! + +How oft beside the Burn, +We play the sad 'two more'; +How often at the turn, +The heather must we spurn; +How oft we've 'topped and swore,' +In bent and whin and fern! + +Yes, when the broken head +Bounds further than the ball, +The heart has inly bled. +Ah! and the lips have said +Words we would fain recall - +Wild words, of passion bred! + +In bunkers all unknown, +Far beyond 'Walkinshaw, +Where never ball had flown - +Reached by ourselves alone - +Caddies have heard with awe +The music of our moan! + +Yet, Nymph, if once alone, +The ball hath featly fled - +Not smitten from the bone - +That drive doth still atone; +And one long shot laid dead +Our grief to the winds hath blown! + +So, still beside the tee, +We meet in storm or calm, +Lady, and worship thee; +While the loud lark sings free, +Piping his matin psalm +Above the grey sad sea! + + + +FRESHMAN'S TERM + + + +Return again, thou Freshman's year, +When bloom was on the rye, +When breakfast came with bottled beer, +When Pleasure walked the High; +When Torpid Bumps were more by far +To every opening mind +Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War, +To senior humankind; +When ribbons of outrageous hues +Were worn with honest pride, +When much was talked of boats and crews, +When Proctors were defied: +When Tick was in its early bloom, +When Schools were far away, +As vaguely distant as the tomb, +Nor more regarded--they! +When arm was freely linked with arm +Beneath the College limes, +When Sunday grinds possessed a charm +Denied to College Rhymes: +When ices were in much request +Beside the April fire, +When men were very strangely dressed +By Standen or by Prior. +Return, ye Freshman's Terms! They DO +Return, and much the same, +To boys, who, just like me and you, +Play the absurd old game! + + + +A TOAST + + + +[Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard's and St. +Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.] + +The learned are all 'in a swither,' +(They don't very often agree,) +They know not her 'whence' nor her 'whither,' +The Maiden we drink to together, +The College's Kate Kennedie! + +Did she shine in days early or later? +Did she ever achieve a degree? +Was she pretty or plain? Did she mate, or +Live lonely? And who was the pater +Of mystical Kate Kennedie? + +The learned may scorn her and scout her, +But true to her colours are WE, +The learned may mock her and flout her, +But surely we'll rally about her, +In the College that stands by the Sea! + +So here's to her memory! here to +The mystical Maiden drink we, +We pledge her, and we'll persevere too, +Though the reason is not very clear to +The critical mind, nor to ME. +Here's to Kate! she's our own, and she's dear to +The College that stands by the Sea. + + + +DEATH IN JUNE--FOR CRICKETERS ONLY + + + +[June is the month of Suicides] + +Why do we slay ourselves in June, +When life, if ever, seems so sweet? +When "Moon," and "tune," and "afternoon," +And other happy rhymes we meet, +When strawberries are coming soon? +Why do we do it?' you repeat! + +Ah, careless butterfly, to thee +The strawberry seems passing good; +And sweet, on Music's wings, to flee +Amid the waltzing multitude, +And revel late--perchance till three - +For Love is monarch of thy mood! + +Alas! to US no solace shows +For sorrows we endure--at Lord's, +When Oxford's bowling ALWAYS goes +For 'fours,' for ever to the cords - +Or more, perhaps, with 'overthrows'; - +These things can pierce the heart like swords! + +And thus it is though woods are green, +Though mayflies down the Test are rolling, +Though sweet, the silver showers between, +The finches sing in strains consoling, +We cut our throats for very spleen, +And very shame of Oxford's bowling! + + + +TO CORRESPONDENTS + + + +My Postman, though I fear thy tread, +And tremble as thy foot draws nearer, +'Tis not the Christmas Dun I dread, +MY mortal foe is much severer, - +The Unknown Correspondent, who, +With undefatigable pen, +And nothing in the world to do, +Perplexes literary men. + +From Pentecost and Ponder's End +They write: from Deal, and from Dacotah, +The people of the Shetlands send +No inconsiderable quota; +They write for AUTOGRAPHS; in vain, +In vain does Phyllis write, and Flora, +They write that Allan Quatermain +Is not at all the book for Brora. + +They write to say that 'they have met +This writer 'at a garden party, +And though' this writer 'MAY forget,' +THEIR recollection's keen and hearty. +'And will you praise in your reviews +A novel by our distant cousin?' +These letters from Provincial Blues +Assail us daily by the dozen! + +O