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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/3138-0.txt b/3138-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..f208d0c --- /dev/null +++ b/3138-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4752 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ballades & Rhymes, by Andrew Lang + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most +other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Ballades & Rhymes + from Ballades in Blue China and Rhymes a la Mode + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: February 9, 2016 [eBook #3138] +[This file was first posted on December 29, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADES & RHYMES*** + + +Transcribed from the 1911 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, +email ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Cover and spine] + + [Picture: Man playing at harpsichord] + + + + + + BALLADES & RHYMES + + + _From Ballades in Blue China_ + _and Rhymes à la Mode_ + + * * * * * + + BY + A. LANG + + * * * * * + + “_Hom_, _c’est une ballade_!”—VADIUS. + + * * * * * + + LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO. + 39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON + NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA + 1911 + + All rights reserved + + * * * * * + + “_Rondeaux_, BALLADES, + _Chansons dizains_, _propos menus_, + _Compte moy qu’ilz sont devenuz_: + _Se faict il plus rien de nouveau_?” + + CLEMENT MAROT, _Dialogue de deux Amoureux_. + + “I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter, merrily + set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably.” + + _A Winter’s Tale_, Act iv. sc. 3. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + BALLADES IN BLUE CHINA. + PAGE +Ballade of Theocritus 15 +Ballade of Cleopatra’s Needle 17 +Ballade of Roulette 19 +Ballade of Sleep 21 +Ballade of the Midnight Forest 24 +Ballade of the Tweed 27 +Ballade of the Book-hunter 29 +Ballade of the Voyage to Cythera 31 +Ballade of the Summer Term 34 +Ballade of the Muse 36 +Ballade against the Jesuits 38 +Ballade of Dead Cities 40 +Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf 42 +Double Ballade of Primitive Man 44 +Ballade of Autumn 47 +Ballade of True Wisdom 49 +Ballade of Worldly Wealth 51 +Ballade of Life 53 +Ballade of Blue China 55 +Ballade of Dead Ladies 57 +Villon’s Ballade of Good Counsel 59 +Ballade of the Bookworm 61 +Valentine in form of Ballade 63 +Ballade of Old Plays 65 +Ballade of his Books 67 +Ballade of the Dream 69 +Ballade of the Southern Cross 71 +Ballade of Aucassin 73 +Ballade Amoureuse 75 +Ballade of Queen Anne 77 +Ballade of Blind Love 79 +Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre 81 +Dizain 83 + VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS. +A Portrait of 1783 87 +The Moon’s Minion 90 +In Ithaca 92 +Homer 93 +The Burial of Molière 94 +Bion 95 +Spring 96 +Before the Snow 97 +Villanelle 98 +Natural Theology 100 +The Odyssey 102 +Ideal 103 +The Fairy’s Gift 105 +Benedetta Ramus 107 +Partant pour la Scribie 110 +St. Andrews Bay 112 +Woman and the Weed 114 + RHYMES À LA MODE +BALLADE DEDICATORY 123 +THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS 125 +ALMAE MATRES 139 +DESIDERIUM 143 +RHYMES À LA MODE 145 + Ballade of Middle Age 147 + The Last Cast 140 + Twilight 153 + Ballade of Summer 154 + Ballade of Christmas Ghosts 156 + Love’s Easter 158 + Ballade of the Girton Girl 159 + Ronsard’s Grave 161 + San Terenzo 164 + Romance 166 + Ballade of his own Country 168 + Villanelle 171 + Triolets after Moschus 173 + Ballade of Cricket 175 + The Last Maying 177 + Homeric Unity 181 + In Tintagel 182 + Pisidicê 184 + From the East to the West 187 + Love the Vampire 188 + Ballade of the Book-man’s Paradise 190 + Ballade of a Friar 192 + Ballade of Neglected Merit 194 + Ballade of Railway Novels 196 + The Cloud Chorus 198 + Ballade of Literary Fame 201 + Νήνεμος Αἰών 203 +SCIENCE 205 + The Barbarous Bird-Gods 207 + Man and the Ascidian 212 + Ballade of the Primitive Jest 215 +CAMEOS 217 + Cameos 217 + Helen on the Walls 220 + The Isles of the Blessed 221 + Death 223 + Nysa 224 + Colonus (I.) 225 + ,, (II.) 226 + The Passing of Œdipous 227 + The Taming of Tyro 228 + To Artemis 229 + Criticism of Life 230 + Amaryllis 231 + The Cannibal Zeus 232 + Invocation of Isis 234 + The Coming of Isis 235 +THE SPINET 236 +NOTES 237 + +INTRODUCTION + + +THIRTY years have passed, like a watch in the night, since the earlier of +the two sets of verses here reprinted, _Ballades in Blue China_, was +published. At first there were but twenty-two _Ballades_; ten more were +added later. They appeared in a little white vellum wrapper, with a +little blue Chinese singer copied from a porcelain jar; and the +frontispiece was a little design by an etcher now famous. + +Thirty years ago blue china was a kind of fetish in some circles, +æsthetic circles, of which the balladist was not a member. + +The _ballade_ was an old French form of verse, in France revived by +Théodore de Banville, and restored to an England which had long forgotten +the Middle Ages, by my friends Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Edmund Gosse. +They, so far as I can trust my memory, were the first to reintroduce +these pleasant old French _nugae_, while an anonymous author let loose +upon the town a whole winged flock of _ballades_ of amazing dexterity. +This unknown balladist was Mr. Henley; perhaps he was the first +Englishman who ever burst into a _double ballade_, and his translations +of two of Villon’s ballades into modern thieves’ slang were marvels of +dexterity. Mr. Swinburne wrote a serious _ballade_, but the form, I +venture to think, is not ‘wholly serious,’ of its nature, in modern days; +and he did not persevere. Nor did the taste for these trifles long +endure. A good _ballade_ is almost as rare as a good sonnet, but a +middling _ballade_ is almost as easily written as the majority of +sonnets. Either form readily becomes mechanical, cheap and facile. I +have heard Mr. George Meredith improvise a sonnet, a Petrarchian sonnet, +obedient to the rules, without pen and paper. He spoke ‘and the numbers +came’; he sonneted as easily as a living poet, in his Eton days, +improvised Latin elegiacs and Greek hexameters. + +The sonnet endures. Mr. Horace Hutchinson wrote somewhere: “When you +have read a sonnet, you feel that though there does not seem to be much +of it, you have done a good deal, as when you have eaten a cold +hard-boiled egg.” Still people keep on writing sonnets, because the +sonnet is wholly serious. In an English sonnet you cannot easily be +flippant of pen. A few great poets have written immortal sonnets—among +them are Milton, Wordsworth, and Keats. Thus the sonnet is a thing which +every poet thinks it worth while to try at; like Felix Arvers, he may be +made immortal by a single sonnet. Even I have written one too many! +Every anthologist wants to anthologise it (_The Odyssey_); it never was a +favourite of my own, though it had the honour to be kindly spoken of by +Mr. Matthew Arnold. + +On the other hand, no man since François Villon has been immortalised by +a single ballade—_Mais où sont les neiges d’antan_? + +To speak in any detail about these poor ballades would be to indite a +part of an autobiography. Looking back at the little book, ‘what +memories it stirs’ in one to whom + + ‘Fate has done this wrong, + That I should write too much and live too long.’ + +_The Ballade of the Tweed_, and the _Rhymes à la Mode_, were dedicated to +the dearest of kinsmen, a cricketer and angler. The _Ballade of +Roulette_ was inscribed to R. R., a gallant veteran of the Indian Mutiny, +a leader of Light Horse, whose father was a friend of Sir Walter Scott. +He was himself a Borderer, in whose defeats on the green field of +Roulette I often shared, long, long ago. + +So many have gone ‘into the world of light’ that it is a happiness to +think of him to whom _The Ballade of Golf_ was dedicated, and to remember +that he is still capable of scoring his double century at cricket, and of +lifting the ball high over the trees beyond the boundaries of a great +cricket-field. Perhaps Mr. Leslie Balfour-Melville will pardon me for +mentioning his name, linked as it is with so many common memories. ‘One +is taken and another left.’ + +A different sort of memory attaches itself to _A Ballade of Dead Cities_. +It was written in a Theocritean amoebean way, in competition with Mr. +Edmund Gosse; he need not be ashamed of the circumstance, for another +shepherd, who was umpire, awarded the prize (two kids just severed from +their dams) to his victorious muse. + +The _Ballade of the Midnight Forest_, the Ballade of the Huntress +Artemis, was translated from Théodore de Banville, whose beautiful poem +came so near the Greek, that when the late Provost of Oriel translated a +part of its English shadow into Greek hexameters, you might suppose, as +you read, that they were part of a lost Homeric Hymn. + +I never wrote a _double ballade_, and stanzas four and five of the +_Double Ballade of Primitive Man_ were contributed by the learned _doyen_ +of Anthropology, Mr. E. B. Tylor, author of Primitive Culture. + +_À tout seigneur tout honneur_! + +In _Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre_, the Windburg is a hill in +Teviotdale. _A Portrait of 1783_ was written on a French engraving after +Morland, and _Benedetta Ramus_ was addressed to a mezzotint (an artist’s +proof, ‘very rare’). It is after Romney and is ‘My Beauty,’ as Charles +Lamb said (once, unluckily, to a Scot) of an engraving, after Lionardo, +of some fair dead lady. + +The sonnet, _Natural Theology_, is the germ of what the author has since +written, in _The Making of Religion_, on the long neglected fact that +many of the lowest savages known share the belief in a benevolent All +Father and Judge of men. + +Concerning verses in _Rhymes à la Mode_, visitors to St. Andrews may be +warned not to visit St. Leonard’s Chapel, described in the second stanza +of _Almae Matres_. In the writer’s youth, and even in middle age, + + He loitered idly where the tall + Fresh-budded mountain-ashes blow + Within its desecrated wall. + +The once beautiful ruins carpeted with grass and wild flowers have been +doubly desecrated by persons, academic persons, having authority and a +plentiful lack of taste. The slim mountain-ashes, fair as the young +palm-tree that Odysseus saw beside the shrine of Apollo in Delos, have +been cut down by the academic persons to whom power is given. The grass +and flowers have been rooted up. Hideous little wooden fences enclose +the grave slabs: a roof of a massive kind has been dumped down on the old +walls, and the windows, once so graceful in their airy lines, have been +glazed in a horrible manner, while the ugly iron gate precludes entrance +to a shrine which is now a black and dismal dungeon. + + “Oh, be that roof as lead to lead + Above the dull Restorer’s head, + A Minstrel’s malison is said!” + +Notes explanatory are added to the Rhymes, and their information, however +valuable, need not here be repeated. + + + + +BALLADES IN BLUE CHINA + + _Tout_ [Picture: Decorative graphic] _Soullas_ + _par_ + +_A BALLADE OF XXXII BALLADES_. + + + _Friend_, _when you bear a care-dulled eye_, + _And brow perplexed with things of weight_, + _And fain would bid some charm untie_ + _The bonds that hold you all too strait_, + _Behold a solace to your fate_, + _Wrapped in this cover’s china blue_; + _These ballades fresh and delicate_, + _This dainty troop of Thirty-two_! + + _The mind_, _unwearied_, _longs to fly_ + _And commune with the wise and great_; + _But that same ether_, _rare and high_, + _Which glorifies its worthy mate_, + _To breath forspent is disparate_: + _Laughing and light and airy-new_ + _These come to tickle the dull pate_, + _This dainty troop of Thirty-two_. + + _Most welcome then_, _when you and I_, + _Forestalling days for mirth too late_, + _To quips and cranks and fantasy_ + _Some choice half-hour dedicate_, + _They weave their dance with measured rate_ + _Of rhymes enlinked in order due_, + _Till frowns relax and cares abate_, + _This dainty troop of Thirty-two_. + + ENVOY. + + Princes, of toys that please your state + Quainter are surely none to view + Than these which pass with tripping gait, + This dainty troop of Thirty-two. + + F. P. + + TO + AUSTIN DOBSON. + + _Un Livre est un ami qui change_—_quelquefois_. + 1880. + 1888 + + + +BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER. + + + ἐσορῶν τὰν Σικελὰν ἐς ἅλα. + + Id. viii. 56. + + Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar + Of London, and the bustling street, + For still, by the Sicilian shore, + The murmur of the Muse is sweet. + Still, still, the suns of summer greet + The mountain-grave of Helikê, + And shepherds still their songs repeat + Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. + + What though they worship Pan no more, + That guarded once the shepherd’s seat, + They chatter of their rustic lore, + They watch the wind among the wheat: + Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat, + Where whispers pine to cypress tree; + They count the waves that idly beat + Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. + + Theocritus! thou canst restore + The pleasant years, and over-fleet; + With thee we live as men of yore, + We rest where running waters meet: + And then we turn unwilling feet + And seek the world—so must it be— + _We_ may not linger in the heat + Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! + + ENVOY. + + Master,—when rain, and snow, and sleet + And northern winds are wild, to thee + We come, we rest in thy retreat, + Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! + + + +BALLADE OF CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE. + + + Ye giant shades of RA and TUM, + Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian, + If murmurs of our planet come + To exiles in the precincts wan + Where, fetish or Olympian, + To help or harm no more ye list, + Look down, if look ye may, and scan + This monument in London mist! + + Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb + That once were read of him that ran + When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum + Wild music of the Bull began; + When through the chanting priestly clan + Walk’d Ramses, and the high sun kiss’d + This stone, with blessing scored and ban— + This monument in London mist. + + The stone endures though gods be numb; + Though human effort, plot, and plan + Be sifted, drifted, like the sum + Of sands in wastes Arabian. + What king may deem him more than man, + What priest says Faith can Time resist + While _this_ endures to mark their span— + This monument in London mist? + + ENVOY. + + Prince, the stone’s shade on your divan + Falls; it is longer than ye wist: + It preaches, as Time’s gnomon can, + This monument in London mist! + + + +BALLADE OF ROULETTE. + + + TO R. R. + + This life—one was thinking to-day, + In the midst of a medley of fancies— + Is a game, and the board where we play + Green earth with her poppies and pansies. + Let _manque_ be faded romances, + Be _passe_ remorse and regret; + Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances— + The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette. + + The lover will stake as he may + His heart on his Peggies and Nancies; + The girl has her beauty to lay; + The saint has his prayers and his trances; + The poet bets endless expanses + In Dreamland; the scamp has his debt: + How they gaze at the wheel as it glances— + The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette! + + The Kaiser will stake his array + Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances; + An Englishman punts with his pay, + And glory the _jeton_ of France is; + Your artists, or Whistlers or Vances, + Have voices or colours to bet; + Will you moan that its motion askance is— + The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette? + + ENVOY. + + The prize that the pleasure enhances? + The prize is—at last to forget + The changes, the chops, and the chances— + The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette. + + + +BALLADE OF SLEEP. + + + The hours are passing slow, + I hear their weary tread + Clang from the tower, and go + Back to their kinsfolk dead. + Sleep! death’s twin brother dread! + Why dost thou scorn me so? + The wind’s voice overhead + Long wakeful here I know, + And music from the steep + Where waters fall and flow. + Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? + + All sounds that might bestow + Rest on the fever’d bed, + All slumb’rous sounds and low + Are mingled here and wed, + And bring no drowsihed. + Shy dreams flit to and fro + With shadowy hair dispread; + With wistful eyes that glow, + And silent robes that sweep. + Thou wilt not hear me; no? + Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? + + What cause hast thou to show + Of sacrifice unsped? + Of all thy slaves below + I most have labourèd + With service sung and said; + Have cull’d such buds as blow, + Soft poppies white and red, + Where thy still gardens grow, + And Lethe’s waters weep. + Why, then, art thou my foe? + Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? + + ENVOY. + + Prince, ere the dark be shred + By golden shafts, ere low + And long the shadows creep: + Lord of the wand of lead, + Soft-footed as the snow, + Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep! + + + +BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST. + + + AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE. + + Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, + Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree; + The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold, + And wolves still dread Diana roaming free + In secret woodland with her company. + ’Tis thought the peasants’ hovels know her rite + When now the wolds are bathed in silver light, + And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey, + Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, + And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + + With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold + The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee, + Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold + Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, + The wild red dwarf, the nixies’ enemy; + Then ’mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, + The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white, + With one long sigh for summers pass’d away; + The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright + And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + + She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold + She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee + Mixed with the music of the hunting roll’d, + But her delight is all in archery, + And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she + More than her hounds that follow on the flight; + The goddess draws a golden bow of might + And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay. + She tosses loose her locks upon the night, + And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + + ENVOY. + + Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, + The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight: + Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray + There is the mystic home of our delight, + And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + + + +BALLADE OF THE TWEED. + + + (LOWLAND SCOTCH.) + + TO T. W. LANG. + + The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe, + A weary cry frae ony toun; + The Spey, that loups o’er linn and fa’, + They praise a’ ither streams aboon; + They boast their braes o’ bonny Doon: + Gie _me_ to hear the ringing reel, + Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon + By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel! + + There’s Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and a’, + Where trout swim thick in May and June; + Ye’ll see them take in showers o’ snaw + Some blinking, cauldrife April noon: + Rax ower the palmer and march-broun, + And syne we’ll show a bonny creel, + In spring or simmer, late or soon, + By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel! + + There’s mony a water, great or sma’, + Gaes singing in his siller tune, + Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw, + Beneath the sun-licht or the moon: + But set us in our fishing-shoon + Between the Caddon-burn and Peel, + And syne we’ll cross the heather broun + By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel! + + ENVOY. + + Deil take the dirty, trading loon + Wad gar the water ca’ his wheel, + And drift his dyes and poisons doun + By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel! + + + +BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER. + + + In torrid heats of late July, + In March, beneath the bitter _bise_, + He book-hunts while the loungers fly,— + He book-hunts, though December freeze; + In breeches baggy at the knees, + And heedless of the public jeers, + For these, for these, he hoards his fees,— + Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs. + + No dismal stall escapes his eye, + He turns o’er tomes of low degrees, + There soiled romanticists may lie, + Or Restoration comedies; + Each tract that flutters in the breeze + For him is charged with hopes and fears, + In mouldy novels fancy sees + Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs. + + With restless eyes that peer and spy, + Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, + In dismal nooks he loves to pry, + Whose motto evermore is _Spes_! + But ah! the fabled treasure flees; + Grown rarer with the fleeting years, + In rich men’s shelves they take their ease,— + Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs! + + ENVOY. + + Prince, all the things that tease and please,— + Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, + What are they but such toys as these— + Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs? + + + +BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA. + + + AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE. + + I know Cythera long is desolate; + I know the winds have stripp’d the gardens green. + Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun’s weight + A barren reef lies where Love’s flowers have been, + Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! + So be it, but we seek a fabled shore, + To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, + To wander where Love’s labyrinths beguile; + There let us land, there dream for evermore: + “It may be we shall touch the happy isle.” + + The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, + If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene + We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate + Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. + Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen + That veils the fairy coast we would explore. + Come, though the sea be vex’d, and breakers roar, + Come, for the air of this old world is vile, + Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; + “It may be we shall touch the happy isle.” + + Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate + Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, + And ruined is the palace of our state; + But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen + The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. + Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, + Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, + Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile; + Love’s panthers sleep ’mid roses, as of yore: + “It may be we shall touch the happy isle!” + + ENVOY. + + Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore. + Ah, singing birds your happy music pour! + Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; + Flit to these ancient gods we still adore: + “It may be we shall touch the happy isle!” + + + +BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM. + + + (_Being a Petition_, _in the form of a Ballade_, _praying the University + Commissioners to spare the Summer Term_.) + + When Lent and Responsions are ended, + When May with fritillaries waits, + When the flower of the chestnut is splendid, + When drags are at all of the gates + (Those drags the philosopher “slates” + With a scorn that is truly sublime), {35} + Life wins from the grasp of the Fates + Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + + When wickets are bowl’d and defended, + When Isis is glad with “the Eights,” + When music and sunset are blended, + When Youth and the summer are mates, + When Freshmen are heedless of “Greats,” + And when note-books are cover’d with rhyme, + Ah, these are the hours that one rates— + Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + + When the brow of the Dean is unbended + At luncheons and mild tête-à-têtes, + When the Tutor’s in love, nor offended + By blunders in tenses or dates; + When bouquets are purchased of Bates, + When the bells in their melody chime, + When unheeded the Lecturer prates— + Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + + ENVOY. + + Reformers of Schools and of States, + Is mirth so tremendous a crime? + Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates— + Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + + + +BALLADE OF THE MUSE. + + + _Quem tu_, _Melpomene_, _semel_. + + The man whom once, Melpomene, + Thou look’st on with benignant sight, + Shall never at the Isthmus be + A boxer eminent in fight, + Nor fares he foremost in the flight + Of Grecian cars to victory, + Nor goes with Delian laurels dight, + The man thou lov’st, Melpomene! + + Not him the Capitol shall see, + As who hath crush’d the threats and might + Of monarchs, march triumphantly; + But Fame shall crown him, in his right + Of all the Roman lyre that smite + The first; so woods of Tivoli + Proclaim him, so her waters bright, + The man thou lov’st, Melpomene! + + The sons of queenly Rome count _me_, + Me too, with them whose chants delight,— + The poets’ kindly company; + Now broken is the tooth of spite, + But thou, that temperest aright + The golden lyre, all, all to thee + He owes—life, fame, and fortune’s height— + The man thou lov’st, Melpomene! + + ENVOY. + + Queen, that to mute lips could’st unite + The wild swan’s dying melody! + Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite— + The man thou lov’st, Melpomene? + + + +BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS. + + + AFTER LA FONTAINE. + + Rome does right well to censure all the vain + Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach + That earthly joys are damnable! ’Tis plain + We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach; + No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one and all; + The narrow path’s a dream fantastical, + And Arnauld’s quite superfluously driven + Mirth from the world. We’ll scale the heavenly wall, + Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! + + He does not hold a man may well be slain + Who vexes with unseasonable speech, + You _may_ do murder for five ducats gain, + _Not_ for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach; + He ventures (most consistently) to teach + That there are certain cases that befall + When perjury need no good man appal, + And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven. + Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl, + “Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!” + + “For God’s sake read me somewhat in the strain + Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!” + Why should I name them all? a mighty train— + So many, none may know the name of each. + Make these your compass to the heavenly beach, + These only in your library instal: + Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small, + Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven; + I tell you, and the common voice doth call, + Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! + + ENVOY. + + _Satan_, that pride did hurry to thy fall, + Thou porter of the grim infernal hall— + Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven! + To shun thy shafts, to ‘scape thy hellish thrall, + Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! + + + +BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES. + + + TO E. W. GOSSE. + + The dust of Carthage and the dust + Of Babel on the desert wold, + The loves of Corinth, and the lust, + Orchomenos increased with gold; + The town of Jason, over-bold, + And Cherson, smitten in her prime— + What are they but a dream half-told? + Where are the cities of old time? + + In towns that were a kingdom’s trust, + In dim Atlantic forests’ fold, + The marble wasteth to a crust, + The granite crumbles