friends with time upon your hands, +O friends with postage-stamps in plenty, +O poets out of many lands, +O youths and maidens under twenty, +Seek out some other wretch to bore, +Or wreak yourselves upon your neighbours, +And leave me to my dusty lore +And my unprofitable labours! + + + +BALLADE OF DIFFICULT RHYMES + + + +With certain rhymes 'tis hard to deal; +For 'silver' we have ne'er a rhyme. +On 'orange' (as on orange peel) +The bard has slipped full many a time. +With 'babe' there's scarce a sound will chime, +Though 'astrolabe' fits like a glove; +But, ye that on Parnassus climb, +Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + +A rhyme to 'cusp,' to beg or steal, +I've sought, from evensong to prime, +But vain is my poetic zeal, +There's not one sound is worth a 'dime': +'Bilge,' 'coif,' 'scarf,' 'window'--deeds of crime +I'd do to gain the rhymes thereof; +Nor shrink from acts of moral grime - +Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + +To 'dove' my fancies flit, and wheel +Like butterflies on banks of thyme. +'Above'?--or 'shove'--alas! I feel, +They're too much used to be sublime. +I scorn with angry pantomime, +The thought of 'move' (pronounced as muv). +Ah, in Apollo's golden clime +Why, why are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + +ENVOI + +Prince of the lute and lyre, reveal +New rhymes, fresh minted, from above, +Nor still be deaf to our appeal. +Why, WHY are rhymes so rare to LOVE? + + + +BALLANT O' BALLANTRAE--TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON + + + +[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.] + +Whan suthern wunds gar spindrift flee +Abune the clachan, faddums hie, +Whan for the cluds I canna see +The bonny lift, +I'd fain indite an Ode to THEE +Had I the gift! + +Ken ye the coast o' wastland Ayr? +Oh mon, it's unco bleak and bare! +Ye daunder here, ye daunder there, +And mak' your moan, +They've rain and wund eneuch to tear +The suthern cone! + +Ye're seekin' sport! There's nane ava', +Ye'll sit and glower ahint the wa' +At bleesin' breakers till ye staw, +If that's yer wush; +'There's aye the Stinchar.' Hoot awa', +She wunna fush! + +She wunna fush at ony gait, +She's roarin' reid in wrathfu' spate; +Maist like yer kimmer when ye're late +Frae Girvan Fair! +Forbye to speer for leave I'm blate +For fushin' there! + +O Louis, you that writes in Scots, +Ye're far awa' frae stirks and stots, +Wi' drookit hurdies, tails in knots, +An unco way! +MY mirth's like thorns aneth the pots +In Ballantrae! + + + +SONG BY THE SUB-CONSCIOUS SELF--RHYMES MADE IN A DREAM + + + +I know not what my secret is, +I know but it is mine; +I know to dwell with it were bliss, +To die for it divine. +I cannot yield it in a kiss, +Nor breathe it in a sigh. +I know that I have lived for this; +For this, my love, I die. + + + +THE HAUNTED HOMES OF ENGLAND + + + +The Haunted Homes of England, +How eerily they stand, +While through them flit their ghosts--to wit, +The Monk with the Red Hand, +The Eyeless Girl--an awful spook - +To stop the boldest breath, +The boy that inked his copybook, +And so got 'wopped' to death! + +Call them not shams--from haunted Glamis +To haunted Woodhouselea, +I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts +I hear the fell Banshie! +I know the spectral dog that howls +Before the death of Squires; +In my 'Ghosts'-guide' addresses hide +For Podmore and for Myers! + +I see the Vampire climb the stairs +From vaults below the church; +And hark! the Pirate's spectre swears! +O Psychical Research, +Canst THOU not hear what meets my ear, +The viewless wheels that come? +The wild Banshie that wails to thee? +The Drummer with his drum? + +O Haunted Homes of England, +Though tenantless ye stand, +With none content to pay the rent, +Through all the shadowy land, +Now, Science true will find in you +A sympathetic perch, +And take you all, both Grange and Hall, +For Psychical Research! + + + +THE DISAPPOINTMENT + + + +A house I took, and many a spook +Was deemed to haunt that House, +I bade the glum Researchers come +With Bogles to carouse. +That House I'd sought with anxious thought, +'Twas old, 'twas dark as sin, +And deeds of bale, so ran the tale, +Had oft been done therein. + +Full many a child its mother wild, +Men said, had strangled there, +Full many a sire, in heedless ire, +Had slain his daughter fair! +'Twas rarely let: I can't forget +A recent tenant's dread, +This widow lone had heard a moan +Proceeding from her bed. + +The tenants next were chiefly vexed +By spectres grim and grey. +A Headless Ghost annoyed them most, +And so they did not