into mould; + O’er these—left nameless from of old— + As over Shinar’s brick and slime, + One vast forgetfulness is roll’d— + Where are the cities of old time? + + The lapse of ages, and the rust, + The fire, the frost, the waters cold, + Efface the evil and the just; + From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, + To drown’d Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll’d + Beneath the wave a dreamy chime + That echo’d from the mountain-hold,— + “Where are the cities of old time?” + + ENVOY. + + Prince, all thy towns and cities must + Decay as these, till all their crime, + And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust + Where are the cities of old time. + + + +BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF. + + + (EAST FIFESHIRE.) + + There are laddies will drive ye a ba’ + To the burn frae the farthermost tee, + But ye mauna think driving is a’, + Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, + Ye may land in the sand or the sea; + And ye’re dune, sir, ye’re no worth a preen, + Tak’ the word that an auld man ’ll gie, + Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! + + The auld folk are crouse, and they craw + That their putting is pawky and slee; + In a bunker they’re nae gude ava’, + But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. + And a lassie can putt—ony she,— + Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, + But a cleek-shot’s the billy for me, + Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! + + I hae play’d in the frost and the thaw, + I hae play’d since the year thirty-three, + I hae play’d in the rain and the snaw, + And I trust I may play till I dee; + And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, + For I speak o’ the thing I hae seen— + Tom Morris, I ken, will agree— + Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! + + ENVOY. + + Prince, faith you’re improving a wee, + And, Lord, man, they tell me you’re keen; + Tak’ the best o’ advice that can be, + Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green! + + + +DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN. + + + TO J. A. FARRER. + + He lived in a cave by the seas, + He lived upon oysters and foes, + But his list of forbidden degrees, + An extensive morality shows; + Geological evidence goes + To prove he had never a pan, + But he shaved with a shell when he chose,— + ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man. + + He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze, + He worshipp’d the river that flows, + And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, + And bogies, and serpents, and crows; + He buried his dead with their toes + Tucked-up, an original plan, + Till their knees came right under their nose,— + ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man. + + His communal wives, at his ease, + He would curb with occasional blows; + Or his State had a queen, like the bees + (As another philosopher trows): + When he spoke, it was never in prose, + But he sang in a strain that would scan, + For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) + ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! + + On the coasts that incessantly freeze, + With his stones, and his bones, and his bows; + On luxuriant tropical leas, + Where the summer eternally glows, + He is found, and his habits disclose + (Let theology say what she can) + That he lived in the long, long agos, + ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! + + From a status like that of the Crees, + Our society’s fabric arose,— + Develop’d, evolved, if you please, + But deluded chronologists chose, + In a fancied accordance with Mos + es, 4000 B.C. for the span + When he rushed on the world and its woes,— + ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! + + But the mild anthropologist,—_he’s_ + Not _recent_ inclined to suppose + Flints Palæolithic like these, + Quaternary bones such as those! + In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.’s, + First epoch, the Human began, + Theologians all to expose,— + ’Tis the _mission_ of Primitive Man. + + ENVOY. + + MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, + But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, + For, as every Darwinian knows, + ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! {46} + + + +BALLADE OF AUTUMN. + + + We built a castle in the air, + In summer weather, you and I, + The wind and sun were in your hair,— + Gold hair against a sapphire sky: + When Autumn came, with leaves that fly + Before the storm, across the plain, + You fled from me, with scarce a sigh— + My Love returns no more again! + + The windy lights of Autumn flare: + I watch the moonlit sails go by; + I marvel how men toil and fare, + The weary business that they ply! + Their voyaging is vanity, + And fairy gold is all their gain, + And all the winds of winter cry, + “My Love returns no more again!” + + Here, in my castle of Despair, + I sit alone with memory; + The wind-fed wolf has left his lair, + To keep the outcast company. + The brooding owl he hoots hard by, + _The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane_, + The Rhymer’s soothest prophecy,—{48} + My Love returns no more again! + + ENVOY. + + Lady, my home until I die + Is here, where youth and hope were slain; + They flit, the ghosts of our July, + My Love returns no more again! + + + +BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM. + + + While others are asking for beauty or fame, + Or praying to know that for which they should pray, + Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame, + Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey, + The sage has found out a more excellent way— + To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers, + And his humble petition puts up day by day, + For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + + Inventors may bow to the God that is lame, + And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray; + Philosophers kneel to the God without name, + Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they; + The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay, + The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours; + But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay, + For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + + Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame + (As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day + With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)! + O grant me a house by the beach of a bay, + Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play + With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! + And I’d leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, + For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + + ENVOY. + + Gods, grant or withhold it; your “yea” and your “nay” + Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours: + But life _is_ worth living, and here we would stay + For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + + + +BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH. + + + (OLD FRENCH.) + + Money taketh town and wall, + Fort and ramp without a blow; + Money moves the merchants all, + While the tides shall ebb and flow; + Money maketh Evil show + Like the Good, and Truth like lies: + These alone can ne’er bestow + Youth, and health, and Paradise. + + Money maketh festival, + Wine she buys, and beds can strow; + Round the necks of captains tall, + Money wins them chains to throw, + Marches soldiers to and fro, + Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes: + These alone can ne’er bestow + Youth, and health, and Paradise. + + Money wins the priest his stall; + Money mitres buys, I trow, + Red hats for the Cardinal, + Abbeys for the novice low; + Money maketh sin as snow, + Place of penitence supplies: + These alone can ne’er bestow + Youth, and health, and Paradise. + + + +BALLADE OF LIFE. + + + “‘Dead and gone,’—a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life.” + + _Death’s Jest Book_. + + Say, fair maids, maying + In gardens green, + In deep dells straying, + What end hath been + Two Mays between + Of the flowers that shone + And your own sweet queen— + “They are dead and gone!” + + Say, grave priests, praying + In dule and teen, + From cells decaying + What have ye seen + Of the proud and mean, + Of Judas and John, + Of the foul and clean?— + “They are dead and gone!” + + Say, kings, arraying + Loud wars to win, + Of your manslaying + What gain ye glean? + “They are fierce and keen, + But they fall anon, + On the sword that lean,— + They are dead and gone!” + + ENVOY. + + Through the mad world’s scene, + We are drifting on, + To this tune, I ween, + “They are dead and gone!” + + + +BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA. + + + There’s a joy without canker or cark, + There’s a pleasure eternally new, + ’Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark + Of china that’s ancient and blue; + Unchipp’d all the centuries through + It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang, + And they fashion’d it, figure and hue, + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + These dragons (their tails, you remark, + Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),— + When Noah came out of the ark, + Did these lie in wait for his crew? + They snorted, they snapp’d, and they slew, + They were mighty of fin and of fang, + And their portraits Celestials drew + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + Here’s a pot with a cot in a park, + In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, + Where the lovers eloped in the dark, + Lived, died, and were changed into two + Bright birds that eternally flew + Through the boughs of the may, as they sang: + ’Tis a tale was undoubtedly true + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + ENVOY. + + Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, + Kind critic, your “tongue has a tang” + But—a sage never heeded a shrew + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + + +BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES. + + + (AFTER VILLON.) + + Nay, tell me now in what strange air + The Roman Flora dwells to-day. + Where Archippiada hides, and where + Beautiful Thais has passed away? + Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, + By mere or stream,—around, below? + Lovelier she than a woman of clay; + Nay, but where is the last year’s snow? + + Where is wise Héloïse, that care + Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? + All for her love he found a snare, + A maimed poor monk in orders grey; + And where’s the Queen who willed to slay + Buridan, that in a sack must go + Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way— + Nay, but where is the last year’s snow? + + Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare, + With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay? + Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? + Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? + Good Joan, whom English did betray + In Rouen town, and burned her? No, + Maiden and Queen, no man may say; + Nay, but where is the last year’s snow? + + ENVOY. + + Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray, + Nor yet this year the thing to know. + One burden answers, ever and aye, + “Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?” + + + +VILLON’S BALLADE +OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE. + + + Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, + Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, + You’ll burn your fingers at the feat, + And howl like other folks that fry. + All evil folks that love a lie! + And where goes gain that greed amasses, + By wile, and trick, and thievery? + ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + + Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, + With game, and shame, and jollity, + Go jigging through the field and street, + With _myst’ry_ and _morality_; + Win gold at _gleek_,—and that will fly, + Where all you gain at _passage_ passes,— + And that’s? You know as well as I, + ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + + Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, + Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, + Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, + If you’ve no clerkly skill to ply; + You’ll gain enough, with husbandry, + But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses, + And where goes all you take thereby?— + ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + + ENVOY. + + Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, + Your linen that the snow surpasses, + Or ere they’re worn, off, off they fly, + ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + + + +BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM. + + + Far in the Past I peer, and see + A Child upon the Nursery floor, + A Child with books upon his knee, + Who asks, like Oliver, for more! + The number of his years is IV, + And yet in Letters hath he skill, + How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! + The Books I loved, I love them still! + + One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three + They commonly bestowed of yore) + The Love of Books, the Golden Key + That opens the Enchanted Door; + Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er + And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill, + And there is all ALADDIN’S store,— + The Books I loved, I love them still! + + Take all, but leave my Books to me! + These heavy creels of old we bore + We fill not now, nor wander free, + Nor wear the heart that once we wore; + Not now each River seems to pour + His waters from the Muses’ hill; + Though something’s gone from stream and shore, + The Books I loved, I love them still! + + ENVOY. + + Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, + We bow submissive to thy will, + Ah grant, by some benign decree, + The Books I loved—to love them still. + + + +VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE. + + + The soft wind from the south land sped, + He set his strength to blow, + From forests where Adonis bled, + And lily flowers a-row: + He crossed the straits like streams that flow, + The ocean dark as wine, + To my true love to whisper low, + To be your Valentine. + + The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, + Besprent with drifted snow, + “I’ll send an April day,” she said, + “To lands of wintry woe.” + He came,—the winter’s overthrow + With showers that sing and shine, + Pied daisies round your path to strow, + To be your Valentine. + + Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, + ’Neath suns Egyptian glow, + In places of the princely dead, + By the Nile’s overflow, + The swallow preened her wings to go, + And for the North did pine, + And fain would brave the frost her foe, + To be your Valentine. + + ENVOY. + + Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, + Their various voice combine; + But that they crave on _me_ bestow, + To be your Valentine. + + + +BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS. + + + (_Les Œuvres de Monsieur Molière_. _A Paris_, + _chez Louys Billaine_, _à la Palme_. + M.D.C. LXVI.) + + LA COUR. + + When these Old Plays were new, the King, + Beside the Cardinal’s chair, + Applauded, ’mid the courtly ring, + The verses of Molière; + Point-lace was then the only wear, + Old Corneille came to woo, + And bright Du Parc was young and fair, + When these Old Plays were new! + + LA COMÉDIE. + + How shrill the butcher’s cat-calls ring, + How loud the lackeys swear! + Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling, + At Brécourt, fuming there! + The Porter’s stabbed! a Mousquetaire + Breaks in with noisy crew— + ’Twas all a commonplace affair + When these Old Plays were new! + + LA VILLE. + + When these Old Plays were new! They bring + A host of phantoms rare: + Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, + Old faces peaked with care: + Ménage’s smirk, de Visé’s stare, + The thefts of Jean Ribou,—{66} + Ah, publishers were hard to bear + When these Old Plays were new. + + ENVOY. + + Ghosts, at your Poet’s word ye dare + To break Death’s dungeons through, + And frisk, as in that golden air, + When these Old Plays were new! + + + +BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS. + + + Here stand my books, line upon line + They reach the roof, and row by row, + They speak of faded tastes of mine, + And things I did, but do not, know: + Old school books, useless long ago, + Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in, + Could scarcely answer “yes” or “no”— + The many things I’ve tried and failed in! + + Here’s Villon, in morocco fine, + (The Poet starved, in mud and snow,) + Glatigny does not crave to dine, + And René’s tears forget to flow. + And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe, + With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in; + Ah, all my ghosts have gone below— + The many things I’ve tried and failed in! + + He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine, + The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow; + And here the arms of D’Hoym shine, + And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau: + Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe” + (The first edition, this, he wailed in); + I once believed in him—but oh, + The many things I’ve tried and failed in! + + ENVOY. + + Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine + Quite other balances are scaled in; + May you succeed, though I repine— + “The many things I’ve tried and failed in!” + + + +BALLADE OF THE DREAM. + + + Swift as sound of music fled + When no more the organ sighs, + Sped as all old days are sped, + So your lips, love, and your eyes, + So your gentle-voiced replies + Mine one hour in sleep that seem, + Rise and flit when slumber flies, + _Following darkness like a dream_! + + Like the scent from roses red, + Like the dawn from golden skies, + Like the semblance of the dead + From the living love that hies, + Like the shifting shade that lies + On the moonlight-silvered stream, + So you rise when dreams arise, + _Following darkness like a dream_! + + Could some spell, or sung or said, + Could some kindly witch and wise, + Lull for aye this dreaming head + In a mist of memories, + I would lie like him who lies + Where the lights on Latmos gleam,— + Wake not, find not Paradise + _Following darkness like a dream_! + + ENVOY. + + Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies, + Shadowy bounties and supreme, + Bring the dearest face that flies + _Following darkness like a dream_! + + + +BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS. + + + Fair islands of the silver fleece, + Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, + Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, + Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; + _Our_ bolt is shot, our tale is told, + Our ship of state in storms may toss, + But ye are young if we are old, + Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! + + Ay, _we_ must dwindle and decrease, + Such fates the ruthless years unfold; + And yet we shall not wholly cease, + We shall not perish unconsoled; + Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold + Within the sea’s inviolate fosse, + And boast her sons of English mould, + Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! + + All empires tumble—Rome and Greece— + Their swords are rust, their altars cold! + For us, the Children of the Seas, + Who ruled where’er the waves have rolled, + For us, in Fortune’s books enscrolled, + I read no runes of hopeless loss; + Nor—while _ye_ last—our knell is tolled, + Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! + + ENVOY. + + Britannia, when thy hearth’s a-cold, + When o’er thy grave has grown the moss, + Still _Rule Australia_ shall be trolled + In Islands of the Southern Cross! + + + +BALLADE OF AUCASSIN + + + Where smooth the southern waters run + By rustling leagues of poplars grey, + Beneath a veiled soft southern sun, + We wandered out of yesterday, + Went maying through that ancient May + Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet, + And loitered by the fountain spray + With Aucassin and Nicolette. + + The grass-grown paths are trod of none + Where through the woods they went astray. + The spider’s traceries are spun + Across the darkling forest way. + There come no knights that ride to slay, + No pilgrims through the grasses wet, + No shepherd lads that sang their say + With Aucassin and Nicolette! + + ’Twas here by Nicolette begun + Her bower of boughs and grasses gay; + ’Scaped from the cell of marble dun + ’Twas here the lover found the fay, + Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play! + How hard we find it to forget + Who fain would dwell with them as they, + With Aucassin and Nicolette. + + ENVOY. + + Prince, ’tis a melancholy lay! + For youth, for love we both regret. + How fair they seem, how far away, + With Aucassin and Nicolette! + + + +BALLADE AMOUREUSE. + + + AFTER FROISSART. + + Not Jason nor Medea wise, + I crave to see, nor win much lore, + Nor list to Orpheus’ minstrelsies; + Nor Her’cles would I see, that o’er + The wide world roamed from shore to shore; + Nor, by St. James, Penelope,— + Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: + To see my Love suffices me! + + Virgil and Cato, no man vies + With them in wealth of clerkly store; + I would not see them with mine eyes; + Nor him that sailed, _sans_ sail nor oar, + Across the barren sea and hoar, + And all for love of his ladye; + Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more: + To see my Love suffices me! + + I heed not Pegasus, that flies + As swift as shafts the bowmen pour; + Nor famed Pygmalion’s artifice, + Whereof the like was ne’er before; + Nor Oléus, that drank of yore + The salt wave of the whole great sea: + Why? dost thou ask? ’Tis as I swore— + To see my Love suffices me! + + + +BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE. + + + The modish Airs, + The Tansey Brew, + The _Swains_ and _Fairs_ + In curtained Pew; + Nymphs KNELLER drew, + Books BENTLEY read,— + Who knows them, who? + QUEEN ANNE is dead! + + We buy her Chairs, + Her China blue, + Her red-brick Squares + We build anew; + But ah! we rue, + When all is said, + The tale o’er-true, + QUEEN ANNE is dead! + + Now _Bulls_ and _Bears_, + A ruffling Crew, + With Stocks and Shares, + With Turk and Jew, + Go bubbling through + The Town ill-bred: + The World’s askew, + QUEEN ANNE is dead! + + ENVOY. + + Friend, praise the new; + The old is fled: + _Vivat_ FROU-FROU! + QUEEN ANNE is dead! + + + +BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE. + + + (AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.) + + Who have loved and ceased to love, forget + That ever they loved in their lives, they say; + Only remember the fever and fret, + And the pain of Love, that was all his pay; + All the delight of him passes away + From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met— + Too late did I love you, my love, and yet + I shall never forget till my dying day. + + Too late were we ‘ware of the secret net + That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray; + There were we taken and snared, Lisette, + In the dungeon of La Fausse Amistié; + Help was there none in the wide world’s fray, + Joy was there none in the gift and the debt; + Too late we knew it, too long regret— + I shall never forget till my dying day! + + We must live our lives, though the sun be set, + Must meet in the masque where parts we play, + Must cross in the maze of Life’s minuet; + Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay: + But while snows of winter or flowers of May + Are the sad year’s shroud or coronet, + In the season of rose or of violet, + I shall never forget till my dying day! + + ENVOY. + + Queen, when the clay is my coverlet, + When I am dead, and when you are grey, + Vow, where the grass of the grave is wet, + “I shall never forget till my dying day!” + + + +BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE. + + + Here I’d come when weariest! + Here the breast + Of the Windburg’s tufted over + Deep with bracken; here his crest + Takes the west, + Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover. + + Silent here are lark and plover; + In the cover + Deep below the cushat best + Loves his mate, and croons above her + O’er their nest, + Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover. + + Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest, + To the blest + Bed that waits the weary rover, + Here should failure be confessed; + Ends my quest, + Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover! + + ENVOY. + + Friend, or stranger kind, or lover, + Ah, fulfil a last behest, + Let me rest + Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover! + + + +DIZAIN. + + + _As_, _to the pipe_, _with rhythmic feet_ + _In windings of some old-world dance_, + _The smiling couples cross and meet_, + _Join hands_, _and then in line advance_, + _So_, _to these fair old tunes of France_, + _Through all their maze of to-and-fro_, + _The light-heeled numbers laughing go_, + _Retreat_, _return_, _and ere they flee_, + _One moment pause in panting row_, + _And seem to say—Vos plaudite_! + + A. D. + + + + +VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS. + + + ORONTE—_Ce ne sont point de ces grands vers pompeux_, + _Mais de petits vers_! + + “Le Misanthrope,” Acte i., Sc. 2. + + + +A PORTRAIT OF 1783. + + + Your hair and chin are like the hair + And chin Burne-Jones’s ladies wear; + You were unfashionably fair + In ’83; + And sad you were when girls are gay, + You read a book about _Le vrai_ + _Mérite de l’homme_, alone in May. + What _can_ it be, + _Le vrai mérite de l’homme_? Not gold, + Not titles that are bought and sold, + Not wit that flashes and is cold, + But Virtue merely! + Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau + (And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know), + You bade the crowd of foplings go, + You glanced severely, + Dreaming beneath the spreading shade + Of ‘that vast hat the Graces made;’ {88} + So Rouget sang—while yet he played + With courtly rhyme, + And hymned great Doisi’s red perruque, + And Nice’s eyes, and Zulmé’s look, + And dead canaries, ere he shook + The sultry time + With strains like thunder. Loud and low + Methinks I hear the murmur grow, + The tramp of men that come and go + With fire and sword. + They war against the quick and dead, + Their flying feet are dashed with red, + As theirs the vintaging that tread + Before the Lord. + O head unfashionably fair, + What end was thine, for all thy care? + We only see thee dreaming there: + We cannot see + The breaking of thy vision, when + The Rights of Man were lords of men, + When virtue won her own again + In ’93. + + + +THE MOON’S MINION. + + + (FROM THE PROSE OF C. BAUDELAIRE.) + + Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear, + The wand’ring waters, green and grey; + Thine eyes are wonderful and clear, + And deep, and deadly, even as they; + The spirit of the changeful sea + Informs thine eyes at night and noon, + She sways the tides, and the heart of thee, + The mystic, sad, capricious Moon! + + The Moon came down the shining stair + Of clouds that fleck the summer sky, + She kissed thee, saying, “Child, be fair, + And madden men’s hearts, even as I; + Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet, + That know me and are known of me; + The lover thou shalt never meet, + The land where thou shalt never be!” + + She held thee in her chill embrace, + She kissed thee with cold lips divine, + She left her pallor on thy face, + That mystic ivory face of thine; + And now I sit beside thy feet, + And all my heart is far from thee, + Dreaming of her I shall not meet, + And of the land I shall not see! + + + +IN ITHACA. + + + “And now am I greatly repenting that ever I left my life with thee, + and the immortality thou didst promise me.”—_Letter of Odysseus to + Calypso_. Luciani _Vera Historia_. + + ’Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was o’er + With all the waves and wars, a weary while, + Grew restless in his disenchanted isle, + And still would watch the sunset, from the shore, + Go down the ways of gold, and evermore + His sad heart followed after, mile on mile, + Back to the Goddess of the magic wile, + Calypso, and the love that was of yore. + + Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee yet + To look across the sad and stormy space, + Years of a youth as bitter as the sea, + Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet, + Because, within a fair forsaken place + The life that might have been is lost to thee. + + + +HOMER. + + + Homer, thy song men liken to the sea + With all the notes of music in its tone, + With tides that wash the dim dominion + Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee + Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me + Thy verse seems as the River of source unknown + That glasses Egypt’s temples overthrown + In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally. + + No wiser we than men of heretofore + To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast; + Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore, + As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast + His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore + Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past. + + + +THE BURIAL OF MOLIÈRE. + + + (AFTER J. TRUFFIER.) + + Dead—he is dead! The rouge has left a trace + On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear, + Even while the people laughed that held him dear + But yesterday. He died,—and not in grace, + And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace + To slander him whose _Tartuffe_ made them fear, + And gold must win a passage for his bier, + And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place. + + Ah, Molière, for that last time of all, + Man’s hatred broke upon thee, and went by, + And did but make more fair thy funeral. + Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily, + Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall, + For torch, the stars along the windy sky! + + + +BION. + + + The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying + The Muses heard, and loved it long ago; + They heard the hollows of the hills replying, + They heard the weeping water’s overflow; + They winged the sacred strain—the song undying, + The song that all about the world must go,— + When poets for a poet dead are sighing, + The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low. + + And dirge to dirge that answers, and the weeping + For Adonais by the summer sea, + The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping + Far from ‘the forest ground called Thessaly’), + These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping, + And are but echoes of the moan for thee. + + + +SPRING. + + + (AFTER MELEAGER.) + + Now the bright crocus flames, and now + The slim narcissus takes the rain, + And, straying o’er the mountain’s brow, + The daffodilies bud again. + The thousand blossoms wax and wane + On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough, + But fairer than the flowers art thou, + Than any growth of hill or plain. + + Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown, + That my Love’s feet may tread it down, + Like lilies on the lilies set; + My Love, whose lips are softer far + Than drowsy poppy petals are, + And sweeter than the violet! + + + +BEFORE THE SNOW. + + + (AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.) + + The winter is upon us, not the snow, + The hills are etched on the horizon bare, + The skies are iron grey, a bitter air, + The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro. + One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow, + Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare. + Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where + The black trees seem to shiver as you go. + + Beyond lie church and steeple, with their old + And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer, + A sharper gust would shake them from their hold, + Yet up that path, in summer of the year, + And past that melancholy pile we strolled + To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer. + + + +VILLANELLE. + + + TO LUCIA. + + Apollo left the golden Muse + And shepherded a mortal’s sheep, + Theocritus of Syracuse! + + To mock the giant swain that woo’s + The sea-nymph in the sunny deep, + Apollo left the golden Muse. + + Afield he drove his lambs and ewes, + Where Milon and where Battus reap, + Theocritus of Syracuse! + + To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise + Below the dim Sicilian steep + Apollo left the golden Muse. + + Ye twain did loiter in the dews, + Ye slept the swain’s unfever’d sleep, + Theocritus of Syracuse! + + That Time might half with _his_ confuse + Thy songs,—like his, that laugh and leap,— + Theocritus of Syracuse, + Apollo left the golden Muse! + + + +NATURAL THEOLOGY. + + + ἐπει καὶ τοῦτον ὀῖομαι ἀθανάτοισιν + ἔυχεσθαι·. Πάντες δὲ θεῶν χατέουσ’ ἄνθρωποι. + + OD. III. 47. + + “Once CAGN was like a father, kind and good, + But He was spoiled by fighting many things; + He wars upon the lions in the wood, + And breaks the Thunder-bird’s tremendous wings; + But still we cry to Him,—_We are thy brood_— + _O Cagn_, _be merciful_! and us He brings + To herds of elands, and great store of food, + And in the desert opens water-springs.” + + So Qing, King Nqsha’s Bushman hunter, spoke, + Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair, + When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke + Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air: + And suddenly in each man’s heart there woke + A pang, a sacred memory of prayer. + + + +THE ODYSSEY. + + + As one that for a weary space has lain + Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine + In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, + Where that Ææan isle forgets the main, + And only the low lutes of love complain, + And only shadows of wan lovers pine, + As such an one were glad to know the brine + Salt on his lips, and the large air again,— + So gladly, from the songs of modern speech + Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free + Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, + And through the music of the languid hours, + They hear like ocean on a western beach + The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. + + + +IDEAL. + + +_Suggested by a female head in wax_, _of unknown date_, _but supposed to +be either of the best Greek age_, _or a work of Raphael or Leonardo_. +_It is now in the Lille Museum_. + + Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, + Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, + A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, + Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe! + Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, + While magical his fingers o’er thee strayed, + Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio + Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade + + That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn, + Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace, + And that grave tenderness of thine awhile; + Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face + Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn, + And only on thy lips I find her smile. + + + +THE FAIRY’S GIFT. + + + “Take short views.”—SYDNEY SMITH. + + The Fays that to my christ’ning came + (For come they did, my nurses taught me), + They did not bring me wealth or fame, + ’Tis very little that they brought me. + But one, the crossest of the crew, + The ugly old one, uninvited, + Said, “I shall be avenged on _you_, + My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!” + With magic juices did she lave + Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure. + Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave, + _Hers_ is the present that I treasure! + + The bore whom others fear and flee, + I do not fear, I do not flee him; + I pass him calm as calm can be; + I do not cut—I do not see him! + And with my feeble eyes and dim, + Where _you_ see patchy fields and fences, + For me the mists of Turner swim— + _My_ “azure distance” soon commences! + Nay, as I blink about the streets + Of this befogged and miry city, + Why, almost every girl one meets + Seems preternaturally pretty! + “Try spectacles,” one’s friends intone; + “You’ll see the world correctly through them.” + But I have visions of my own, + And not for worlds would I undo them. + + + +BENEDETTA RAMUS. + + + AFTER ROMNEY. + + Mysterious Benedetta! who + That Reynolds or that Romney drew + Was ever half so fair as you, + Or is so well forgot? + These eyes of melancholy brown, + These woven locks, a shadowy crown, + Must surely have bewitched the town; + Yet you’re remembered not. + + Through all that prattle of your age, + Through lore of fribble and of sage + I’ve read, and chiefly Walpole’s page, + Wherein are beauties famous; + I’ve haunted ball, and rout, and sale; + I’ve heard of Devonshire and Thrale, + And all the Gunnings’ wondrous tale, + But nothing of Miss Ramus. + + And yet on many a lattice pane + ‘Fair Benedetta,’ scrawled in vain + By lovers’ diamonds, must remain + To tell us you were cruel. {108} + But who, of all that sighed and swore— + Wits, poets, courtiers by the score— + Did win and on his bosom wore + This hard and lovely jewel? + + Why, dilettante records say + An Alderman, who came that way, + Woo’d you and made you Lady Day; + You crowned his civic flame. + It suits a melancholy song + To think your heart had suffered wrong, + And that you lived not very long + To be a City dame! + + Perchance you were a Mourning Bride, + And conscious of a heart that died + With one who fell by Rodney’s side + In blood-stained Spanish bays. + Perchance ’twas no such thing, and you + Dwelt happy with your knight and true, + And, like Aurora, watched a crew + Of rosy little Days! + + Oh, lovely face and innocent! + Whatever way your fortunes went, + And if to earth your life was lent + For little space or long, + In your kind eyes we seem to see + What Woman at her best may be, + And offer to your memory + An unavailing song! + + + +PARTANT POUR LA SCRIBIE. + + +[Scribie, on the north-east littoral of Bohemia, is the land of stage +conventions. It is named after the discoverer, M. Scribe.] + + A pleasant land is Scribie, where + The light comes mostly from below, + And seems a sort of symbol rare + Of things at large, and how they go, + In rooms where doors are everywhere + And cupboards shelter friend or foe. + + This is a realm where people tell + Each other, when they chance to meet, + Of things that long ago befell— + And do most solemnly repeat + Secrets they both know very well, + Aloud, and in the public street! + + A land where lovers go in fours, + Master and mistress, man and maid; + Where people listen at the doors + Or ’neath a table’s friendly shade, + And comic Irishmen in scores + Roam o’er the scenes all undismayed: + + A land where Virtue in distress + Owes much to uncles in disguise; + Where British sailors frankly bless + Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes; + And where the villain doth confess, + Conveniently, before he dies! + + A land of lovers false and gay; + A land where people dread a “curse;” + A land of letters gone astray, + Or intercepted, which is worse; + Where weddings false fond maids betray, + And all the babes are changed at nurse. + + Oh, happy land, where things come right! + We of the world where things go ill; + Where lovers love, but don’t unite; + Where no one finds the Missing Will— + Dominion of the heart’s delight, + Scribie, we’ve loved, and love thee still! + + + +ST. ANDREW’S BAY. + + + NIGHT. + + Ah, listen through the music, from the shore, + The “melancholy long-withdrawing roar”; + Beneath the Minster, and the windy caves, + The wide North Ocean, marshalling his waves + Even so forlorn—in worlds beyond our ken— + May sigh the seas that are not heard of men; + Even so forlorn, prophetic of man’s fate, + Sounded the cold sea-wave disconsolate, + When none but God might hear the boding tone, + As God shall hear the long lament alone, + When all is done, when all the tale is told, + And the gray sea-wave echoes as of old! + + MORNING. + + This was the burden of the Night, + The saying of the sea, + But lo! the hours have brought the light, + The laughter of the waves, the flight + Of dipping sea-birds, foamy white, + That are so glad to be! + “Forget!” the happy creatures cry, + “Forget Night’s monotone, + With us be glad in sea and sky, + The days are thine, the days that fly, + The days God gives to know him by, + And not the Night alone!” + + + +WOMAN AND THE WEED. + + + (FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND MYTH.) + + In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes began, + How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man! + From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam, + There was nobody waiting to welcome him home; + For the Man had been made, but the woman had _not_, + And Earth was a highly detestable spot. + Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled, + They did not converse but they struggled and howled, + For Man had no tact—he would ne’er take a hint, + And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint. + + So Man was alone, and he wished he could see + On the Earth some one like him, but fairer than he, + With locks like the red gold, a smile like the sun, + To welcome him back when his hunting was done. + And he sighed for a voice that should answer him still, + Like the affable Echo he heard on the hill: + That should answer him softly and always agree, + _And oh_, Man reflected, _how nice it would be_! + + So he prayed to the Gods, and they stooped to his prayer, + And they spoke to the Sun on his way through the air, + And he married the Echo one fortunate morn, + And Woman, their beautiful daughter, was born! + The daughter of Sunshine and Echo she came + With a voice like a song, with a face like a flame; + With a face like a flame, and a voice like a song, + And happy was Man, but it was not for long! + + For weather’s a painfully changeable thing, + Not always the child of the Echo would sing; + And the face of the Sun may be hidden with mist, + And his child can be terribly cross if she list. + And unfortunate Man had to learn with surprise + That a frown’s not peculiar to masculine eyes; + That the sweetest of voices can scold and can sneer, + And cannot be answered—like men—with a spear. + + So Man went and called to the Gods in his woe, + And they answered him—“Sir, you would needs have it so: + And the thing must go on as the thing has begun, + She’s immortal—your child of the Echo and Sun. + But we’ll send you another, and fairer is she, + This maiden with locks that are flowing and free. + This maiden so gentle, so kind, and so fair, + With a flower like a star in the night of her hair. + With her eyes like the smoke that is misty and blue, + With her heart that is heavenly, and tender, and true. + She will die in the night, but no need you should mourn, + You shall bury her body and thence shall be born + A weed that is green, that is fragrant and fair, + With a flower like the star in the night of her hair. + And the leaves must ye burn till they offer to you + Soft smoke, like her eyes that are misty and blue. + + “And the smoke shall ye breathe and no more shall ye fret, + But the child of the Echo and Sun shall forget: + Shall forget all the trouble and torment she brings, + Shall bethink ye of none but delectable things; + And the sound of the wars with your brethren shall cease, + While ye smoke by the camp-fire the great pipe of peace.” + So the last state of Man was by no means the worst, + The second gift softened the sting of the first. + + Nor the child of the Echo and Sun doth he heed + When he dreams with the Maid that was changed to the weed; + Though the Echo be silent, the Sun in a mist, + The Maid is the fairest that ever was kissed. + And when tempests are over and ended the rain, + And the child of the Sunshine is sunny again, + He comes back, glad at heart, and again is at one + With the changeable child of the Echo and Sun. + + + + +RHYMES À LA MODE + + +BALLADE DEDICATORY, +TO +_MRS. ELTON_ +_OF WHITE STAUNTON_. + + + _THE painted Briton built his mound_, + _And left his celts and clay_, + _On yon fair slope of sunlit ground_ + _That fronts your garden gay_; + _The Roman came_, _he bore the sway_, + _He bullied_, _bought_, _and sold_, + _Your fountain sweeps his works away_ + _Beside your manor old_! + + _But still his crumbling urns are found_ + _Within the window-bay_, + _Where once he listened to the sound_ + _That lulls you day by day_;— + _The sound of summer winds at play_, + _The noise of waters cold_ + _To Yarty wandering on their way_, + _Beside your manor old_! + + _The Roman fell_: _his firm-set bound_ + _Became the Saxon’s stay_; + _The bells made music all around_ + _For monks in cloisters grey_, + _Till fled the monks in disarray_ + _From their warm chantry’s fold_, + _Old Abbots slumber as they may_, + _Beside your manor old_! + + _ENVOY_. + + _Creeds_, _empires_, _peoples_, _all decay_, + _Down into darkness_, _rolled_; + _May life that’s fleet be sweet_, _I pray_, + _Beside your manor old_. + + + +THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS. + + +THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS. + + + A DREAM IN JUNE. + + IN twilight of the longest day + I lingered over Lucian, + Till ere the dawn a dreamy way + My spirit found, untrod of man, + Between the green sky and the grey. + + Amid the soft dusk suddenly + More light than air I seemed to sail, + Afloat upon the ocean sky, + While through the faint blue, clear and pale, + I saw the mountain clouds go by: + My barque had thought for helm and sail, + And one mist wreath for canopy. + + Like torches on a marble floor + Reflected, so the wild stars shone, + Within the abysmal hyaline, + Till the day widened more and more, + And sank to sunset, and was gone, + And then, as burning beacons shine + On summits of a mountain isle, + A light to folk on sea that fare, + So the sky’s beacons for a while + Burned in these islands of the air. + + Then from a starry island set + Where one swift tide of wind there flows, + Came scent of lily and violet, + Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose, + Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine, + So delicate is the air and fine: + And forests of all fragrant trees + Sloped seaward from the central hill, + And ever clamorous were these + With singing of glad birds; and still + Such music came as in the woods + Most lonely, consecrate to Pan, + The Wind makes, in his many moods, + Upon the pipes some shepherd Man, + Hangs up, in thanks for victory! + On these shall mortals play no more, + But the Wind doth touch them, over and o’er, + And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh. + + Between the daylight and the dark + That island lies in silver air, + And suddenly my magic barque + Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there; + And by me stood the sentinel + Of them who in the island dwell; + All smiling did he bind my hands, + With rushes green and rosy bands, + They have no harsher bonds than these + The people of the pleasant lands + Within the wash of the airy seas! + + Then was I to their city led: + Now all of ivory and gold + The great walls were that garlanded + The temples in their shining fold, + (Each fane of beryl built, and each + Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,) + And all about the town, and through, + There flowed a River fed with dew, + As sweet as roses, and as clear + As mountain crystals pure and cold, + And with his waves that water kissed + The gleaming altars of amethyst + That smoke with victims all the year, + And sacred are to the Gods of old. + + There sat three Judges by the Gate, + And I was led before the Three, + And they but looked on me, and straight + The rosy bonds fell down from me + Who, being innocent, was free; + And I might wander at my will + About that City on the hill, + Among the happy people clad + In purple weeds of woven air + Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves + At shut of languid summer eves + So light their raiment seemed; and glad + Was every face I looked on there! + + There was no heavy heat, no cold, + The dwellers there wax never old, + Nor wither with the waning time, + But each man keeps that age he had + When first he won the fairy clime. + The Night falls never from on high, + Nor ever burns the heat of noon. + But such soft light eternally + Shines, as in silver dawns of June + Before the Sun hath climbed the sky! + + Within these pleasant streets and wide, + The souls of Heroes go and come, + Even they that fell on either side + Beneath the walls of Ilium; + And sunlike in that shadowy isle + The face of Helen and her smile + Makes glad the souls of them that knew + Grief for her sake a little while! + And all true Greeks and wise are there; + And with his hand upon the hair + Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates, + About him many youths and fair, + Hylas, Narcissus, and with these + Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew + By fleet Eurotas, unaware! + + All these their mirth and pleasure made + Within the plain Elysian, + The fairest meadow that may be, + With all green fragrant trees for shade + And every scented wind to fan, + And sweetest flowers to strew the lea; + The soft Winds are their servants fleet + To fetch them every fruit at will + And water from the river chill; + And every bird that singeth sweet + Throstle, and merle, and nightingale + Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,— + Lily, and rose, and asphodel— + With these doth each guest twine his crown + And wreathe his cup, and lay him down + Beside some friend he loveth well. + + There with the shining Souls I lay + When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say, + In far-off haunts of Memory, + _Whoso doth taste the Dead Men’s bread_, + _Shall dwell for ever with these Dead_, + _Nor ever shall his body lie_ + _Beside his friends_, _on the grey hill_ + _Where rains weep_, _and the curlews shrill_ + _And the brown water wanders by_! + + Then did a new soul in me wake, + The dead men’s bread I feared to break, + Their fruit I would not taste indeed + Were it but a pomegranate seed. + Nay, not with these I made my choice + To dwell for ever and rejoice, + For otherwhere the River rolls + That girds the home of Christian souls, + And these my whole heart seeks are found + On otherwise enchanted ground. + + Even so I put the cup away, + The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke, + And, nowise sorrowing, I woke + While, grey among the ruins grey + Chill through the dwellings of the dead, + The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea, + Then, in a moment, flushed to red, + Flushed all the broken minster old, + And turned the shattered stones to gold, + And wakened half the world with me! + + L’ENVOI. + + To E. W. G. + +(Who also had rhymed on the _Fortunate Islands_ of Lucian). + + _Each in the self-same field we glean_ + _The field of the Samosatene_, + _Each something takes and something leaves_ + _And this must choose_, _and that forego_ + _In Lucian’s visionary sheaves_, + _To twine a modern posy so_; + _But all my gleanings_, _truth to tell_, + _Are mixed with mournful asphodel_, + _While yours are wreathed with poppies red_, + _With flowers that Helen’s feet have kissed_, + _With leaves of vine that garlanded_ + _The Syrian Pantagruelist_, + _The sage who laughed the world away_, + _Who mocked at Gods_, _and men_, _and care_, + _More sweet of voice than Rabelais_, + _And lighter-hearted than Voltaire_. + + + +ALMAE MATRES. + + +ALMAE MATRES. + + + (ST. ANDREWS, 1862. OXFORD, 1865.) + + _ST. Andrews by the Northern sea_, + _A haunted town it is to me_! + A little city, worn and grey, + The grey North Ocean girds it round. + And o’er the rocks, and up the bay, + The long sea-rollers surge and sound. + And still the thin and biting spray + Drives down the melancholy street, + And still endure, and still decay, + Towers that the salt winds vainly beat. + Ghost-like and shadowy they stand + Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand. + + St. Leonard’s chapel, long ago + We loitered idly where the tall + Fresh budded mountain ashes blow + Within thy desecrated wall: + The tough roots rent the tomb below, + The April birds sang clamorous, + We did not dream, we could not know + How hardly Fate would deal with us! + + O, broken minster, looking forth + Beyond the bay, above the town, + O, winter of the kindly North, + O, college of the scarlet gown, + And shining sands beside the sea, + And stretch of links beyond the sand, + Once more I watch you, and to me + It is as if I touched his hand! + + And therefore art thou yet more dear, + O, little city, grey and sere, + Though shrunken from thine ancient pride + And lonely by thy lonely sea, + Than these fair halls on Isis’ side, + Where Youth an hour came back to me! + + A land of waters green and clear, + Of willows and of poplars tall, + And, in the spring time of the year, + The white may breaking over all, + And Pleasure quick to come at call. + And summer rides by marsh and wold, + And Autumn with her crimson pall + About the towers of Magdalen rolled; + And strange enchantments from the past, + And memories of the friends of old, + And strong Tradition, binding fast + The “flying terms” with bands of gold,— + + All these hath Oxford: all are dear, + But dearer far the little town, + The drifting surf, the wintry year, + The college of the scarlet gown, + _St. Andrews by the Northern sea_, + _That is a haunted town to me_! + + + +DESIDERIUM. + + + IN MEMORIAM S. F. A. + + THE call of homing rooks, the shrill + Song of some bird that watches late, + The cries of children break the still + Sad twilight by the churchyard gate. + + And o’er your far-off tomb the grey + Sad twilight broods, and from the trees + The rooks call on their homeward way, + And are you heedless quite of these? + + The clustered rowan berries red + And Autumn’s may, the clematis, + They droop above your dreaming head, + And these, and all things must you miss? + + Ah, you that loved the twilight air, + The dim lit hour of quiet best, + At last, at last you have your share + Of what life gave so seldom, rest! + + Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep, + Or labour, nearer the Divine, + And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep, + And gentle as thy soul, is thine! + + So let it be! But could I know + That thou in this soft autumn eve, + This hush of earth that pleased thee so, + Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve. + + + +RHYMES À LA MODE. + + +BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE. + + + OUR youth began with tears and sighs, + With seeking what we could not find; + Our verses all were threnodies, + In elegiacs still we whined; + Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, + We sought and knew not what we sought. + We marvel, now we look behind: + Life’s more amusing than we thought! + + Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise! + Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind! + What? not content with seas and skies, + With rainy clouds and southern wind, + With common cares and faces kind, + With pains and joys each morning brought? + Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find + Life’s more amusing than we thought! + + Though youth “turns spectre-thin and dies,” + To mourn for youth we’re not inclined; + We set our souls on salmon flies, + We whistle where we once repined. + Confound the woes of human-kind! + By Heaven we’re “well deceived,” I wot; + Who hum, contented or resigned, + “Life’s more amusing than we thought”! + + ENVOY. + + _O nate mecum_, worn and lined + Our faces show, but that is naught; + Our hearts are young ’neath wrinkled rind: + Life’s more amusing than we thought! + + +THE LAST CAST. + + + THE ANGLER’S APOLOGY. + + JUST one cast more! how many a year + Beside how many a pool and stream, + Beneath the falling leaves and sere, + I’ve sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream! + + Dreamed of the sport since April first + Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow, + Adown the pastoral valleys burst + Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow. + + Dreamed of the singing showers that break, + And sting the lochs, or near or far, + And rouse the trout, and stir “the take” + From Urigil to Lochinvar. + + Dreamed of the kind propitious sky + O’er Ari Innes brooding grey; + The sea trout, rushing at the fly, + Breaks the black wave with sudden spray! + + * * * * * + + Brief are man’s days at best; perchance + I waste my own, who have not seen + The castled palaces of France + Shine on the Loire in summer green. + + And clear and fleet Eurotas still, + You tell me, laves his reedy shore, + And flows beneath his fabled hill + Where Dian drave the chase of yore. + + And “like a horse unbroken” yet + The yellow stream with rush and foam, + ’Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet, + Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome! + + I may not see them, but I doubt + If seen I’d find them half so fair + As ripples of the rising trout + That feed beneath the elms of Yair. + + Nay, Spring I’d