stay. +The next in turn saw corpse lights burn, +And also a Banshie, +A spectral Hand they could not stand, +And left the House to me. + +Then came my friends for divers ends, +Some curious, some afraid; +No direr pest disturbed their rest +Than a neat chambermaid. +The grisly halls were gay with balls, +One melancholy nook +Where ghosts GALORE were seen before +Now yielded ne'er a spook. + +When man and maid, all unafraid, +'Sat out' upon the stairs, +No spectre dread, with feet of lead, +Came past them unawares. +I know not why, but alway I +Have found that it is so, +That when the glum Researchers come +The brutes of bogeys--go! + + + +TO THE GENTLE READER + + + +'A French writer (whom I love well) speaks of three kinds of +companions,--men, women, and books.'--Sir John Davys. + +Three kinds of companions, men, women, and books, +Were enough, said the elderly Sage, for his ends. +And the women we deem that he chose for their looks, +And the men for their cellars: the books were his friends: +'Man delights me not,' often, 'nor woman,' but books +Are the best of good comrades in loneliest nooks. + +For man will be wrangling--for woman will fret +About anything infinitesimal small: +Like the Sage in our Plato, I'm 'anxious to get +On the side'--on the sunnier side--'of a wall.' +Let the wind of the world toss the nations like rooks, +If only you'll leave me at peace with my Books. + +And which are my books? why, 'tis much as you please, +For, given 'tis a book, it can hardly be wrong, +And Bradshaw himself I can study with ease, +Though for choice I might call for a Sermon or Song; +And Locker on London, and Sala on Cooks, +'Tom Brown,' and Plotinus, they're all of them Books. + +There's Fielding to lap one in currents of mirth; +There's Herrick to sing of a flower or a fay; +Or good Maitre Francoys to bring one to earth, +If Shelley or Coleridge have snatched one away: +There's Muller on Speech, there is Gurney on Spooks, +There is Tylor on Totems, there's all sorts of Books. + +There's roaming in regions where every one's been, +Encounters where no one was ever before, +There's 'Leaves' from the Highlands we owe to the Queen, +There's Holly's and Leo's adventures in Kor: +There's Tanner who dwelt with Pawnees and Chinooks, +You can cover a great deal of country in Books. + +There are books, highly thought of, that nobody reads, +There is Geusius' dearly delectable tome +Of the Cannibal--he on his neighbour who feeds - +And in blood-red morocco 'tis bound, by Derome; +There's Montaigne here (a Foppens), there's Roberts (on Flukes), +There's Elzevirs, Aldines, and Gryphius' Books. + +There's Bunyan, there's Walton, in early editions, +There's many a quarto uncommonly rare; +There's quaint old Quevedo adream with his visions, +There's Johnson the portly, and Burton the spare; +There's Boston of Ettrick, who preached of the 'Crooks +In the Lots' of us mortals, who bargain for Books. + +There's Ruskin to keep one exclaiming 'What next?' +There's Browning to puzzle, and Gilbert to chaff, +And Marcus Aurelius to soothe one if vexed, +And good MARCUS TVAINUS to lend you a laugh; +There be capital tomes that are filled with fly-hooks, +And I've frequently found them the best kind of Books. + + + +THE SONNET + + + +Poet, beware! The sonnet's primrose path +Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread. +Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread, +Because the sated reader roars in wrath: +'Little indeed to say the singer hath, +And little sense in all that he hath said; +Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read, +And naught but stubble is his aftermath!' + +Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine +Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes, +There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine, +With other minor poets, pallid shapes, +Who come a long way short of the divine, +Tormented souls of imitative apes. + + + +THE TOURNAY OF THE HEROES + + + +Ho, warders, cry a tournay! ho, heralds, call the knights! +What gallant lance for old Romance 'gainst modern fiction fights? +The lists are set, the Knights are met, I ween, a dread array, +St. Chad to shield, a stricken field shall we behold to-day! +First to the Northern barriers pricks Roland of Roncesvaux, +And by his side, in knightly pride, Wilfred of Ivanhoe, +The Templar rideth by his rein, two gallant foes were they; +And proud to see, le brave Bussy his colours doth display. + +Ready at need he comes with speed, William of Deloraine, +And Hereward the Wake himself is pricking o'er the plain. +The good knight of