meet by Tweed or Ail, + And Summer by Loch Assynt’s deep, + And Autumn in that lonely vale + Where wedded Avons westward sweep, + + Or where, amid the empty fields, + Among the bracken of the glen, + Her yellow wreath October yields, + To crown the crystal brows of Ken. + + Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal, + Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide, + You never heard the ringing reel, + The music of the water side! + + Though Gods have walked your woods among, + Though nymphs have fled your banks along; + You speak not that familiar tongue + Tweed murmurs like my cradle song. + + My cradle song,—nor other hymn + I’d choose, nor gentler requiem dear + Than Tweed’s, that through death’s twilight dim, + Mourned in the latest Minstrel’s ear! + + +TWILIGHT. + + + SONNET. + + (AFTER RICHEPIN.) + + LIGHT has flown! + Through the grey + The wind’s way + The sea’s moan + Sound alone! + For the day + These repay + And atone! + + Scarce I know, + Listening so + To the streams + Of the sea, + If old dreams + Sing to me! + + +BALLADE OF SUMMER. + + + TO C. H. ARKCOLL. + + WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap, + Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, + When midnight dances are murdering sleep, + Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! + And far from Fleet Street, far from here, + The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, + And moonlit nights they are soft and clear, + When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! + + When clamour that doves in the lindens keep + Mingles with musical plash of the weir, + Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, + Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! + And better a crust and a beaker of beer, + With rose-hung hedges on either hand, + Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer, + When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! + + When big trout late in the twilight leap, + When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, + When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, + Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! + And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer, + Where kine knee deep in the water stand, + On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere, + When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! + + ENVOY. + + Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, + Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! + And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand, + When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! + + +BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS. + + + BETWEEN the moonlight and the fire + In winter twilights long ago, + What ghosts we raised for your desire + To make your merry blood run slow! + How old, how grave, how wise we grow! + No Christmas ghost can make us chill, + Save _those_ that troop in mournful row, + The ghosts we all can raise at will! + + The beasts can talk in barn and byre + On Christmas Eve, old legends know, + As year by year the years retire, + We men fall silent then I trow, + Such sights hath Memory to show, + Such voices from the silence thrill, + Such shapes return with Christmas snow,— + The ghosts we all can raise at will. + + Oh, children of the village choir, + Your carols on the midnight throw, + Oh bright across the mist and mire + Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow! + Beat back the dread, beat down the woe, + Let’s cheerily descend the hill; + Be welcome all, to come or go, + The ghosts we all can raise at will! + + ENVOY. + + Friend, _sursum corda_, soon or slow + We part, like guests who’ve joyed their fill; + Forget them not, nor mourn them so, + The ghosts we all can raise at will! + + +LOVE’S EASTER. + + + SONNET. + + LOVE died here + Long ago; + O’er his bier, + Lying low, + Poppies throw; + Shed no tear; + Year by year, + Roses blow! + + Year by year, + Adon—dear + To Love’s Queen— + Does not die! + Wakes when green + May is nigh! + + +BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL. + + + SHE has just “put her gown on” at Girton, + She is learned in Latin and Greek, + But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on + That the prudish remark with a shriek. + In her accents, perhaps, she is weak + (Ladies _are_, one observes with a sigh), + But in Algebra—_there_ she’s unique, + But her forte’s to evaluate π. + + She can talk about putting a “spirt on” + (I admit, an unmaidenly freak), + And she dearly delighteth to flirt on + A punt in some shadowy creek; + Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak, + She can swim as a swallow can fly; + She can fence, she can put with a cleek, + But her forte’s to evaluate π. + + She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton, + Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique, + Old tiles with the secular dirt on, + Old marbles with noses to seek. + And her Cobet she quotes by the week, + And she’s written on _κεν_ and on _καὶ_, + And her service is swift and oblique, + But her forte’s to evaluate π. + + ENVOY. + + Princess, like a rose is her cheek, + And her eyes are as blue as the sky, + And I’d speak, had I courage to speak, + But—her forte’s to evaluate π. + + +RONSARD’S GRAVE. + + + YE wells, ye founts that fall + From the steep mountain wall, + That fall, and flash, and fleet + With silver feet, + + Ye woods, ye streams that lave + The meadows with your wave, + Ye hills, and valley fair, + Attend my prayer! + + When Heaven and Fate decree + My latest hour for me, + When I must pass away + From pleasant day, + + I ask that none may break + The marble for my sake, + Wishful to make more fair + My sepulchre. + + Only a laurel tree + Shall shade the grave of me, + Only Apollo’s bough + Shall guard me now! + + Now shall I be at rest + Among the spirits blest, + The happy dead that dwell— + Where,—who may tell? + + The snow and wind and hail + May never there prevail, + Nor ever thunder fall + Nor storm at all. + + But always fadeless there + The woods are green and fair, + And faithful ever more + Spring to that shore! + + There shall I ever hear + Alcaeus’ music clear, + And sweetest of all things + There SAPPHO sings. + + +SAN TERENZO. + + + (The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living + before the wreck of the _Don Juan_.) + + MID April seemed like some November day, + When through the glassy waters, dull as lead + Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead, + Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay, + Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay + Before us, that gay village, yellow and red, + The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,— + His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey. + + The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen + Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again. + Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free, + When suddenly the forest glades were stirred + With waving pinions, and a great sea bird + Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea! + + 1880. + + +ROMANCE. + + + MY Love dwelt in a Northern land. + A grey tower in a forest green + Was hers, and far on either hand + The long wash of the waves was seen, + And leagues on leagues of yellow sand, + The woven forest boughs between! + + And through the silver Northern night + The sunset slowly died away, + And herds of strange deer, lily-white, + Stole forth among the branches grey; + About the coming of the light, + They fled like ghosts before the day! + + I know not if the forest green + Still girdles round that castle grey; + I know not if the boughs between + The white deer vanish ere the day; + Above my Love the grass is green, + My heart is colder than the clay! + + +BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY. + + + I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves + Among the shining salmon-flies; + A song for summer-time that grieves + I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves. + Between grey sea and golden sheaves, + Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies, + I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves + Among the shining salmon-flies. + + TO C. H. ARKCOLL. + + LET them boast of Arabia, oppressed + By the odour of myrrh on the breeze; + In the isles of the East and the West + That are sweet with the cinnamon trees + Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas + Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete, + We are more than content, if you please, + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! + + Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best + With the scent of the limes, when the bees + Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest, + While the vintagers lay at their ease, + Had he sung in our northern degrees, + He’d have sought a securer retreat, + He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! + + Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest + And the daffodil’s fair on the leas, + And the soul of the Southron might rest, + And be perfectly happy with these; + But _we_, that were nursed on the knees + Of the hills of the North, we would fleet + Where our hearts might their longing appease + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! + + ENVOY. + + Ah Constance, the land of our quest + It is far from the sounds of the street, + Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! + + +VILLANELLE. + + + (TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”) + + VILLANELLE, why art thou mute? + Hath the singer ceased to sing? + Hath the Master lost his lute? + + Many a pipe and scrannel flute + On the breeze their discords fling; + Villanelle, why art _thou_ mute? + + Sound of tumult and dispute, + Noise of war the echoes bring; + Hath the Master lost his lute? + + Once he sang of bud and shoot + In the season of the Spring; + Villanelle, why art thou mute? + + Fading leaf and falling fruit + Say, “The year is on the wing, + Hath the Master lost his lute?” + + Ere the axe lie at the root, + Ere the winter come as king, + Villanelle, why art thou mute? + Hath the Master lost his lute? + + +TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS. + + + Αιαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μὲν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾶπον ὄλωντα + ὕστερον αὖ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι + ἄμμες δ’ ὁι μεγάλοι καὶ καρτεροί, οἱ σοφοὶ ἄνδες + ὁππότε πρᾶτα θάνωμες, ἀνάκοοι ἐν χθονὶ κοίλᾳ, + εὕδομες εὖ μάλα μακρὸν ἀτέρμονα νήγρετον ὕπνον. + + ALAS, for us no second spring, + Like mallows in the garden-bed, + For these the grave has lost his sting, + Alas, for _us_ no second spring, + Who sleep without awakening, + And, dead, for ever more are dead, + Alas, for us no second spring, + Like mallows in the garden-bed! + + Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, + That boast themselves the sons of men! + Once they go down into the grave— + Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,— + They perish and have none to save, + They are sown, and are not raised again; + Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, + That boast themselves the sons of men! + + +BALLADE OF CRICKET. + + + TO T. W. LANG. + + THE burden of hard hitting: slog away! + Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,” + And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, + That thou art in for an uncommon score. + Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, + And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, + When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”— + “This is the end of every man’s desire!” + + The burden of much bowling, when the stay + Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower, + When “bailers” break not in their wonted way, + And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore, + When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, + When all deliveries lose their former fire, + When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,— + “This is the end of every man’s desire!” + + The burden of long fielding, when the clay + Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower’s downpour, + And running still thou stumblest, or the ray + Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore, + And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, + Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer,” + And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,— + “This is the end of every man’s desire!” + + ENVOY. + + Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither shore + Would I be some poor Player on scant hire, + Than King among the old, who play no more,— + “_This_ is the end of every man’s desire!” + + +THE LAST MAYING. + + + “It is told of the last Lovers which watched May-night in the + forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this land, + that + they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but the very + Venus herself, who bade them ‘make such cheer as they might, + for’ said she, ‘I shall live no more in these Woods, nor shall ye + endure to see another May time.’”—EDMUND GORLIOT, “Of Phantasies and + Omens,” p. 149. (1573.) + + “WHENCE do ye come, with the dew on your hair? + From what far land are the boughs ye bear, + The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses, + The light burned white in your faces fair?” + + “In a falling fane have we built our house, + With the dying Gods we have held carouse, + And our lips are wan from their wild caresses, + Our hands are filled with their holy boughs. + + As we crossed the lawn in the dying day + No fairy led us to meet the May, + But the very Goddess loved by lovers, + In mourning raiment of green and grey. + + She was not decked as for glee and game, + She was not veiled with the veil of flame, + The saffron veil of the Bride that covers + The face that is flushed with her joy and shame. + + On the laden branches the scent and dew + Mingled and met, and as snow to strew + The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses, + White flowers fell as the night wind blew. + + Tears and kisses on lips and eyes + Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs + For grief that abides, and joy that passes, + For pain that tarries and mirth that flies. + + It chanced as the dawning grew to grey + Pale and sad on our homeward way, + With weary lips, and palled with pleasure + The Goddess met us, farewell to say. + + “Ye have made your choice, and the better part, + Ye chose” she said, “and the wiser art; + In the wild May night drank all the measure, + The perfect pleasure of heart and heart. + + “Ye shall walk no more with the May,” she said, + “Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead? + Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen, + Sing as of old, and be happy and wed? + + “Yea, they are glad as of old; but you, + Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew, + Abide no more, for the springs are frozen, + And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew. + + “Ye shall never know Summer again like this; + Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis, + No more in the nymphs’ and dryads’ playtime + Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss. + + “Though the flowers in your golden hair be bright, + Your golden hair shall be waste and white + On faded brows ere another May time + Bring the spring, but no more delight.” + + +HOMERIC UNITY. + + + THE sacred keep of Ilion is rent + By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow + Through plains where Simois and Scamander went + To war with Gods and heroes long ago. + Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low + In rich Mycenæ, do the Fates relent: + The bones of Agamemnon are a show, + And ruined is his royal monument. + + The dust and awful treasures of the Dead, + Hath Learning scattered wide, but vainly thee, + Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead, + And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see + The crown that burns on thine immortal head + Of indivisible supremacy! + + +IN TINTAGEL. + + + LUI. + + AH lady, lady, leave the creeping mist, + And leave the iron castle by the sea! + + ELLE. + + Nay, from the sea there came a ghost that kissed + My lips, and so I cannot come to thee! + + LUI. + + Ah lady, leave the cruel landward wind + That crusts the blighted flowers with bitter foam! + + ELLE. + + Nay, for his arms are cold and strong to bind, + And I must dwell with him and make my home! + + LUI. + + Come, for the Spring is fair in Joyous Guard + And down deep alleys sweet birds sing again. + + ELLE. + + But I must tarry with the winter hard, + And with the bitter memory of pain, + Although the Spring be fair in Joyous Guard, + And in the gardens glad birds sing again! + + +PISIDICÊ. + + +The incident is from the Love Stories of Parthenius, who preserved +fragments of a lost epic on the expedition of Achilles against Lesbos, an +island allied with Troy. + + THE daughter of the Lesbian king + Within her bower she watched the war, + Far off she heard the arrows ring, + The smitten harness ring afar; + And, fighting from the foremost car, + Saw one that smote where all must flee; + More fair than the Immortals are + He seemed to fair Pisidicê! + + She saw, she loved him, and her heart + Before Achilles, Peleus’ son, + Threw all its guarded gates apart, + A maiden fortress lightly won! + And, ere that day of fight was done, + No more of land or faith recked she, + But joyed in her new life begun,— + Her life of love, Pisidicê! + + She took a gift into her hand, + As one that had a boon to crave; + She stole across the ruined land + Where lay the dead without a grave, + And to Achilles’ hand she gave + Her gift, the secret postern’s key. + “To-morrow let me be thy slave!” + Moaned to her love Pisidicê. + + Ere dawn the Argives’ clarion call + Rang down Methymna’s burning street; + They slew the sleeping warriors all, + They drove the women to the fleet, + Save one, that to Achilles’ feet + Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he: + “For her no doom but death is meet,” + And there men stoned Pisidicê. + + In havens of that haunted coast, + Amid the myrtles of the shore, + The moon sees many a maiden ghost + Love’s outcast now and evermore. + The silence hears the shades deplore + Their hour of dear-bought love; but _thee_ + The waves lull, ’neath thine olives hoar, + To dreamless rest, Pisidicê! + + +FROM THE EAST TO THE WEST. + + + RETURNING from what other seas + Dost thou renew thy murmuring, + Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of these + To tell, the shores where float and cling + My love, my hope, my memories? + + Say does my lady wake to note + The gold light into silver die? + Or do thy waves make lullaby, + While dreams of hers, like angels, float + Through star-sown spaces of the sky? + + Ah, would such angels came to me + That dreams of mine might speak with hers, + Nor wake the slumber of the sea + With words as low as winds that be + Awake among the gossamers! + + +LOVE THE VAMPIRE. + + + Ο ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ’Σ ΤΟΝ ΤΑΦΟ. + + THE level sands and grey, + Stretch leagues and leagues away, + Down to the border line of sky and foam, + A spark of sunset burns, + The grey tide-water turns, + Back, like a ghost from her forbidden home! + + Here, without pyre or bier, + Light Love was buried here, + Alas, his grave was wide and deep enough, + Thrice, with averted head, + We cast dust on the dead, + And left him to his rest. An end of Love. + + “No stone to roll away, + No seal of snow or clay, + Only soft dust above his wearied eyes, + But though the sudden sound + Of Doom should shake the ground, + And graves give up their ghosts, he will not rise!” + + So each to each we said! + Ah, but to either bed + Set far apart in lands of North and South, + Love as a Vampire came + With haggard eyes aflame, + And kissed us with the kisses of his mouth! + + Thenceforth in dreams must we + Each other’s shadow see + Wand’ring unsatisfied in empty lands, + Still the desirèd face + Fleets from the vain embrace, + And still the shape evades the longing hands. + + +BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN’S PARADISE + + + THERE _is_ a Heaven, or here, or there,— + A Heaven there is, for me and you, + Where bargains meet for purses spare, + Like ours, are not so far and few. + Thuanus’ bees go humming through + The learned groves, ’neath rainless skies, + O’er volumes old and volumes new, + Within that Book-man’s Paradise! + + There treasures bound for Longepierre + Keep brilliant their morocco blue, + There Hookes’ _Amanda_ is not rare, + Nor early tracts upon Peru! + Racine is common as Rotrou, + No Shakespeare Quarto search defies, + And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew, + Within that Book-man’s Paradise! + + There’s Eve,—not our first mother fair,— + But Clovis Eve, a binder true; + Thither does Bauzonnet repair, + Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup! + But never come the cropping crew + That dock a volume’s honest size, + Nor they that “letter” backs askew, + Within that Book-man’s Paradise! + + ENVOY. + + Friend, do not Heber and De Thou, + And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise, + _La chasse au bouquin_ still pursue + Within that Book-man’s Paradise? + + +BALLADE OF A FRIAR. + + +(Clement Marot’s _Frère Lubin_, though translated by Longfellow and +others, has not hitherto been rendered into the original measure of +_ballade à double refrain_.) + + SOME ten or twenty times a day, + To bustle to the town with speed, + To dabble in what dirt he may,— + Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need! + But any sober life to lead + Upon an exemplary plan, + Requires a Christian indeed,— + Le Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + Another’s wealth on his to lay, + With all the craft of guile and greed, + To leave you bare of pence or pay,— + Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need! + But watch him with the closest heed, + And dun him with what force you can,— + He’ll not refund, howe’er you plead,— + Le Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + An honest girl to lead astray, + With subtle saw and promised meed, + Requires no cunning crone and grey,— + Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need! + He preaches an ascetic creed, + But,—try him with the water can— + A dog will drink, whate’er his breed,— + Le Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + ENVOY. + + In good to fail, in ill succeed, + Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need! + In honest works to lead the van, + Le Frère Lubin is _not_ the man! + + +BALLADE OF NEGLECTED MERIT. {194} + + + I HAVE scribbled in verse and in prose, + I have painted “arrangements in greens,” + And my name is familiar to those + Who take in the high class magazines; + I compose; I’ve invented machines; + I have written an “Essay on Rhyme”; + For my county I played, in my teens, + But—I am not in “Men of the Time!” + + I have lived, as a chief, with the Crows; + I have “interviewed” Princes and Queens; + I have climbed the Caucasian snows; + I abstain, like the ancients, from beans,— + I’ve a guess what Pythagoras means + When he says that to eat them’s a crime,— + I have lectured upon the Essenes, + But—I am not in “Men of the Time!” + + I’ve a fancy as morbid as Poe’s, + I can tell what is meant by “Shebeens,” + I have breasted the river that flows + Through the land of the wild Gadarenes; + I can gossip with Burton on _skenes_, + I can imitate Irving (the Mime), + And my sketches are quainter than Keene’s, + But—I am not in “Men of the Time!” + + ENVOY. + + So the tower of mine eminence leans + Like the Pisan, and mud is its lime; + I’m acquainted with Dukes and with Deans, + But—I am not in “Men of the Time!” + + +BALLADE OF RAILWAY NOVELS. + + + LET others praise analysis + And revel in a “cultured” style, + And follow the subjective Miss {196} + From Boston to the banks of Nile, + Rejoice in anti-British bile, + And weep for fickle hero’s woe, + These twain have shortened many a mile, + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau. + + These damsels of “Democracy’s,” + How long they stop at every stile! + They smile, and we are told, I wis, + Ten subtle reasons _why_ they smile. + Give _me_ your villains deeply vile, + Give me Lecoq, Jottrat, and Co., + Great artists of the ruse and wile, + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau! + + Oh, novel readers, tell me this, + Can prose that’s polished by the file, + Like great Boisgobey’s mysteries, + Wet days and weary ways beguile, + And man to living reconcile, + Like these whose every trick we know? + The agony how high they pile, + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau! + + ENVOY. + + Ah, friend, how many and many a while + They’ve made the slow time fleetly flow, + And solaced pain and charmed exile, + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau. + + +THE CLOUD CHORUS. + + + (FROM ARISTOPHANES.) + + _Socrates speaks_. + + HITHER, come hither, ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves here; + Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow, + Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens clear, + Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile’s overflow, + Or whether you dwell by Mæotis mere + Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear! + And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go. + + _The Clouds sing_. + + Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore + Of the father of streams, from the sounding sea, + Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar. + Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we! + Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest, + On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice, + On the waters that murmur east and west + On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice, + For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air, + And the bright rays gleam; + Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare + In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere + From the height of the heaven, on the land and air, + And the Ocean stream. + + Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain, + Let us gaze on Pallas’ citadel, + In the country of Cecrops, fair and dear + The mystic land of the holy cell, + Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell, + And the gifts of the Gods that know not stain + And a people of mortals that know not fear. + For the temples tall, and the statues fair, + And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there, + The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers + And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring, + And the musical voices that fill the hours, + And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing! + + +BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME. + + + “All these for Fourpence.” + + OH, where are the endless Romances + Our grandmothers used to adore? + The Knights with their helms and their lances, + Their shields and the favours they wore? + And the Monks with their magical lore? + They have passed to Oblivion and _Nox_, + They have fled to the shadowy shore,— + They are all in the Fourpenny Box! + + And where the poetical fancies + Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? + The lyric’s melodious expanses, + The Epics in cantos a score? + They have been and are not: no more + Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, + Nor the ladies their languors deplore,— + They are all in the Fourpenny Box! + + And the Music! The songs and the dances? + The tunes that Time may not restore? + And the tomes where Divinity prances? + And the pamphlets where Heretics roar? + They have ceased to be even a bore,— + The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,— + They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,— + They are all in the Fourpenny Box! + + ENVOY. + + Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, + On the chest without cover or locks, + Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,— + They are _all_ in the Fourpenny Box! + + +Νήνεμος Αἰών. + + + I WOULD my days had been in other times, + A moment in the long unnumbered years + That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk, + In peaceful lands that border on the Nile. + + I would my days had been in other times, + Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn + Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade + And shelter of the cool Himâlayan hills. + + I would my days had been in other times, + That I in some old abbey