La Mancha's here, here is Sir Amyas Leigh, +And Eric of the gold hair, pride of Northern chivalry. +There shines the steel of Alan Breck, the sword of Athos shines, +Dalgetty on Gustavus rides along the marshalled lines, +With many a knight of sunny France the Cid has marched from Spain, +And Gotz the Iron-handed leads the lances of Almain. + +But who upon the Modern side are champions? With the sleeve +Adorned of his false lady-love, rides glorious David Grieve, +A bookseller sometime was he, in a provincial town, +But now before his iron mace go horse and rider down. +Ho, Robert Elsmere! count thy beads; lo, champion of the fray, +With brandished colt, comes Felix Holt, all of the Modern day. +And Silas Lapham's six-shooter is cocked: the Colonel's spry! +There spurs the wary Egoist, defiance in his eye; +There Zola's ragged regiment comes, with dynamite in hand, +And Flaubert's crew of country doctors devastate the land. +On Robert Elsmere Friar Tuck falls with his quarter-staff, +Nom De! to see the clerics fight might make the sourest laugh! +They meet, they shock, full many a knight is smitten on the crown, +So keep us good St. Genevieve, Umslopogaas is down! +About the mace of David Grieve his blood is flowing red, +Alas for ancient chivalry, le brave Bussy is sped! +Yet where the sombre Templar rides the Modern caitiffs fly, +The Mummer (of The Mummer's Wife) has got it in the eye, +From Felix Holt his patent Colt hath not averted fate, +And Silas Lapham's smitten fair, right through his gallant pate. +There Dan Deronda reels and falls, a hero sore surprised; +Ha, Beauseant! still may such fate befall the Circumcised! +The Egoist is flying fast from him of Ivanhoe: +Beneath the axe of Skalagrim fall prigs at every blow: +The ragged Zolaists have fled, screaming 'We are betrayed,' +But loyal Alan Breck is shent, stabbed through the Stuart plaid; +In sooth it is a grimly sight, so fast the heroes fall, +Three volumes fell could scarcely tell the fortunes of them all. +At length but two are left on ground, and David Grieve is one. +Ma foy, what deeds of derring-do that bookseller hath done! +The other, mark the giant frame, the great portentous fist! +'Tis Porthos! David Grieve may call on Kuenen an he list. +The swords are crossed; Doublez, degagez, vite! great Porthos +calls, +And David drops, that secret botte hath pierced his overalls! +And goodly Porthos, as of old the famed Orthryades, +Raises the trophy of the fight, then falling on his knees, +He writes in gore upon his shield, 'Romance, Romance, has won!' +And blood-red on that stricken field goes down the angry sun. +Night falls upon the field of death, night on the darkling lea: +Oh send us such a tournay soon, and send me there to see! + + + +BALLAD OF THE PHILANTHROPIST + + + +Pomona Road and Gardens, N., +Were pure as they were fair - +In other districts much I fear, +That vulgar language shocks the ear, +But brawling wives or noisy men +Were never heard of THERE. + +No burglar fixed his dread abode +In that secure retreat, +There were no public-houses nigh, +But chapels low and churches high, +You might have thought Pomona Road +A quite ideal beat! + +Yet that was not at all the view +Taken by B. 13. +That active and intelligent +Policeman deemed that he was meant +Profound detective deeds to do, +And that repose was mean. + +Now there was nothing to detect +Pomona Road along - +None faked a cly, nor cracked a crib, +Nor prigged a wipe, nor told a fib,-- +Minds cultivated and select +Slip rarely into wrong! + +Thus bored to desolation went +The Peeler on his beat; +He know not Love, he did not care, +If Love be born on mountains bare; +Nay, crime to punish, or prevent, +Was more than dalliance sweet! + +The weary wanderer, day by day, +Was marked by Howard Fry - +A neighbouring philanthropist, +Who saw what that Policeman missed - +A sympathetic 'Well-a-day' +He'd moan, and pipe his eye. + +'What CAN I do,' asked Howard Fry, +'To soothe that brother's pain? +His glance when first we met was keen, +Most martial and erect his mien' +(What mien may mean, I know not I) +'But HE must joy again.' + +'I'll start on a career of crime, +I will,' said Howard Fry - +He spake and acted! Deeds of bale +(With which I do not stain my tale) +He wrought like mad time after time, +Yet wrought them blushfully. + +And now when 'buses night by night +Were stopped, conductors slain, +When youths and men, and maids unwed, +Were stabbed or knocked upon the head, +Then B. 13 grew sternly bright, +And was himself again! + +Pomona Road and Gardens, N., +Are now a name of fear. +Commercial travellers