of Touraine + Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life, + Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais! + + I would my days had been in other times, + When quiet life to death not terrible + Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead + Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea! + + + +SCIENCE. + + +THE BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS: A SAVAGE PARABASIS. + + +In the _Aves_ of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare that they are +older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of men. This idea recurs in +almost all savage mythologies, and I have made the savage Bird-gods state +their own case. + + _The Birds sing_: + + WE would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked + on the spit, and are baked in the pan, + Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and made + war ere the making of Man! + For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the world + like a barque without rudder or sail + Floated on through the night, ’twas a Bird struck a light, ’twas a + flash from the bright feather’d Tonatiu’s {207} tail! + Then the Hawk {208a} with some dry wood flew up in the sky, and afar, + safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon, + And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they recked not + of care that should come on them soon. + For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, {208b} and + a-musing he fell at the close of the day; + Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some bark of + the best, and a clawful of clay. {208c} + And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without feathers + (his game was a puzzle to all); + Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, lastly, he + uttered a magical call: + Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped up, who + but they, and embracing they fell, + And _this_ was the baking of Man, and his making; but now he’s + forsaking his Father, Pundjel! + Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to crown + their desire who was found but the Wren? + To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for this + has a name in the memory of men! {209a} + And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it + through without falter or fail? + Why the Hawk ’twas again, and great Indra to men would appear, now and + then, in the shape of a Quail, + While the Thlinkeet’s delight is the Bird of the Night, the beak and + the bright ebon plumage of Yehl. {209b} + And who for man’s need brought the famed Suttung’s mead? why ’tis told + in the creed of the Sagamen strong, + ’Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from the blue, and gave + mortals the brew that’s the fountain of song. {210a} + Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young + brave overawes when in need of a squaw, + Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct you + blame if he thus breaks the law? + For you still hold it wrong if a _lubra_ {210b} belong to the + self-same _kobong_ {210c} that is Father of you, + To take _her_ as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give her a wide + berth; quite right of you, too. + For _her_ father, you know, is _your_ father, the Crow, and no + blessing but woe from the wedding would spring. + Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and were + strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. {210d} + Thus on Earth’s little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your + gratitude’s small for the favours they’ve done, + And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you + plunder and kill the bright birds one by one; + There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and the Moa has + fled from the sight of the sun! + + +MAN AND THE ASCIDIAN. + + + A MORALITY. + + “THE Ancestor remote of Man,” + Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,” + A scanty sort of water-beast + That, ninety million years at least + Before Gorillas came to be, + Went swimming up and down the sea. + + Their ancestors the pious praise, + And like to imitate their ways; + How, then, does our first parent live, + What lesson has his life to give? + + Th’ Ascidian tadpole, young and gay, + Doth Life with one bright eye survey, + His consciousness has easy play. + He’s sensitive to grief and pain, + Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain, + And everything that fits the state + Of creatures we call vertebrate. + But age comes on; with sudden shock + He sticks his head against a rock! + His tail drops off, his eye drops in, + His brain’s absorbed into his skin; + He does not move, nor feel, nor know + The tidal water’s ebb and flow, + But still abides, unstirred, alone, + A sucker sticking to a stone. + + And we, his children, truly we + In youth are, like the Tadpole, free. + And where we would we blithely go, + Have brains and hearts, and feel and know. + Then Age comes on! To Habit we + Affix ourselves and are not free; + Th’ Ascidian’s rooted to a rock, + And we are bond-slaves of the clock; + Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law, + From these our heads we cannot draw: + Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in, + And daily thicker grows our skin. + + Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know + The wide world’s moving ebb and flow, + The clanging currents ring and shock, + But we are rooted to the rock. + And thus at ending of his span, + Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man + Revert to the Ascidian. + + +BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST. + + + “What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at before the tall blonde + Aryan drove him into the corners of Europe?”—_Brander Matthews_. + + I AM an ancient Jest! + Palæolithic man + In his arboreal nest + The sparks of fun would fan; + My outline did he plan, + And laughed like one possessed, + ’Twas thus my course began, + I am a Merry Jest! + + I am an early Jest! + Man delved, and built, and span; + Then wandered South and West + The peoples Aryan, + _I_ journeyed in their van; + The Semites, too, confessed,— + From Beersheba to Dan,— + I am a Merry Jest! + + I am an ancient Jest, + Through all the human clan, + Red, black, white, free, oppressed, + Hilarious I ran! + I’m found in Lucian, + In Poggio, and the rest, + I’m dear to Moll and Nan! + I am a Merry Jest! + + ENVOY. + + Prince, you may storm and ban— + Joe Millers _are_ a pest, + Suppress me if you can! + I am a Merry Jest! + + + +CAMEOS. +_SONNETS FROM THE ANTIQUE_. + + +These versions from classical passages are pretty close to the original, +except where compression was needed, as in the sonnets from Pausanias and +Apuleius, or where, as in the case of fragments of Æschylus and +Sophocles, a little expansion was required. + + +CAMEOS. + + + _THE graver by Apollo’s shrine_, + _Before the Gods had fled_, _would stand_, + _A shell or onyx in his hand_, + _To copy there the face divine_, + _Till earnest touches_, _line by line_, + _Had wrought the wonder of the land_ + _Within a beryl’s golden band_, + _Or on some fiery opal fine_. + _Ah_! _would that as some ancient ring_ + _To us_, _on shell or stone_, _doth bring_, + _Art’s marvels perished long ago_, + _So I_, _within the sonnet’s space_, + _The large Hellenic lines might trace_, + _The statue in the cameo_! + + +HELEN ON THE WALLS. + + + (_Iliad_, iii. 146.) + + FAIR Helen to the Scæan portals came, + Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus, + Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus, + And many another of a noble name, + Famed warriors, now in council more of fame. + Always above the gates, in converse thus + They chattered like cicalas garrulous; + Who marking Helen, swore “it is no shame + That armed Achæan knights, and Ilian men + For such a woman’s sake should suffer long. + Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she. + Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again + Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong + To us, and children’s children yet to be.” + + +THE ISLES OF THE BLESSED. + + + _Pindar_, _Fr._, 106, 107 (95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132. + + NOW the light of the sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls of + the True + Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where reigneth the + rose; + And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits o’er them + and through + Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where the + frankincense blows: + Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it glows, + And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the pleasures on Earth + that they knew, + And in chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy + those, + And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and rises anew. + + But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from ancient pollution and + stain, + These at the end of the age, be they prince, be they singer, or + seer; + These to the world shall be born as of old, shall be sages again; + These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and shall die, and + shall hear + Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them + amain, + And their glory shall dwell in the land where they dwelt, while + year calls unto year! + + +DEATH. + + + (_Æsch._, _Fr._, 156.) + + OF all Gods Death alone + Disdaineth sacrifice: + No man hath found or shown + The gift that Death would prize. + In vain are songs or sighs, + Pæan, or praise, or moan, + Alone beneath the skies + Hath Death no altar-stone! + + There is no head so dear + That men would grudge to Death; + Let Death but ask, we give + All gifts that we may live; + But though Death dwells so near, + We know not what he saith. + + +NYSA. + + + (_Soph._, _Fr._, 235; _Æsch._, _Fr._, 56.) + + ON these Nysæan shores divine + The clusters ripen in a day. + At dawn the blossom shreds away; + The berried grapes are green and fine + And full by noon; in day’s decline + They’re purple with a bloom of grey, + And e’er the twilight plucked are they, + And crushed, by nightfall, into wine. + + But through the night with torch in hand + Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare; + The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare, + The muffled timbrels swell and sound, + And drown the clamour of the band + Like thunder moaning underground. + + +COLONUS. + + + (_Œd. Col._, 667–705.) + + I. + + HERE be the fairest homes the land can show, + The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here + The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear, + For well the deep green gardens doth she know. + Groves of the God, where winds may never blow, + Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer + Among the myriad-berried ivy dear, + Where Dionysus wanders to and fro. + + For here he loves to dwell, and here resort + These Nymphs that are his nurses and his court, + And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs + The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair + Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair, + Demeter, and to wreathe the Maiden’s brows! + + II. + + YEA, here the dew of Heaven upon the grain + Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring, + Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering, + That day by day revisiteth the plain. + Nor do the Goddesses the grove disdain, + But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing, + And here they love to weave their dancing ring, + With Aphrodite of the golden rein. + + And here there springs a plant that knoweth not + The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle, + Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot + It dwells, the grey-leaved olive; ne’er shall guile + Nor force of foemen root it from the spot: + Zeus and Athene guarding it the while! + + +THE PASSING OF ŒDIPOUS. + + + (_Œd. Col._, 1655–1666.) + + HOW Œdipous departed, who may tell + Save Theseus only? for there neither came + The burning bolt of thunder, and the flame + To blast him into nothing, nor the swell + Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell. + But some diviner herald none may name + Called him, or inmost Earth’s abyss became + The painless place where such a soul might dwell. + + Howe’er it chanced, untouched of malady, + Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament, + With comfort on the twilight way he went, + Passing, if ever man did, wondrously; + From this world’s death to life divinely rent, + Unschooled in Time’s last lesson, how we die. + + +THE TAMING OF TYRO. + + + (_Soph._, _Fr._, 587.) + +(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus, cruelly entreated +her in all things, and chiefly in this, that she let sheer her beautiful +hair.) + + AT fierce Sidero’s word the thralls drew near, + And shore the locks of Tyro,—like ripe corn + They fell in golden harvest,—but forlorn + The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear, + Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn + Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer, + And drive her where, within the waters clear, + She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn. + + Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart + Who marking that wild thing made weak and tame, + Broken, and grieving for her glory gone, + Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart + Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came + And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone! + + +TO ARTEMIS. + + + (_Hippol._, _Eurip._, 73–87.) + + FOR thee soft crowns in thine untrampled mead + I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear; + Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed, + Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there; + Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair + The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed + Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead + About the grassy close that is her care! + + Souls only that are gracious and serene + By gift of God, in human lore unread, + May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green + That now I wreathe for thine immortal head, + I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen, + And by thy whispered voice am comforted. + + +CRITICISM OF LIFE. + + + (_Hippol._, _Eurip._, 252–266.) + + LONG life hath taught me many things, and shown + That lukewarm loves for men who die are best, + Weak wine of liking let them mix alone, + Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast; + Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest, + Now cherished, now away at random thrown! + Grievous it is for other’s grief to moan, + Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest! + + Wise ruling this of life: but yet again + Perchance too rigid diet is not well; + He lives not best who dreads the coming pain + And shunneth each delight desirable: + _Flee thou extremes_, this word alone is plain, + Of all that God hath given to Man to spell! + + +AMARYLLIS. + + + (Theocritus, Idyll, iii.) + + FAIR Amaryllis, wilt thou never peep + From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine? + Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep, + These didst thou long for, and all these are thine. + Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep + Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine; + To watch thee waken, Love, and watch thee sleep, + Within thy grot below the shadowy pine. + Now know I Love, a cruel god is he, + The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear; + And truly to the bone he burneth me. + But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne’er a tear, + Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee; + Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear. + + +THE CANNIBAL ZEUS. + + + A.D. 160. + + Καὶ ἔθυσε τὸ βρέφος, καὶ ἔσπεισεν ἐπὶ τοῦ βωμοῦ τὸ αἶμα—έπὶ τούτου + βωμοῦ τῷ Δὺ θύoυσιν ἐv ἀπoῤῥήτῳ.—_Paus._ viii. 38. + + NONE elder city doth the Sun behold + Than ancient Lycosura; ’twas begun + Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun, + And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold + The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: ’tis told + That whoso fares within that forest dun + Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the Sun, + Ay, and within the year his life is cold! + + Hard by dwelt he {232} who, while the Gods deigned eat + At good men’s tables, gave them dreadful meat, + A child he slew:—his mountain altar green + Here still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me, + Piteous, but as they are let these things be, + And as from the beginning they have been! + + +INVOCATION OF ISIS. + + + (_Apuleius_, _Metamorph. XI._) + + THOU that art sandalled on immortal feet + With leaves of palm, the prize of Victory; + Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet, + Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky, + I pray thee by all names men name thee by! + Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat! + Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh! + Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet! + + Or, yet more dread, divine Persephone + From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near; + Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea; + Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer: + By all thy names and rites I summon thee; + By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear! + + +THE COMING OF ISIS. + + + SO Lucius prayed, and sudden, from afar, + Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright + Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star; + She came in deep blue raiment of the night, + Above her robes that now were snowy white, + Now golden as the moons of harvest are, + Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bar, + Now stained with all the lustre of the light. + + Then he who saw her knew her, and he knew + The awful symbols borne in either hand; + The golden urn that laves Demeter’s dew, + The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand; + The shaken seistron’s music, tinkling through + The temples of that old Osirian land. + + + +THE SPINET. + + + _MY heart’s an old Spinet with strings_ + _To laughter chiefly tuned_, _but some_ + _That Fate has practised hard on_, _dumb_, + _They answer not whoever sings_. + _The ghosts of half-forgotten things_ + _Will touch the keys with fingers numb_, + _The little mocking spirits come_ + _And thrill it with their fairy wings_. + + _A jingling harmony it makes_ + _My heart_, _my lyre_, _my old Spinet_, + _And now a memory it wakes_, + _And now the music means_ “_forget_,” + _And little heed the player takes_ + _Howe’er the thoughtful critic fret_. + + + + +NOTES. + + +Page 127. _The Fortunate Islands_. This piece is a rhymed loose version +of a passage in the _Vera Historia_ of Lucian. The humorist was unable +to resist the temptation to introduce passages of mockery, which are here +omitted. Part of his description of the Isles of the Blest has a close +and singular resemblance to the New Jerusalem of the Apocalypse. The +clear River of Life and the prodigality of gold and of precious stones +may especially be noticed. + +Page 133. _Whoso doth taste the Dead Men’s bread_, _&c._ This belief +that the living may visit, on occasion, the dwellings of the dead, but +can never return to earth if they taste the food of the departed, is +expressed in myths of worldwide distribution. Because she ate the +pomegranate seed, Persephone became subject to the spell of Hades. In +Apuleius, Psyche, when she visits the place of souls, is advised to +abstain from food. Kohl found the myth among the Ojibbeways, Mr. +Codrington among the Solomon Islanders; it occurs in Samoa, in the +Finnish Kalewala (where Wainamoinen, in Pohjola, refrains from touching +meat or drink), and the belief has left its mark on the mediæval ballad +of Thomas of Ercildoune. When he is in Fairy Land, the Fairy Queen +supplies him with the bread and wine of earth, and will not suffer him to +touch the fruits which grow “in this countrie.” See also “Wandering +Willie” in _Redgauntlet_. + +Page 152. _The latest minstrel_. “The sound of all others dearest to +his ear, the gentle ripple of Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly +audible as we knelt around the bed and his eldest son kissed and closed +his eyes.”—Lockhart’s _Life of Scott_, vii., 394. + +Page 161. _Ronsard’s Grave_. This version ventures to condense the +original which, like most of the works of the Pleiad, is unnecessarily +long. + +Page 162. _The snow_, _and wind_, _and hail_. Ronsard’s rendering of +the famous passage in Odyssey, vi., about the dwellings of the Olympians. +The vision of a Paradise of learned lovers and poets constantly recurs in +the poetry of Joachim du Bellay, and of Ronsard. + +Page 166. _Romance_. Suggested by a passage in _La Faustin_, by M. E. +de Goncourt, a curious moment of poetry in a repulsive piece of +_naturalisme_. + +Page 171. _M. Boulmier_, author of _Les Villanelles_, died shortly after +this _villanelle_ was written; he had not published a larger collection +on which he had been at work. + +Page 177. _Edmund Gorliot_. The bibliophile will not easily procure +Gorliot’s book, which is not in the catalogues. Throughout _The Last +Maying_ there is reference to the _Pervigilium Veneris_. + +Page 207. _Bird-Gods_. Apparently Aristophanes preserved, in a +burlesque form, the remnants of a genuine myth. Almost all savage +religions have their bird-gods, and it is probable that Aristophanes did +not invent, but only used a surviving myth of which there are scarcely +any other traces in Greek literature. + +Page 236. _Spinet_. The accent is on the last foot, even when the word +is written _spinnet_. Compare the remarkable Liberty which Pamela took +with the 137th Psalm. + + _My Joys and Hopes all overthrown_, + _My Heartstrings almost broke_, + _Unfit my Mind for Melody_, + _Much more to bear a Joke_. + _But yet_, _if from my Innocence_ + _I_, _even in Thought_, _should slide_, + _Then_, _let my fingers quite forget_ + _The sweet Spinnet to guide_! + + _Pamela_, _or Virtue Rewarded_, vol. i., + p. 184., 1785. + + * * * * * + + Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & Co. + + Edinburgh London + + * * * * * + + + + +FOOTNOTES. + + +{35} Cf. “Suggestions for Academic Reorganization.” + +{46} The last three stanzas are by an eminent Anthropologist. + +{48} Thomas of Ercildoune. + +{66} A knavish publisher. + + {88} Vous y verrez, belle Julie, + Que ce chapeau tout maltraité + Fut, dans un instant de folie, + Par les Grâces même inventé. + + ‘À Julie.’ _Essais en Prose et en Vers_, par Joseph Lisle; Paris. + An. V. de la République. + +{108} “I have broken many a pane of glass marked Cruel Parthenissa,” +says the aunt of Sophia Western in _Tom Jones_. + +{194} N.B. There is only one veracious statement in this ballade, which +must not be accepted as autobiographical. + +{196} These lines do _not_ apply to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller, and +her delightful sisters, _Gades adituræ mecum_, in the pocket edition of +Mr. James’s novels, if ever I go to Gades. + +{207} Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well known to the Dacotahs and Zulus. + +{208a} The Hawk, in the myth of the Galinameros of Central California, +lit up the Sun. + +{208b} Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the demiurge and “culture-hero” of +several Australian tribes. + +{208c} The Creation of Man is thus described by the Australians. + +{209a} In Andaman, Thlinkeet, Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is +the Prometheus Purphoros; in Normandy this part is played by the Wren. + +{209b} Yehl: the Raven God of the Thlinkeets. + +{210a} Indra stole Soma as a Hawk and as a Quail. For Odin’s feat as a +Bird, see _Bragi’s Telling_ in the Younger Edda. + +{210b} Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave Australians their marriage laws. + +{210c} _Lubra_, a woman; kobong, “totem;” or, to please Mr. Max Müller, +“otem.” + +{210d} The Crow was the Hawk’s rival. + +{232} Lycaon, the first werewolf. + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADES & RHYMES*** + + +******* This file should be named 3138-0.txt or 3138-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/1/3/3138 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of +the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have +to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. + + + + +Title: Ballades & Rhymes + from Ballades in Blue China and Rhymes a la Mode + + +Author: Andrew Lang + + + +Release Date: February 9, 2016 [eBook #3138] +[This file was first posted on December 29, 2000] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADES & RHYMES*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1911 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= +"Cover and spine" +title= +"Cover and spine" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Man playing at harpsichord" +title= +"Man playing at harpsichord" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>BALLADES & RHYMES</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Ballades in Blue +China</i><br /> +<i>and Rhymes à la Mode</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +A. LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“<i>Hom</i>, +<i>c’est une ballade</i>!”—<span +class="smcap">Vadius</span>.</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA</span><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall">1911</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">All rights reserved</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span>“<i>Rondeaux</i>, <span +class="smcap">Ballades</span>,<br /> +<i>Chansons dizains</i>, <i>propos menus</i>,<br /> +<i>Compte moy qu’ilz sont devenuz</i>:<br /> +<i>Se faict il plus rien de nouveau</i>?”</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Clement Marot</span>, <i>Dialogue de deux +Amoureux</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>“I love a ballad but even too well; if it be +doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing +indeed, and sung lamentably.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>A Winter’s Tale</i>, Act +iv. sc. 3.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">BALLADES IN BLUE +CHINA.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Theocritus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Cleopatra’s Needle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Roulette</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Sleep</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Midnight Forest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Tweed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Book-hunter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Voyage to Cythera</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Summer Term</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Muse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade against the Jesuits</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Dead Cities</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Double Ballade of Primitive Man</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Autumn</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of True Wisdom</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Worldly Wealth</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>Ballade of Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Blue China</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Dead Ladies</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Villon’s Ballade of Good Counsel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Bookworm</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Valentine in form of Ballade</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Old Plays</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of his Books</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Dream</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Southern Cross</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Aucassin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade Amoureuse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Queen Anne</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Blind Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Dizain</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">VERSES AND +TRANSLATIONS.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Portrait of 1783</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Moon’s Minion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page90">90</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>In Ithaca</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page92">92</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Homer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Burial of Molière</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Bion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Spring</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page96">96</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>Before the Snow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Natural Theology</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Odyssey</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ideal</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Fairy’s Gift</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Benedetta Ramus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Partant pour la Scribie</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>St. Andrews Bay</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Woman and the Weed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">RHYMES À LA +MODE</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ballade Dedicatory</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Fortunate Islands</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Almae Matres</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Desiderium</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rhymes à la Mode</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Middle Age</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Last Cast</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Twilight</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page153">153</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Summer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Christmas Ghosts</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Love’s Easter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of the Girton Girl</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>Ronsard’s Grave</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> San Terenzo</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of his own Country</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Triolets after Moschus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Cricket</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Last Maying</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Homeric Unity</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page181">181</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> In Tintagel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page182">182</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Pisidicê</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> From the East to the West</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Love the Vampire</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of the Book-man’s +Paradise</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page190">190</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of a Friar</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page192">192</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Neglected Merit</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Railway Novels</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page196">196</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Cloud Chorus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page198">198</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Literary Fame</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page201">201</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><p> Νήνεμος +Αἰών</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page203">203</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Science</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Barbarous Bird-Gods</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Man and the Ascidian</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page212">212</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of the Primitive Jest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page215">215</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span><span class="smcap">Cameos</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Cameos</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Helen on the Walls</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Isles of the Blessed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Nysa</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page224">224</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Colonus (I.)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> ,, (II.)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Passing of Œdipous</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Taming of Tyro</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Artemis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Criticism of Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Amaryllis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page231">231</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Cannibal Zeus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Invocation of Isis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page234">234</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Coming of Isis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spinet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Notes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Thirty</span> years have passed, like a +watch in the night, since the earlier of the two sets of verses +here reprinted, <i>Ballades in Blue China</i>, was +published. At first there were but twenty-two +<i>Ballades</i>; ten more were added later. They appeared +in a little white vellum wrapper, with a little blue Chinese +singer copied from a porcelain jar; and the frontispiece was a +little design by an etcher now famous.</p> +<p>Thirty years ago blue china was a kind of fetish in some +circles, æsthetic circles, of which the balladist was not a +member.</p> +<p>The <i>ballade</i> was an old French form of verse, in France +revived by Théodore de Banville, and restored to an +England which had long forgotten the Middle Ages, by my friends +Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Edmund Gosse. They, so far as I +can trust my memory, were the first to reintroduce these pleasant +old French <a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +2</span><i>nugae</i>, while an anonymous author let loose upon +the town a whole winged flock of <i>ballades</i> of amazing +dexterity. This unknown balladist was Mr. Henley; perhaps +he was the first Englishman who ever burst into a <i>double +ballade</i>, and his translations of two of Villon’s +ballades into modern thieves’ slang were marvels of +dexterity. Mr. Swinburne wrote a serious <i>ballade</i>, +but the form, I venture to think, is not ‘wholly +serious,’ of its nature, in modern days; and he did not +persevere. Nor did the taste for these trifles long +endure. A good <i>ballade</i> is almost as rare as a good +sonnet, but a middling <i>ballade</i> is almost as easily written +as the majority of sonnets. Either form readily becomes +mechanical, cheap and facile. I have heard Mr. George +Meredith improvise a sonnet, a Petrarchian sonnet, obedient to +the rules, without pen and paper. He spoke ‘and the +numbers came’; he sonneted as easily as a living poet, in +his Eton days, improvised Latin elegiacs and Greek +hexameters.</p> +<p>The sonnet endures. Mr. Horace Hutchinson wrote +somewhere: “When you have read a sonnet, you feel that +though there does not seem to be much of it, you have done a good +<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>deal, as +when you have eaten a cold hard-boiled egg.” Still +people keep on writing sonnets, because the sonnet is wholly +serious. In an English sonnet you cannot easily be flippant +of pen. A few great poets have written immortal +sonnets—among them are Milton, Wordsworth, and Keats. +Thus the sonnet is a thing which every poet thinks it worth while +to try at; like Felix Arvers, he may be made immortal by a single +sonnet. Even I have written one too many! Every +anthologist wants to anthologise it (<i>The Odyssey</i>); it +never was a favourite of my own, though it had the honour to be +kindly spoken of by Mr. Matthew Arnold.</p> +<p>On the other hand, no man since François Villon has +been immortalised by a single ballade—<i>Mais où +sont les neiges d’antan</i>?</p> +<p>To speak in any detail about these poor ballades would be to +indite a part of an autobiography. Looking back at the +little book, ‘what memories it stirs’ in one to +whom</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Fate has done this wrong,<br /> +That I should write too much and live too long.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span><i>The +Ballade of the Tweed</i>, and the <i>Rhymes à la Mode</i>, +were dedicated to the dearest of kinsmen, a cricketer and +angler. The <i>Ballade of Roulette</i> was inscribed to R. +R., a gallant veteran of the Indian Mutiny, a leader of Light +Horse, whose father was a friend of Sir Walter Scott. He +was himself a Borderer, in whose defeats on the green field of +Roulette I often shared, long, long ago.</p> +<p>So many have gone ‘into the world of light’ that +it is a happiness to think of him to whom <i>The Ballade of +Golf</i> was dedicated, and to remember that he is still capable +of scoring his double century at cricket, and of lifting the ball +high over the trees beyond the boundaries of a great +cricket-field. Perhaps Mr. Leslie Balfour-Melville will +pardon me for mentioning his name, linked as it is with so many +common memories. ‘One is taken and another +left.’</p> +<p>A different sort of memory attaches itself to <i>A Ballade of +Dead Cities</i>. It was written in a Theocritean amoebean +way, in competition with Mr. Edmund Gosse; he need not be ashamed +of the circumstance, for another shepherd, who was umpire, +awarded the prize <a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>(two kids just severed from their dams) to his victorious +muse.</p> +<p>The <i>Ballade of the Midnight Forest</i>, the Ballade of the +Huntress Artemis, was translated from Théodore de +Banville, whose beautiful poem came so near the Greek, that when +the late Provost of Oriel translated a part of its English shadow +into Greek hexameters, you might suppose, as you read, that they +were part of a lost Homeric Hymn.</p> +<p>I never wrote a <i>double ballade</i>, and stanzas four and +five of the <i>Double Ballade of Primitive Man</i> were +contributed by the learned <i>doyen</i> of Anthropology, Mr. E. +B. Tylor, author of Primitive Culture.</p> +<p><i>À tout seigneur tout honneur</i>!</p> +<p>In <i>Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre</i>, the Windburg +is a hill in Teviotdale. <i>A Portrait of 1783</i> was +written on a French engraving after Morland, and <i>Benedetta +Ramus</i> was addressed to a mezzotint (an artist’s proof, +‘very rare’). It is after Romney and is +‘My Beauty,’ as Charles Lamb said (once, unluckily, +to a Scot) of an engraving, after Lionardo, of some fair dead +lady.</p> +<p>The sonnet, <i>Natural Theology</i>, is the germ of <a +name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>what the author +has since written, in <i>The Making of Religion</i>, on the long +neglected fact that many of the lowest savages known share the +belief in a benevolent All Father and Judge of men.</p> +<p>Concerning verses in <i>Rhymes à la Mode</i>, visitors +to St. Andrews may be warned not to visit St. Leonard’s +Chapel, described in the second stanza of <i>Almae +Matres</i>. In the writer’s youth, and even in middle +age,</p> +<blockquote><p>He loitered idly where the tall<br /> + Fresh-budded mountain-ashes blow<br /> +Within its desecrated wall.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The once beautiful ruins carpeted with grass and wild flowers +have been doubly desecrated by persons, academic persons, having +authority and a plentiful lack of taste. The slim +mountain-ashes, fair as the young palm-tree that Odysseus saw +beside the shrine of Apollo in Delos, have been cut down by the +academic persons to whom power is given. The grass and +flowers have been rooted up. Hideous little wooden fences +enclose the grave slabs: a roof of a massive kind has been dumped +down on the old walls, and the windows, once so graceful in their +airy <a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>lines, +have been glazed in a horrible manner, while the ugly iron gate +precludes entrance to a shrine which is now a black and dismal +dungeon.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Oh, be that roof as lead to lead<br /> +Above the dull Restorer’s head,<br /> +A Minstrel’s malison is said!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Notes explanatory are added to the Rhymes, and their +information, however valuable, need not here be repeated.</p> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>BALLADES +IN BLUE CHINA</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><i>Tout</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a><br /> +<i>par</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><i>Soullas</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span><i>A +BALLADE OF XXXII BALLADES</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>Friend</i>, <i>when you bear a care-dulled +eye</i>,<br /> +<i>And brow perplexed with things of weight</i>,<br /> +<i>And fain would bid some charm untie</i><br /> +<i>The bonds that hold you all too strait</i>,<br /> +<i>Behold a solace to your fate</i>,<br /> +<i>Wrapped in this cover’s china blue</i>;<br /> +<i>These ballades fresh and delicate</i>,<br /> +<i>This dainty troop of Thirty-two</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The mind</i>, <i>unwearied</i>, <i>longs to +fly</i><br /> +<i>And commune with the wise and great</i>;<br /> +<i>But that same ether</i>, <i>rare and high</i>,<br /> +<i>Which glorifies its worthy mate</i>,<br /> +<i>To breath forspent is disparate</i>:<br /> +<i>Laughing and light and airy-new</i><br /> +<i>These come to tickle the dull pate</i>,<br /> +<i>This dainty troop of Thirty-two</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span><i>Most welcome then</i>, <i>when you and I</i>,<br /> +<i>Forestalling days for mirth too late</i>,<br /> +<i>To quips and cranks and fantasy</i><br /> +<i>Some choice half-hour dedicate</i>,<br /> +<i>They weave their dance with measured rate</i><br /> +<i>Of rhymes enlinked in order due</i>,<br /> +<i>Till frowns relax and cares abate</i>,<br /> +<i>This dainty troop of Thirty-two</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Princes, of toys that please your state<br /> +Quainter are surely none to view<br /> +Than these which pass with tripping gait,<br /> +This dainty troop of Thirty-two.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">F. P.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span><span +class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +AUSTIN DOBSON.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><i>Un Livre est un +ami qui change</i>—<i>quelquefois</i>.<br /> +1880.<br /> +1888</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER.</h3> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: +center">ἐσορῶν τὰν +Σικελὰν ἐς +ἅλα.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Id. viii. 56.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar<br /> +Of London, and the bustling street,<br /> +For still, by the Sicilian shore,<br /> +The murmur of the Muse is sweet.<br /> +Still, still, the suns of summer greet<br /> +The mountain-grave of Helikê,<br /> +And shepherds still their songs repeat<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">What though they worship Pan no more,<br /> +That guarded once the shepherd’s seat,<br /> +They chatter of their rustic lore,<br /> +They watch the wind among the wheat:<br /> +<a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>Cicalas +chirp, the young lambs bleat,<br /> +Where whispers pine to cypress tree;<br /> +They count the waves that idly beat<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Theocritus! thou canst restore<br /> +The pleasant years, and over-fleet;<br /> +With thee we live as men of yore,<br /> +We rest where running waters meet:<br /> +And then we turn unwilling feet<br /> +And seek the world—so must it be—<br /> +<i>We</i> may not linger in the heat<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Master,—when rain, and snow, and sleet<br +/> +And northern winds are wild, to thee<br /> +We come, we rest in thy retreat,<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>BALLADE OF CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Ye giant shades of <span +class="smcap">Ra</span> and <span class="smcap">Tum</span>,<br /> +Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,<br /> +If murmurs of our planet come<br /> +To exiles in the precincts wan<br /> +Where, fetish or Olympian,<br /> +To help or harm no more ye list,<br /> +Look down, if look ye may, and scan<br /> +This monument in London mist!</p> +<p class="poetry">Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb<br /> +That once were read of him that ran<br /> +When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum<br /> +Wild music of the Bull began;<br /> +When through the chanting priestly clan<br /> +Walk’d Ramses, and the high sun kiss’d<br /> +This stone, with blessing scored and ban—<br /> +This monument in London mist.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>The stone endures though gods be numb;<br /> +Though human effort, plot, and plan<br /> +Be sifted, drifted, like the sum<br /> +Of sands in wastes Arabian.<br /> +What king may deem him more than man,<br /> +What priest says Faith can Time resist<br /> +While <i>this</i> endures to mark their span—<br /> +This monument in London mist?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, the stone’s shade on your +divan<br /> +Falls; it is longer than ye wist:<br /> +It preaches, as Time’s gnomon can,<br /> +This monument in London mist!</p> +<h3><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>BALLADE OF ROULETTE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO R. R.</p> +<p class="poetry">This life—one was thinking to-day,<br /> +In the midst of a medley of fancies—<br /> +Is a game, and the board where we play<br /> +Green earth with her poppies and pansies.<br /> +Let <i>manque</i> be faded romances,<br /> +Be <i>passe</i> remorse and regret;<br /> +Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lover will stake as he may<br /> +His heart on his Peggies and Nancies;<br /> +The girl has her beauty to lay;<br /> +The saint has his prayers and his trances;<br /> +The poet bets endless expanses<br /> +In Dreamland; the scamp has his debt:<br /> +How they gaze at the wheel as it glances—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>The Kaiser will stake his array<br /> +Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;<br /> +An Englishman punts with his pay,<br /> +And glory the <i>jeton</i> of France is;<br /> +Your artists, or Whistlers or Vances,<br /> +Have voices or colours to bet;<br /> +Will you moan that its motion askance is—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">The prize that the pleasure enhances?<br /> +The prize is—at last to forget<br /> +The changes, the chops, and the chances—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>BALLADE OF SLEEP.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The hours are passing slow,<br /> +I hear their weary tread<br /> +Clang from the tower, and go<br /> +Back to their kinsfolk dead.<br /> +Sleep! death’s twin brother dread!<br /> +Why dost thou scorn me so?<br /> +The wind’s voice overhead<br /> +Long wakeful here I know,<br /> +And music from the steep<br /> +Where waters fall and flow.<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?</p> +<p class="poetry">All sounds that might bestow<br /> +Rest on the fever’d bed,<br /> +All slumb’rous sounds and low<br /> +Are mingled here and wed,<br /> +And bring no drowsihed.<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>Shy dreams +flit to and fro<br /> +With shadowy hair dispread;<br /> +With wistful eyes that glow,<br /> +And silent robes that sweep.<br /> +Thou wilt not hear me; no?<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?</p> +<p class="poetry">What cause hast thou to show<br /> +Of sacrifice unsped?<br /> +Of all thy slaves below<br /> +I most have labourèd<br /> +With service sung and said;<br /> +Have cull’d such buds as blow,<br /> +Soft poppies white and red,<br /> +Where thy still gardens grow,<br /> +And Lethe’s waters weep.<br /> +Why, then, art thou my foe?<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, ere the dark be shred<br /> +By golden shafts, ere low<br /> +<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>And long +the shadows creep:<br /> +Lord of the wand of lead,<br /> +Soft-footed as the snow,<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!</p> +<h3><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER THÉODORE DE +BANVILLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,<br +/> +Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;<br /> +The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,<br /> +And wolves still dread Diana roaming free<br /> +In secret woodland with her company.<br /> +’Tis thought the peasants’ hovels know her rite<br /> +When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,<br /> +And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,<br /> +Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold<br /> +The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee,<br /> +Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold<br /> +Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,<br /> +The wild red dwarf, the nixies’ enemy;<br /> +Then ’mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright,<br /> +The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white,<br /> +With one long sigh for summers pass’d away;<br /> +The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<p class="poetry">She gleans her silvan trophies; down the +wold<br /> +She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee<br /> +Mixed with the music of the hunting roll’d,<br /> +But her delight is all in archery,<br /> +And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she<br /> +More than her hounds that follow on the flight;<br /> +The goddess draws a golden bow of might<br /> +And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.<br /> +She tosses loose her locks upon the night,<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the +spite,<br /> +The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight:<br /> +Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray<br /> +There is the mystic home of our delight,<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<h3><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>BALLADE OF THE TWEED.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(LOWLAND SCOTCH.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">TO T. W. LANG.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe,<br /> +A weary cry frae ony toun;<br /> +The Spey, that loups o’er linn and fa’,<br /> +They praise a’ ither streams aboon;<br /> +They boast their braes o’ bonny Doon:<br /> +Gie <i>me</i> to hear the ringing reel,<br /> +Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon<br /> +By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and +a’,<br /> +Where trout swim thick in May and June;<br /> +Ye’ll see them take in showers o’ snaw<br /> +Some blinking, cauldrife April noon:<br /> +Rax ower the palmer and march-broun,<br /> +And syne we’ll show a bonny creel,<br /> +In spring or simmer, late or soon,<br /> +By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>There’s mony a water, great or sma’,<br /> +Gaes singing in his siller tune,<br /> +Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw,<br /> +Beneath the sun-licht or the moon:<br /> +But set us in our fishing-shoon<br /> +Between the Caddon-burn and Peel,<br /> +And syne we’ll cross the heather broun<br /> +By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Deil take the dirty, trading loon<br /> +Wad gar the water ca’ his wheel,<br /> +And drift his dyes and poisons doun<br /> +By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!</p> +<h3><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER.</h3> +<p class="poetry">In torrid heats of late July,<br /> +In March, beneath the bitter <i>bise</i>,<br /> +He book-hunts while the loungers fly,—<br /> +He book-hunts, though December freeze;<br /> +In breeches baggy at the knees,<br /> +And heedless of the public jeers,<br /> +For these, for these, he hoards his fees,—<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.</p> +<p class="poetry">No dismal stall escapes his eye,<br /> +He turns o’er tomes of low degrees,<br /> +There soiled romanticists may lie,<br /> +Or Restoration comedies;<br /> +Each tract that flutters in the breeze<br /> +For him is charged with hopes and fears,<br /> +In mouldy novels fancy sees<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>With restless eyes that peer and spy,<br /> +Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,<br /> +In dismal nooks he loves to pry,<br /> +Whose motto evermore is <i>Spes</i>!<br /> +But ah! the fabled treasure flees;<br /> +Grown rarer with the fleeting years,<br /> +In rich men’s shelves they take their ease,—<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, all the things that tease and +please,—<br /> +Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears,<br /> +What are they but such toys as these—<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?</p> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER THÉODORE DE +BANVILLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">I know Cythera long is desolate;<br /> +I know the winds have stripp’d the gardens green.<br /> +Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun’s weight<br /> +A barren reef lies where Love’s flowers have been,<br /> +Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!<br /> +So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,<br /> +To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,<br /> +To wander where Love’s labyrinths beguile;<br /> +There let us land, there dream for evermore:<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate,<br /> +If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene<br /> +We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate<br /> +Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.<br /> +Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen<br /> +That veils the fairy coast we would explore.<br /> +Come, though the sea be vex’d, and breakers roar,<br /> +Come, for the air of this old world is vile,<br /> +Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate<br /> +Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen,<br /> +And ruined is the palace of our state;<br /> +But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen<br /> +The shrill wind sings the silken cords between.<br /> +Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore,<br /> +Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar,<br /> +Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile;<br /> +Love’s panthers sleep ’mid roses, as of yore:<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page33"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 33</span>ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as +heretofore.<br /> +Ah, singing birds your happy music pour!<br /> +Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile;<br /> +Flit to these ancient gods we still adore:<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle!”</p> +<h3><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Being a Petition</i>, <i>in the +form of a Ballade</i>, <i>praying the University Commissioners to +spare the Summer Term</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry">When Lent and Responsions are ended,<br /> +When May with fritillaries waits,<br /> +When the flower of the chestnut is splendid,<br /> +When drags are at all of the gates<br /> +(Those drags the philosopher “slates”<br /> +With a scorn that is truly sublime), <a name="citation35"></a><a +href="#footnote35" class="citation">[35]</a><br /> +Life wins from the grasp of the Fates<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<p class="poetry">When wickets are bowl’d and defended,<br +/> +When Isis is glad with “the Eights,”<br /> +When music and sunset are blended,<br /> +When Youth and the summer are mates,<br /> +<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>When +Freshmen are heedless of “Greats,”<br /> +And when note-books are cover’d with rhyme,<br /> +Ah, these are the hours that one rates—<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<p class="poetry">When the brow of the Dean is unbended<br /> +At luncheons and mild tête-à-têtes,<br /> +When the Tutor’s in love, nor offended<br /> +By blunders in tenses or dates;<br /> +When bouquets are purchased of Bates,<br /> +When the bells in their melody chime,<br /> +When unheeded the Lecturer prates—<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Reformers of Schools and of States,<br /> +Is mirth so tremendous a crime?