flee in haste, +Revolvers girt about the waist +Are worn by city gentlemen +Who have their mansions near. + +But B. 13 elated goes, +Detection in his eye; +While Howard Fry does deeds of bale +(With which I do not stain my tale) +To lighten that Policeman's woes, +But does them blushfully. + +MORAL + +Such is Philanthropy, my friends, +Too often such her plan, +She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings +Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things. +Ah, not to serve her private ends, +But for the good of Man! + + + +IN ERCILDOUNE + + + +In light of sunrise and sunsetting, +The long days lingered, in forgetting +That ever passion, keen to hold +What may not tarry, was of old +Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood +Runs red waist-high with slain men's blood. + +Was beauty once a thing that died? +Was pleasure never satisfied? +Was rest still broken by the vain +Desire of action, bringing pain, +To die in vapid rest again? +All this was quite forgotten, there +No winter brought us cold and care, +Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, +Nor, with the heavy summer killed, +The languid days droop autumnwards. +So magical a season guards +The constant prime of a green June. +So slumbrous is the river's tune, +That knows no thunder of rushing rains, +Nor ever in the summer wanes, +Like waters of the summer-time +In lands far from the fairy clime. + +Alas! no words can bring the bloom +Of Fairyland, the lost perfume. +The sweet low light, the magic air, +To minds of who have not been there: +Alas! no words, nor any spell +Can lull the heart that knows too well +The towers that by the river stand, +The lost fair world of Fairyland. + +Ah, would that I had never been +The lover of the Fairy Queen. +Or would that I again might be +Asleep below the Eildon Tree, +And see her ride the forest way +As on that morning of the May! + +Or would that through the little town, +The grey old place of Ercildoune, +And all along the sleepy street +The soft fall of the white deer's feet +Came, with the mystical command, +That I must back to Fairy Land! + + + +FOR A ROSE'S SAKE--FRENCH FOLK-SONG + + + +I laved my hands +By the water-side, +With willow leaves +My hands I dried. + +The nightingale sang +On the bough of a tree, +Sing, sweet nightingale, +It is well with thee. + +Thou hast heart's delight, +I have sad heart's sorrow, +For a false false maid +That will wed to-morrow. + +It is all for a rose +That I gave her not, +And I would that it grew +In the garden plot, + +And I would the rose-tree +Were still to set, +That my love Marie +Might love me yet! + + + +THE BRIGAND'S GRAVE--MODERN GREEK + + + +The moon came up above the hill, +The sun went down the sea, +'Go, maids, and draw the well-water, +But, lad, come here to me. + +Gird on my jack, and my old sword, +For I have never a son, +And you must be the chief of all +When I am dead and gone. + +But you must take my old broadsword, +And cut the green boughs of the tree, +And strew the green boughs on the ground, +To make a soft death-bed for me. + +And you must bring the holy priest, +That I may sained be, +For I have lived a roving life +Fifty years under the greenwood tree. + +And you shall make a grave for me, +And dig it deep and wide, +That I may turn about and dream +With my old gun by my side. + +And leave a window to the east +And the swallows will bring the spring, +And all the merry month of May +The nightingales will sing.' + + + +THE NEW-LIVERIED YEAR--FROM CHARLES D'ORLEANS + + + +The year has changed his mantle cold +Of wind, of rain, of bitter air, +And he goes clad in cloth of gold +Of laughing suns and season fair; +No bird or beast of wood or wold +But doth in cry or song declare +'The year has changed his mantle cold!' +All founts, all rivers seaward rolled +Their pleasant summer livery wear +With silver studs on broidered vair, +The world puts off its raiment old, +The year has changed his mantle cold. + + + +MORE STRONG THAN DEATH--FROM VICTOR HUGO + + + +Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, +Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, +Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it, +And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade, + +Since it was given to me to hear one happy while +The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, +Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, +Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes; + +Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, +A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always, +Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream +Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days; + +I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours, +Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old. +Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers, +One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold. + +Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill +The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet, +My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill. +My soul more love than you can make my soul forget. + + + +SILENTIA LUNAE--FROM RONSARD + + + +Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon, +So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest +Loving and unawakened on thy breast; +So shall no foul enchanter importune +Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon, +And through the friendly night unseen I fare +Who dread the face of foemen unaware, +And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon. + +Thou know'st, O Moon, the bitter power of Love. +'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move +With a small gift thy heart; and of your grace, +Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire, +Because on earth ye did not scorn desire, +Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place. + + + +HIS LADY'S TOMB--FROM RONSARD + + + +As in the gardens, all through May, the Rose, +Lovely, and young, and rich apparelled, +Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red, +When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows; +Graces and Loves within her breast repose, +The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed, +Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead +The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose, - + +So this, the perfect beauty of our days, +When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise, +The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes: +And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb +Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom, +That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses. + + + +THE POET'S APOLOGY + + + +No, the Muse has gone away, +Does not haunt me much to-day. +Everything she had to say +Has been said! +'Twas not much at any time +She could hitch into a rhyme, +Never was the Muse sublime, +Who has fled! + +Any one who takes her in +May observe she's rather thin; +Little more than bone and skin +Is the Muse; +Scanty sacrifice she won +When her very best she'd done, +And at her they poked their fun, +In Reviews. + +'Rhymes,' in truth, 'are stubborn things.' +And to Rhyme she clung, and clings, +But whatever song she sings +Scarcely sells. +If her tone be grave, they say +'Give us something rather gay.' +If she's skittish, then they pray +'Something else!' + +Much she loved, for wading shod, +To go forth with line and rod, +Loved the heather, and the sod, +Loved to rest +On the crystal river's brim +Where she saw the fishes swim, +And she heard the thrushes' hymn, +By the Test! + +She, whatever way she went, +Friendly was and innocent, +Little need the Bard repent +Of her lay. +Of the babble and the rhyme, +And the imitative chime +That amused him on a time, - +Now he's grey. + + + +NOTES + + + +A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC + + +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 Puella a spiritu sancto excitata. 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 Jesus! was reported +at the trial for her Rehabilitation (1450-56). + +ONE OF THAT NAME. + +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. + +THY CHURCH UNTO THE MAID DENIES. + +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 +Societe de l'Histoire de France. + +HOW THEY HELD THE BASS. + +This story is versified from the account in Memoirs of the Rev. +John Blackader, by Andrew Crichton, 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 Analecta, 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. + + +BRITANNIA + + +ROUSSEAU'S DELIGHT. + +The pervenche, or periwinkle. + + +A TOAST + + +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. + + +THE DISAPPOINTMENT. + + +As a matter of fact the Haunted House Committee of the Society for +Psychical Research have never succeeded in seeing a ghost. + + + + + +End of The Project Gutenberg Etext Ban and Arriere Ban, by Andrew Lang + diff --git a/old/bnabn10.zip b/old/bnabn10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..6b875b8 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/bnabn10.zip |