<br /> +Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates—<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<h3><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>BALLADE OF THE MUSE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Quem tu</i>, <i>Melpomene</i>, +<i>semel</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">The man whom once, Melpomene,<br /> +Thou look’st on with benignant sight,<br /> +Shall never at the Isthmus be<br /> +A boxer eminent in fight,<br /> +Nor fares he foremost in the flight<br /> +Of Grecian cars to victory,<br /> +Nor goes with Delian laurels dight,<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!</p> +<p class="poetry">Not him the Capitol shall see,<br /> +As who hath crush’d the threats and might<br /> +Of monarchs, march triumphantly;<br /> +But Fame shall crown him, in his right<br /> +Of all the Roman lyre that smite<br /> +The first; so woods of Tivoli<br /> +Proclaim him, so her waters bright,<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>The sons of queenly Rome count <i>me</i>,<br /> +Me too, with them whose chants delight,—<br /> +The poets’ kindly company;<br /> +Now broken is the tooth of spite,<br /> +But thou, that temperest aright<br /> +The golden lyre, all, all to thee<br /> +He owes—life, fame, and fortune’s height—<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Queen, that to mute lips could’st +unite<br /> +The wild swan’s dying melody!<br /> +Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite—<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene?</p> +<h3><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER LA FONTAINE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rome does right well to censure all the vain<br +/> +Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach<br /> +That earthly joys are damnable! ’Tis plain<br /> +We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach;<br /> +No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one and all;<br /> +The narrow path’s a dream fantastical,<br /> +And Arnauld’s quite superfluously driven<br /> +Mirth from the world. We’ll scale the heavenly +wall,<br /> +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not hold a man may well be slain<br /> +Who vexes with unseasonable speech,<br /> +You <i>may</i> do murder for five ducats gain,<br /> +<i>Not</i> for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach;<br /> +He ventures (most consistently) to teach<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>That there +are certain cases that befall<br /> +When perjury need no good man appal,<br /> +And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven.<br /> +Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl,<br /> +“Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“For God’s sake read me somewhat in +the strain<br /> +Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!”<br /> +Why should I name them all? a mighty train—<br /> +So many, none may know the name of each.<br /> +Make these your compass to the heavenly beach,<br /> +These only in your library instal:<br /> +Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small,<br /> +Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven;<br /> +I tell you, and the common voice doth call,<br /> +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Satan</i>, that pride did hurry to thy +fall,<br /> +Thou porter of the grim infernal hall—<br /> +Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven!<br /> +To shun thy shafts, to ‘scape thy hellish thrall,<br /> +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO E. W. GOSSE.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dust of Carthage and the dust<br /> +Of Babel on the desert wold,<br /> +The loves of Corinth, and the lust,<br /> +Orchomenos increased with gold;<br /> +The town of Jason, over-bold,<br /> +And Cherson, smitten in her prime—<br /> +What are they but a dream half-told?<br /> +Where are the cities of old time?</p> +<p class="poetry">In towns that were a kingdom’s trust,<br +/> +In dim Atlantic forests’ fold,<br /> +The marble wasteth to a crust,<br /> +The granite crumbles into mould;<br /> +O’er these—left nameless from of old—<br /> +As over Shinar’s brick and slime,<br /> +One vast forgetfulness is roll’d—<br /> +Where are the cities of old time?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>The lapse of ages, and the rust,<br /> +The fire, the frost, the waters cold,<br /> +Efface the evil and the just;<br /> +From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,<br /> +To drown’d Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll’d<br /> +Beneath the wave a dreamy chime<br /> +That echo’d from the mountain-hold,—<br /> +“Where are the cities of old time?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, all thy towns and cities must<br /> +Decay as these, till all their crime,<br /> +And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust<br /> +Where are the cities of old time.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(EAST FIFESHIRE.)</p> +<p class="poetry">There are laddies will drive ye a ba’<br +/> +To the burn frae the farthermost tee,<br /> +But ye mauna think driving is a’,<br /> +Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,<br /> +Ye may land in the sand or the sea;<br /> +And ye’re dune, sir, ye’re no worth a preen,<br /> +Tak’ the word that an auld man ’ll gie,<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<p class="poetry">The auld folk are crouse, and they craw<br /> +That their putting is pawky and slee;<br /> +In a bunker they’re nae gude ava’,<br /> +But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.<br /> +And a lassie can putt—ony she,—<br /> +Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean,<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>But a +cleek-shot’s the billy for me,<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<p class="poetry">I hae play’d in the frost and the +thaw,<br /> +I hae play’d since the year thirty-three,<br /> +I hae play’d in the rain and the snaw,<br /> +And I trust I may play till I dee;<br /> +And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,<br /> +For I speak o’ the thing I hae seen—<br /> +Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, faith you’re improving a wee,<br +/> +And, Lord, man, they tell me you’re keen;<br /> +Tak’ the best o’ advice that can be,<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>DOUBLE +BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO J. A. FARRER.</p> +<p class="poetry">He lived in a cave by the seas,<br /> +He lived upon oysters and foes,<br /> +But his list of forbidden degrees,<br /> +An extensive morality shows;<br /> +Geological evidence goes<br /> +To prove he had never a pan,<br /> +But he shaved with a shell when he chose,—<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man.</p> +<p class="poetry">He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze,<br +/> +He worshipp’d the river that flows,<br /> +And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,<br /> +And bogies, and serpents, and crows;<br /> +He buried his dead with their toes<br /> +Tucked-up, an original plan,<br /> +Till their knees came right under their nose,—<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>His communal wives, at his ease,<br /> +He would curb with occasional blows;<br /> +Or his State had a queen, like the bees<br /> +(As another philosopher trows):<br /> +When he spoke, it was never in prose,<br /> +But he sang in a strain that would scan,<br /> +For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">On the coasts that incessantly freeze,<br /> +With his stones, and his bones, and his bows;<br /> +On luxuriant tropical leas,<br /> +Where the summer eternally glows,<br /> +He is found, and his habits disclose<br /> +(Let theology say what she can)<br /> +That he lived in the long, long agos,<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">From a status like that of the Crees,<br /> +Our society’s fabric arose,—<br /> +Develop’d, evolved, if you please,<br /> +But deluded chronologists chose,<br /> +<a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>In a +fancied accordance with Mos<br /> +es, 4000 <span class="GutSmall">B.C.</span> for the span<br /> +When he rushed on the world and its woes,—<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">But the mild +anthropologist,—<i>he’s</i><br /> +Not <i>recent</i> inclined to suppose<br /> +Flints Palæolithic like these,<br /> +Quaternary bones such as those!<br /> +In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.’s,<br /> +First epoch, the Human began,<br /> +Theologians all to expose,—<br /> +’Tis the <i>mission</i> of Primitive Man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Max</span>, proudly your +Aryans pose,<br /> +But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,<br /> +For, as every Darwinian knows,<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! <a +name="citation46"></a><a href="#footnote46" +class="citation">[46]</a></p> +<h3><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>BALLADE OF AUTUMN.</h3> +<p class="poetry">We built a castle in the air,<br /> +In summer weather, you and I,<br /> +The wind and sun were in your hair,—<br /> +Gold hair against a sapphire sky:<br /> +When Autumn came, with leaves that fly<br /> +Before the storm, across the plain,<br /> +You fled from me, with scarce a sigh—<br /> +My Love returns no more again!</p> +<p class="poetry">The windy lights of Autumn flare:<br /> +I watch the moonlit sails go by;<br /> +I marvel how men toil and fare,<br /> +The weary business that they ply!<br /> +Their voyaging is vanity,<br /> +And fairy gold is all their gain,<br /> +And all the winds of winter cry,<br /> +“My Love returns no more again!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>Here, in my castle of Despair,<br /> +I sit alone with memory;<br /> +The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,<br /> +To keep the outcast company.<br /> +The brooding owl he hoots hard by,<br /> +<i>The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane</i>,<br /> +The Rhymer’s soothest prophecy,—<a +name="citation48"></a><a href="#footnote48" +class="citation">[48]</a><br /> +My Love returns no more again!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lady, my home until I die<br /> +Is here, where youth and hope were slain;<br /> +They flit, the ghosts of our July,<br /> +My Love returns no more again!</p> +<h3><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM.</h3> +<p class="poetry">While others are asking for beauty or fame,<br +/> +Or praying to know that for which they should pray,<br /> +Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,<br /> +Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey,<br /> +The sage has found out a more excellent way—<br /> +To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,<br /> +And his humble petition puts up day by day,<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,<br +/> +And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;<br /> +Philosophers kneel to the God without name,<br /> +Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;<br /> +The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,<br /> +The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;<br /> +But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame<br /> +(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day<br /> +With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!<br /> +O grant me a house by the beach of a bay,<br /> +Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play<br /> +With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!<br /> +And I’d leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gods, grant or withhold it; your +“yea” and your “nay”<br /> +Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:<br /> +But life <i>is</i> worth living, and here we would stay<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<h3><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(OLD FRENCH.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Money taketh town and wall,<br /> +Fort and ramp without a blow;<br /> +Money moves the merchants all,<br /> +While the tides shall ebb and flow;<br /> +Money maketh Evil show<br /> +Like the Good, and Truth like lies:<br /> +These alone can ne’er bestow<br /> +Youth, and health, and Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Money maketh festival,<br /> +Wine she buys, and beds can strow;<br /> +Round the necks of captains tall,<br /> +Money wins them chains to throw,<br /> +Marches soldiers to and fro,<br /> +Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes:<br /> +These alone can ne’er bestow<br /> +Youth, and health, and Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>Money wins the priest his stall;<br /> +Money mitres buys, I trow,<br /> +Red hats for the Cardinal,<br /> +Abbeys for the novice low;<br /> +Money maketh sin as snow,<br /> +Place of penitence supplies:<br /> +These alone can ne’er bestow<br /> +Youth, and health, and Paradise.</p> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>BALLADE OF LIFE.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“‘Dead and gone,’—a sorry +burden of the Ballad of Life.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Death’s Jest Book</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">Say, fair maids, maying<br /> +In gardens green,<br /> +In deep dells straying,<br /> +What end hath been<br /> +Two Mays between<br /> +Of the flowers that shone<br /> +And your own sweet queen—<br /> +“They are dead and gone!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Say, grave priests, praying<br /> +In dule and teen,<br /> +From cells decaying<br /> +What have ye seen<br /> +Of the proud and mean,<br /> +Of Judas and John,<br /> +Of the foul and clean?—<br /> +“They are dead and gone!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>Say, kings, arraying<br /> +Loud wars to win,<br /> +Of your manslaying<br /> +What gain ye glean?<br /> +“They are fierce and keen,<br /> +But they fall anon,<br /> +On the sword that lean,—<br /> +They are dead and gone!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through the mad world’s scene,<br /> +We are drifting on,<br /> +To this tune, I ween,<br /> +“They are dead and gone!”</p> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA.</h3> +<p class="poetry">There’s a joy without canker or cark,<br +/> +There’s a pleasure eternally new,<br /> +’Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark<br /> +Of china that’s ancient and blue;<br /> +Unchipp’d all the centuries through<br /> +It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang,<br /> +And they fashion’d it, figure and hue,<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<p class="poetry">These dragons (their tails, you remark,<br /> +Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),—<br /> +When Noah came out of the ark,<br /> +Did these lie in wait for his crew?<br /> +They snorted, they snapp’d, and they slew,<br /> +They were mighty of fin and of fang,<br /> +And their portraits Celestials drew<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>Here’s a pot with a cot in a park,<br /> +In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,<br /> +Where the lovers eloped in the dark,<br /> +Lived, died, and were changed into two<br /> +Bright birds that eternally flew<br /> +Through the boughs of the may, as they sang:<br /> +’Tis a tale was undoubtedly true<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do,<br /> +Kind critic, your “tongue has a tang”<br /> +But—a sage never heeded a shrew<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<h3><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER VILLON.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, tell me now in what strange air<br /> +The Roman Flora dwells to-day.<br /> +Where Archippiada hides, and where<br /> +Beautiful Thais has passed away?<br /> +Whence answers Echo, afield, astray,<br /> +By mere or stream,—around, below?<br /> +Lovelier she than a woman of clay;<br /> +Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is wise Héloïse, that care<br +/> +Brought on Abeilard, and dismay?<br /> +All for her love he found a snare,<br /> +A maimed poor monk in orders grey;<br /> +And where’s the Queen who willed to slay<br /> +Buridan, that in a sack must go<br /> +Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way—<br /> +Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare,<br /> +With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay?<br /> +Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?<br /> +Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?<br /> +Good Joan, whom English did betray<br /> +In Rouen town, and burned her? No,<br /> +Maiden and Queen, no man may say;<br /> +Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, all this week thou need’st not +pray,<br /> +Nor yet this year the thing to know.<br /> +One burden answers, ever and aye,<br /> +“Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?”</p> +<h3><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>VILLON’S BALLADE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL +LIFE.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">Nay, be you pardoner or cheat,<br /> +Or cogger keen, or mumper shy,<br /> +You’ll burn your fingers at the feat,<br /> +And howl like other folks that fry.<br /> +All evil folks that love a lie!<br /> +And where goes gain that greed amasses,<br /> +By wile, and trick, and thievery?<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<p class="poetry">Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet,<br +/> +With game, and shame, and jollity,<br /> +Go jigging through the field and street,<br /> +With <i>myst’ry</i> and <i>morality</i>;<br /> +Win gold at <i>gleek</i>,—and that will fly,<br /> +Where all you gain at <i>passage</i> passes,—<br /> +And that’s? You know as well as I,<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>Nay, forth from all such filth retreat,<br /> +Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry,<br /> +Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat,<br /> +If you’ve no clerkly skill to ply;<br /> +You’ll gain enough, with husbandry,<br /> +But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses,<br /> +And where goes all you take thereby?—<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your clothes, your hose, your broidery,<br /> +Your linen that the snow surpasses,<br /> +Or ere they’re worn, off, off they fly,<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Far in the Past I peer, and see<br /> +A Child upon the Nursery floor,<br /> +A Child with books upon his knee,<br /> +Who asks, like Oliver, for more!<br /> +The number of his years is IV,<br /> +And yet in Letters hath he skill,<br /> +How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!<br /> +The Books I loved, I love them still!</p> +<p class="poetry">One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three<br /> +They commonly bestowed of yore)<br /> +The Love of Books, the Golden Key<br /> +That opens the Enchanted Door;<br /> +Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er<br /> +And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill,<br /> +And there is all ALADDIN’S store,—<br /> +The Books I loved, I love them still!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>Take all, but leave my Books to me!<br /> +These heavy creels of old we bore<br /> +We fill not now, nor wander free,<br /> +Nor wear the heart that once we wore;<br /> +Not now each River seems to pour<br /> +His waters from the Muses’ hill;<br /> +Though something’s gone from stream and shore,<br /> +The Books I loved, I love them still!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea,<br /> +We bow submissive to thy will,<br /> +Ah grant, by some benign decree,<br /> +The Books I loved—to love them still.</p> +<h3><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The soft wind from the south land sped,<br /> +He set his strength to blow,<br /> +From forests where Adonis bled,<br /> +And lily flowers a-row:<br /> +He crossed the straits like streams that flow,<br /> +The ocean dark as wine,<br /> +To my true love to whisper low,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Spring half-raised her drowsy head,<br /> +Besprent with drifted snow,<br /> +“I’ll send an April day,” she said,<br /> +“To lands of wintry woe.”<br /> +He came,—the winter’s overthrow<br /> +With showers that sing and shine,<br /> +Pied daisies round your path to strow,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>Where sands of Egypt, swart and red,<br /> +’Neath suns Egyptian glow,<br /> +In places of the princely dead,<br /> +By the Nile’s overflow,<br /> +The swallow preened her wings to go,<br /> +And for the North did pine,<br /> +And fain would brave the frost her foe,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so,<br /> +Their various voice combine;<br /> +But that they crave on <i>me</i> bestow,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Les Œuvres de Monsieur +Molière</i>. <i>A Paris</i>,<br /> +<i>chez Louys Billaine</i>, <i>à la Palme</i>.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">M.D.C. LXVI.</span>)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LA COUR.</p> +<p class="poetry">When these Old Plays were new, the King,<br /> +Beside the Cardinal’s chair,<br /> +Applauded, ’mid the courtly ring,<br /> +The verses of Molière;<br /> +Point-lace was then the only wear,<br /> +Old Corneille came to woo,<br /> +And bright Du Parc was young and fair,<br /> +When these Old Plays were new!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LA COMÉDIE.</p> +<p class="poetry">How shrill the butcher’s cat-calls +ring,<br /> +How loud the lackeys swear!<br /> +Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling,<br /> +At Brécourt, fuming there!<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>The +Porter’s stabbed! a Mousquetaire<br /> +Breaks in with noisy crew—<br /> +’Twas all a commonplace affair<br /> +When these Old Plays were new!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LA VILLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">When these Old Plays were new! They +bring<br /> +A host of phantoms rare:<br /> +Old jests that float, old jibes that sting,<br /> +Old faces peaked with care:<br /> +Ménage’s smirk, de Visé’s stare,<br /> +The thefts of Jean Ribou,—<a name="citation66"></a><a +href="#footnote66" class="citation">[66]</a><br /> +Ah, publishers were hard to bear<br /> +When these Old Plays were new.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ghosts, at your Poet’s word ye dare<br /> +To break Death’s dungeons through,<br /> +And frisk, as in that golden air,<br /> +When these Old Plays were new!</p> +<h3><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Here stand my books, line upon line<br /> +They reach the roof, and row by row,<br /> +They speak of faded tastes of mine,<br /> +And things I did, but do not, know:<br /> +Old school books, useless long ago,<br /> +Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in,<br /> +Could scarcely answer “yes” or +“no”—<br /> +The many things I’ve tried and failed in!</p> +<p class="poetry">Here’s Villon, in morocco fine,<br /> +(The Poet starved, in mud and snow,)<br /> +Glatigny does not crave to dine,<br /> +And René’s tears forget to flow.<br /> +And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe,<br /> +With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in;<br /> +Ah, all my ghosts have gone below—<br /> +The many things I’ve tried and failed in!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine,<br /> +The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow;<br /> +And here the arms of D’Hoym shine,<br /> +And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau:<br /> +Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe”<br /> +(The first edition, this, he wailed in);<br /> +I once believed in him—but oh,<br /> +The many things I’ve tried and failed in!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine<br /> +Quite other balances are scaled in;<br /> +May you succeed, though I repine—<br /> +“The many things I’ve tried and failed in!”</p> +<h3><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>BALLADE OF THE DREAM.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Swift as sound of music fled<br /> +When no more the organ sighs,<br /> +Sped as all old days are sped,<br /> +So your lips, love, and your eyes,<br /> +So your gentle-voiced replies<br /> +Mine one hour in sleep that seem,<br /> +Rise and flit when slumber flies,<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Like the scent from roses red,<br /> +Like the dawn from golden skies,<br /> +Like the semblance of the dead<br /> +From the living love that hies,<br /> +Like the shifting shade that lies<br /> +On the moonlight-silvered stream,<br /> +So you rise when dreams arise,<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Could some spell, or sung or said,<br /> +Could some kindly witch and wise,<br /> +Lull for aye this dreaming head<br /> +In a mist of memories,<br /> +I would lie like him who lies<br /> +Where the lights on Latmos gleam,—<br /> +Wake not, find not Paradise<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies,<br +/> +Shadowy bounties and supreme,<br /> +Bring the dearest face that flies<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Fair islands of the silver fleece,<br /> +Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,<br /> +Whose havens are the haunts of Peace,<br /> +Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;<br /> +<i>Our</i> bolt is shot, our tale is told,<br /> +Our ship of state in storms may toss,<br /> +But ye are young if we are old,<br /> +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, <i>we</i> must dwindle and decrease,<br /> +Such fates the ruthless years unfold;<br /> +And yet we shall not wholly cease,<br /> +We shall not perish unconsoled;<br /> +Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold<br /> +Within the sea’s inviolate fosse,<br /> +And boast her sons of English mould,<br /> +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>All empires tumble—Rome and Greece—<br /> +Their swords are rust, their altars cold!<br /> +For us, the Children of the Seas,<br /> +Who ruled where’er the waves have rolled,<br /> +For us, in Fortune’s books enscrolled,<br /> +I read no runes of hopeless loss;<br /> +Nor—while <i>ye</i> last—our knell is tolled,<br /> +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Britannia, when thy hearth’s a-cold,<br +/> +When o’er thy grave has grown the moss,<br /> +Still <i>Rule Australia</i> shall be trolled<br /> +In Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<h3><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>BALLADE OF AUCASSIN</h3> +<p class="poetry">Where smooth the southern waters run<br /> +By rustling leagues of poplars grey,<br /> +Beneath a veiled soft southern sun,<br /> +We wandered out of yesterday,<br /> +Went maying through that ancient May<br /> +Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,<br /> +And loitered by the fountain spray<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette.</p> +<p class="poetry">The grass-grown paths are trod of none<br /> +Where through the woods they went astray.<br /> +The spider’s traceries are spun<br /> +Across the darkling forest way.<br /> +There come no knights that ride to slay,<br /> +No pilgrims through the grasses wet,<br /> +No shepherd lads that sang their say<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>’Twas here by Nicolette begun<br /> +Her bower of boughs and grasses gay;<br /> +’Scaped from the cell of marble dun<br /> +’Twas here the lover found the fay,<br /> +Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play!<br /> +How hard we find it to forget<br /> +Who fain would dwell with them as they,<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, ’tis a melancholy lay!<br /> +For youth, for love we both regret.<br /> +How fair they seem, how far away,<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette!</p> +<h3><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>BALLADE AMOUREUSE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER FROISSART.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not Jason nor Medea wise,<br /> +I crave to see, nor win much lore,<br /> +Nor list to Orpheus’ minstrelsies;<br /> +Nor Her’cles would I see, that o’er<br /> +The wide world roamed from shore to shore;<br /> +Nor, by St. James, Penelope,—<br /> +Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore:<br /> +To see my Love suffices me!</p> +<p class="poetry">Virgil and Cato, no man vies<br /> +With them in wealth of clerkly store;<br /> +I would not see them with mine eyes;<br /> +Nor him that sailed, <i>sans</i> sail nor oar,<br /> +Across the barren sea and hoar,<br /> +And all for love of his ladye;<br /> +Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more:<br /> +To see my Love suffices me!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>I heed not Pegasus, that flies<br /> +As swift as shafts the bowmen pour;<br /> +Nor famed Pygmalion’s artifice,<br /> +Whereof the like was ne’er before;<br /> +Nor Oléus, that drank of yore<br /> +The salt wave of the whole great sea:<br /> +Why? dost thou ask? ’Tis as I swore—<br /> +To see my Love suffices me!</p> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The modish Airs,<br /> +The Tansey Brew,<br /> +The <i>Swains</i> and <i>Fairs</i><br /> +In curtained Pew;<br /> +Nymphs <span class="smcap">Kneller</span> drew,<br /> +Books <span class="smcap">Bentley</span> read,—<br /> +Who knows them, who?<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<p class="poetry">We buy her Chairs,<br /> +Her China blue,<br /> +Her red-brick Squares<br /> +We build anew;<br /> +But ah! we rue,<br /> +When all is said,<br /> +The tale o’er-true,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Now <i>Bulls</i> and <i>Bears</i>,<br /> +A ruffling Crew,<br /> +With Stocks and Shares,<br /> +With Turk and Jew,<br /> +Go bubbling through<br /> +The Town ill-bred:<br /> +The World’s askew,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, praise the new;<br /> +The old is fled:<br /> +<i>Vivat</i> <span class="smcap">Frou</span>-<span +class="smcap">Frou</span>!<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<h3><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Who have loved and ceased to love, forget<br /> +That ever they loved in their lives, they say;<br /> +Only remember the fever and fret,<br /> +And the pain of Love, that was all his pay;<br /> +All the delight of him passes away<br /> +From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met—<br /> +Too late did I love you, my love, and yet<br /> +I shall never forget till my dying day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too late were we ‘ware of the secret +net<br /> +That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray;<br /> +There were we taken and snared, Lisette,<br /> +In the dungeon of <b>La Fausse Amistié</b>;<br /> +Help was there none in the wide world’s fray,<br /> +Joy was there none in the gift and the debt;<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Too late +we knew it, too long regret—<br /> +I shall never forget till my dying day!</p> +<p class="poetry">We must live our lives, though the sun be +set,<br /> +Must meet in the masque where parts we play,<br /> +Must cross in the maze of Life’s minuet;<br /> +Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay:<br /> +But while snows of winter or flowers of May<br /> +Are the sad year’s shroud or coronet,<br /> +In the season of rose or of violet,<br /> +I shall never forget till my dying day!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Queen, when the clay is my coverlet,<br /> +When I am dead, and when you are grey,<br /> +Vow, where the grass of the grave is wet,<br /> +“I shall never forget till my dying day!”</p> +<h3><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Here I’d come when weariest!<br /> + Here the breast<br /> +Of the Windburg’s tufted over<br /> +Deep with bracken; here his crest<br /> + Takes the west,<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.</p> +<p class="poetry">Silent here are lark and plover;<br /> + In the cover<br /> +Deep below the cushat best<br /> +Loves his mate, and croons above her<br /> + O’er their nest,<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest,<br +/> + To the blest<br /> +Bed that waits the weary rover,<br /> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>Here +should failure be confessed;<br /> + Ends my quest,<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,<br /> +Ah, fulfil a last behest,<br /> + Let me rest<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!</p> +<h3><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>DIZAIN.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>As</i>, <i>to the pipe</i>, <i>with rhythmic +feet</i><br /> +<i>In windings of some old-world dance</i>,<br /> +<i>The smiling couples cross and meet</i>,<br /> +<i>Join hands</i>, <i>and then in line advance</i>,<br /> +<i>So</i>, <i>to these fair old tunes of France</i>,<br /> +<i>Through all their maze of to-and-fro</i>,<br /> +<i>The light-heeled numbers laughing go</i>,<br /> +<i>Retreat</i>, <i>return</i>, <i>and ere they flee</i>,<br /> +<i>One moment pause in panting row</i>,<br /> +<i>And seem to say—Vos plaudite</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. D.</p> +<h2><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>VERSES +AND TRANSLATIONS.</h2> +<blockquote><p><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span><span class="smcap">Oronte</span>—<i>Ce ne sont +point de ces grands vers pompeux</i>,<br /> +<i>Mais de petits vers</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“Le Misanthrope,” Acte +i., Sc. 2.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>A +PORTRAIT OF 1783.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Your hair and chin are like the hair<br /> +And chin Burne-Jones’s ladies wear;<br /> +You were unfashionably fair<br /> + In ’83;<br /> +And sad you were when girls are gay,<br /> +You read a book about <i>Le vrai</i><br /> +<i>Mérite de l’homme</i>, alone in May.<br /> +What <i>can</i> it be,<br /> +<i>Le vrai mérite de l’homme</i>? Not gold,<br +/> +Not titles that are bought and sold,<br /> +Not wit that flashes and is cold,<br /> + But Virtue merely!<br /> +Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau<br /> +(And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know),<br /> +You bade the crowd of foplings go,<br /> + You glanced severely,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Dreaming +beneath the spreading shade<br /> +Of ‘that vast hat the Graces made;’ <a +name="citation88"></a><a href="#footnote88" +class="citation">[88]</a><br /> +So Rouget sang—while yet he played<br /> + With courtly rhyme,<br /> +And hymned great Doisi’s red perruque,<br /> +And Nice’s eyes, and Zulmé’s look,<br /> +And dead canaries, ere he shook<br /> + The sultry time<br /> +With strains like thunder. Loud and low<br /> +Methinks I hear the murmur grow,<br /> +The tramp of men that come and go<br /> + With fire and sword.<br /> +They war against the quick and dead,<br /> +Their flying feet are dashed with red,<br /> +As theirs the vintaging that tread<br /> + Before the Lord.<br /> +<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>O head +unfashionably fair,<br /> +What end was thine, for all thy care?<br /> +We only see thee dreaming there:<br /> + We cannot see<br /> +The breaking of thy vision, when<br /> +The Rights of Man were lords of men,<br /> +When virtue won her own again<br /> + In ’93.</p> +<h3><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>THE +MOON’S MINION.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(FROM THE PROSE OF C. +BAUDELAIRE.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear,<br /> + The wand’ring waters, green and grey;<br /> +Thine eyes are wonderful and clear,<br /> + And deep, and deadly, even as they;<br /> +The spirit of the changeful sea<br /> + Informs thine eyes at night and noon,<br /> +She sways the tides, and the heart of thee,<br /> + The mystic, sad, capricious Moon!</p> +<p class="poetry">The Moon came down the shining stair<br /> + Of clouds that fleck the summer sky,<br /> +She kissed thee, saying, “Child, be fair,<br /> + And madden men’s hearts, even as I;<br /> +Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet,<br /> + That know me and are known of me;<br /> +The lover thou shalt never meet,<br /> + The land where thou shalt never be!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>She held thee in her chill embrace,<br /> + She kissed thee with cold lips divine,<br /> +She left her pallor on thy face,<br /> + That mystic ivory face of thine;<br /> +And now I sit beside thy feet,<br /> + And all my heart is far from thee,<br /> +Dreaming of her I shall not meet,<br /> + And of the land I shall not see!</p> +<h3><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>IN +ITHACA.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“And now am I greatly repenting that ever I +left my life with thee, and the immortality thou didst promise +me.”—<i>Letter of Odysseus to Calypso</i>. +Luciani <i>Vera Historia</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">’Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was +o’er<br /> + With all the waves and wars, a weary while,<br /> + Grew restless in his disenchanted isle,<br /> +And still would watch the sunset, from the shore,<br /> +Go down the ways of gold, and evermore<br /> + His sad heart followed after, mile on mile,<br /> + Back to the Goddess of the magic wile,<br /> +Calypso, and the love that was of yore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee +yet<br /> + To look across the sad and stormy space,<br /> + Years of a youth as bitter as the sea,<br /> +Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet,<br /> + Because, within a fair forsaken place<br /> + The life that might have been is lost to thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>HOMER.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Homer, thy song men liken to the sea<br /> + With all the notes of music in its tone,<br /> + With tides that wash the dim dominion<br /> +Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee<br /> +Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me<br /> + Thy verse seems as the River of source unknown<br /> + That glasses Egypt’s temples overthrown<br /> +In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally.</p> +<p class="poetry">No wiser we than men of heretofore<br /> + To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast;<br /> +Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore,<br /> + As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast<br /> +His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore<br /> + Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past.</p> +<h3><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>THE +BURIAL OF MOLIÈRE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER J. TRUFFIER.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Dead—he is dead! The rouge has left +a trace<br /> + On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a +tear,<br /> + Even while the people laughed that held him dear<br +/> +But yesterday. He died,—and not in grace,<br /> +And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace<br /> + To slander him whose <i>Tartuffe</i> made them +fear,<br /> + And gold must win a passage for his bier,<br /> +And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, Molière, for that last time of +all,<br /> + Man’s hatred broke upon thee, and went by,<br +/> +And did but make more fair thy funeral.<br /> + Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily,<br /> +Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall,<br /> + For torch, the stars along the windy sky!</p> +<h3><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>BION.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying<br +/> + The Muses heard, and loved it long ago;<br /> +They heard the hollows of the hills replying,<br /> + They heard the weeping water’s overflow;<br /> +They winged the sacred strain—the song undying,<br /> + The song that all about the world must go,—<br +/> +When poets for a poet dead are sighing,<br /> + The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low.</p> +<p class="poetry">And dirge to dirge that answers, and the +weeping<br /> + For Adonais by the summer sea,<br /> +The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping<br /> + Far from ‘the forest ground called +Thessaly’),<br /> +These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping,<br /> + And are but echoes of the moan for thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>SPRING.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER MELEAGER.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Now the bright crocus flames, and now<br /> + The slim narcissus takes the rain,<br /> +And, straying o’er the mountain’s brow,<br /> + The daffodilies bud again.<br /> + The thousand blossoms wax and wane<br /> +On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough,<br /> +But fairer than the flowers art thou,<br /> + Than any growth of hill or plain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,<br /> +That my Love’s feet may tread it down,<br /> + Like lilies on the lilies set;<br /> +My Love, whose lips are softer far<br /> +Than drowsy poppy petals are,<br /> + And sweeter than the violet!</p> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>BEFORE +THE SNOW.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.)</p> +<p class="poetry">The winter is upon us, not the snow,<br /> + The hills are etched on the horizon bare,<br /> + The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,<br /> +The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro.<br /> +One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow,<br /> + Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare.<br +/> + Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where<br /> +The black trees seem to shiver as you go.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beyond lie church and steeple, with their +old<br /> + And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer,<br /> +A sharper gust would shake them from their hold,<br /> + Yet up that path, in summer of the year,<br /> +And past that melancholy pile we strolled<br /> + To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer.</p> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>VILLANELLE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO LUCIA.</p> +<p class="poetry">Apollo left the golden Muse<br /> + And shepherded a mortal’s sheep,<br /> +Theocritus of Syracuse!</p> +<p class="poetry">To mock the giant swain that woo’s<br /> + The sea-nymph in the sunny deep,<br /> +Apollo left the golden Muse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Afield he drove his lambs and ewes,<br /> + Where Milon and where Battus reap,<br /> +Theocritus of Syracuse!</p> +<p class="poetry">To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise<br /> + Below the dim Sicilian steep<br /> +Apollo left the golden Muse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye twain did loiter in the dews,<br /> + Ye slept the swain’s unfever’d sleep,<br +/> +Theocritus of Syracuse!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>That Time might half with <i>his</i> confuse<br /> + Thy songs,—like his, that laugh and +leap,—<br /> +Theocritus of Syracuse,<br /> + Apollo left the golden Muse!</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>NATURAL THEOLOGY.</h3> + +<blockquote><p> ἐπει +καὶ τοῦτον +ὀῖομαι +ἀθανάτοισιν<br +/> + +ἔυχεσθαι·. +Πάντες δὲ +θεῶν +χατέουσ’ +ἄνθρωποι.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Od</span>. <span +class="smcap">iii</span>. 47.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“Once <span class="smcap">Cagn</span> was +like a father, kind and good,<br /> + But He was spoiled by fighting many things;<br /> +He wars upon the lions in the wood,<br /> + And breaks the Thunder-bird’s tremendous +wings;<br /> +But still we cry to Him,—<i>We are thy brood</i>—<br +/> + <i>O Cagn</i>, <i>be merciful</i>! and us He +brings<br /> +To herds of elands, and great store of food,<br /> + And in the desert opens water-springs.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So Qing, King Nqsha’s Bushman hunter, +spoke,<br /> + Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair,<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>When all +were weary, and soft clouds of smoke<br /> + Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air:<br /> +And suddenly in each man’s heart there woke<br /> + A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.</p> +<h3><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>THE +ODYSSEY.</h3> +<p class="poetry">As one that for a weary space has lain<br /> + Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine<br /> + In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,<br /> +Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,<br /> +And only the low lutes of love complain,<br /> + And only shadows of wan lovers pine,<br /> + As such an one were glad to know the brine<br /> +Salt on his lips, and the large air again,—<br /> +So gladly, from the songs of modern speech<br /> + Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free<br /> + Shrill wind beyond the close of +heavy flowers,<br /> + And through the music of the +languid hours,<br /> +They hear like ocean on a western beach<br /> + The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.</p> +<h3><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>IDEAL.</h3> +<p><i>Suggested by a female head in wax</i>, <i>of unknown +date</i>, <i>but supposed to be either of the best Greek age</i>, +<i>or a work of Raphael or Leonardo</i>. <i>It is now in +the Lille Museum</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid,<br +/> + Dateless and fatherless, how long ago,<br /> +A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed,<br /> + Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe!<br +/> + Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow,<br /> +While magical his fingers o’er thee strayed,<br /> + Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio<br /> +Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade</p> +<p class="poetry">That hides all fair things lost, and things +unborn,<br /> + Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace,<br +/> + <a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>And that grave tenderness of thine awhile;<br /> +Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face<br /> + Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn,<br /> + And only on thy lips I find her smile.</p> +<h3><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>THE +FAIRY’S GIFT.</h3> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“Take short +views.”—<span class="smcap">Sydney Smith</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">The Fays that to my christ’ning came<br +/> + (For come they did, my nurses taught me),<br /> +They did not bring me wealth or fame,<br /> + ’Tis very little that they brought me.<br /> +But one, the crossest of the crew,<br /> + The ugly old one, uninvited,<br /> +Said, “I shall be avenged on <i>you</i>,<br /> + My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!”<br +/> +With magic juices did she lave<br /> + Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure.<br /> +Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave,<br /> + <i>Hers</i> is the present that I treasure!</p> +<p class="poetry">The bore whom others fear and flee,<br /> + I do not fear, I do not flee him;<br /> +I pass him calm as calm can be;<br /> + I do not cut—I do not see him!<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>And with +my feeble eyes and dim,<br /> + Where <i>you</i> see patchy fields and fences,<br /> +For me the mists of Turner swim—<br /> + <i>My</i> “azure distance” soon +commences!<br /> +Nay, as I blink about the streets<br /> + Of this befogged and miry city,<br /> +Why, almost every girl one meets<br /> + Seems preternaturally pretty!<br /> +“Try spectacles,” one’s friends intone;<br /> + “You’ll see the world correctly through +them.”<br /> +But I have visions of my own,<br /> + And not for worlds would I undo them.</p> +<h3><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>BENEDETTA RAMUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER ROMNEY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mysterious Benedetta! who<br /> +That Reynolds or that Romney drew<br /> +Was ever half so fair as you,<br /> + Or is so well forgot?<br /> +These eyes of melancholy brown,<br /> +These woven locks, a shadowy crown,<br /> +Must surely have bewitched the town;<br /> + Yet you’re remembered not.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through all that prattle of your age,<br /> +Through lore of fribble and of sage<br /> +I’ve read, and chiefly Walpole’s page,<br /> + Wherein are beauties famous;<br /> +I’ve haunted ball, and rout, and sale;<br /> +I’ve heard of Devonshire and Thrale,<br /> +And all the Gunnings’ wondrous tale,<br /> + But nothing of Miss Ramus.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>And yet on many a lattice pane<br /> +‘Fair Benedetta,’ scrawled in vain<br /> +By lovers’ diamonds, must remain<br /> + To tell us you were cruel. <a +name="citation108"></a><a href="#footnote108" +class="citation">[108]</a><br /> +But who, of all that sighed and swore—<br /> +Wits, poets, courtiers by the score—<br /> +Did win and on his bosom wore<br /> + This hard and lovely jewel?</p> +<p class="poetry">Why, dilettante records say<br /> +An Alderman, who came that way,<br /> +Woo’d you and made you Lady Day;<br /> + You crowned his civic flame.<br /> +It suits a melancholy song<br /> +To think your heart had suffered wrong,<br /> +And that you lived not very long<br /> + To be a City dame!</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance you were a Mourning Bride,<br /> +And conscious of a heart that died<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>With one +who fell by Rodney’s side<br /> + In blood-stained Spanish bays.<br /> +Perchance ’twas no such thing, and you<br /> +Dwelt happy with your knight and true,<br /> +And, like Aurora, watched a crew<br /> + Of rosy little Days!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, lovely face and innocent!<br /> +Whatever way your fortunes went,<br /> +And if to earth your life was lent<br /> + For little space or long,<br /> +In your kind eyes we seem to see<br /> +What Woman at her best may be,<br /> +And offer to your memory<br /> + An unavailing song!</p> +<h3><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>PARTANT POUR LA SCRIBIE.</h3> +<p>[Scribie, on the north-east littoral of Bohemia, is the land +of stage conventions. It is named after the discoverer, M. +Scribe.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A pleasant land is Scribie, where<br /> + The light comes mostly from below,<br /> +And seems a sort of symbol rare<br /> + Of things at large, and how they go,<br /> +In rooms where doors are everywhere<br /> + And cupboards shelter friend or foe.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is a realm where people tell<br /> + Each other, when they chance to meet,<br /> +Of things that long ago befell—<br /> + And do most solemnly repeat<br /> +Secrets they both know very well,<br /> + Aloud, and in the public street!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land where lovers go in fours,<br /> + Master and mistress, man and maid;<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Where +people listen at the doors<br /> + Or ’neath a table’s friendly shade,<br +/> +And comic Irishmen in scores<br /> + Roam o’er the scenes all undismayed:</p> +<p class="poetry">A land where Virtue in distress<br /> + Owes much to uncles in disguise;<br /> +Where British sailors frankly bless<br /> + Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes;<br /> +And where the villain doth confess,<br /> + Conveniently, before he dies!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of lovers false and gay;<br /> + A land where people dread a “curse;”<br +/> +A land of letters gone astray,<br /> + Or intercepted, which is worse;<br /> +Where weddings false fond maids betray,<br /> + And all the babes are changed at nurse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, happy land, where things come right!<br /> + We of the world where things go ill;<br /> +Where lovers love, but don’t unite;<br /> + Where no one finds the Missing Will—<br /> +Dominion of the heart’s delight,<br /> + Scribie, we’ve loved, and love thee still!</p> +<h3><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>ST. +ANDREW’S BAY.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">NIGHT.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, listen through the music, from the +shore,<br /> +The “melancholy long-withdrawing roar”;<br /> +Beneath the Minster, and the windy caves,<br /> +The wide North Ocean, marshalling his waves<br /> +Even so forlorn—in worlds beyond our ken—<br /> +May sigh the seas that are not heard of men;<br /> +Even so forlorn, prophetic of man’s fate,<br /> +Sounded the cold sea-wave disconsolate,<br /> +When none but God might hear the boding tone,<br /> +As God shall hear the long lament alone,<br /> +When all is done, when all the tale is told,<br /> +And the gray sea-wave echoes as of old!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">MORNING.</p> +<p class="poetry">This was the burden of the Night,<br /> + The saying of the sea,<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>But lo! +the hours have brought the light,<br /> +The laughter of the waves, the flight<br /> +Of dipping sea-birds, foamy white,<br /> + That are so glad to be!<br /> +“Forget!” the happy creatures cry,<br /> + “Forget Night’s monotone,<br /> +With us be glad in sea and sky,<br /> +The days are thine, the days that fly,<br /> +The days God gives to know him by,<br /> + And not the Night alone!”</p> +<h3><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>WOMAN AND THE WEED.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND +MYTH.)</p> +<p class="poetry">In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes +began,<br /> +How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man!<br /> +From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam,<br /> +There was nobody waiting to welcome him home;<br /> +For the Man had been made, but the woman had <i>not</i>,<br /> +And Earth was a highly detestable spot.<br /> +Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled,<br /> +They did not converse but they struggled and howled,<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>For Man +had no tact—he would ne’er take a hint,<br /> +And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Man was alone, and he wished he could see<br +/> +On the Earth some one like him, but fairer than he,<br /> +With locks like the red gold, a smile like the sun,<br /> +To welcome him back when his hunting was done.<br /> +And he sighed for a voice that should answer him still,<br /> +Like the affable Echo he heard on the hill:<br /> +That should answer him softly and always agree,<br /> +<i>And oh</i>, Man reflected, <i>how nice it would be</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">So he prayed to the Gods, and they stooped to +his prayer,<br /> +And they spoke to the Sun on his way through the air,<br /> +And he married the Echo one fortunate morn,<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>And +Woman, their beautiful daughter, was born!<br /> +The daughter of Sunshine and Echo she came<br /> +With a voice like a song, with a face like a flame;<br /> +With a face like a flame, and a voice like a song,<br /> +And happy was Man, but it was not for long!</p> +<p class="poetry">For weather’s a painfully changeable +thing,<br /> +Not always the child of the Echo would sing;<br /> +And the face of the Sun may be hidden with mist,<br /> +And his child can be terribly cross if she list.<br /> +And unfortunate Man had to learn with surprise<br /> +That a frown’s not peculiar to masculine eyes;<br /> +That the sweetest of voices can scold and can sneer,<br /> +And cannot be answered—like men—with a spear.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Man went and called to the Gods in his +woe,<br /> +And they answered him—“Sir, you would needs have it +so:<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>And the +thing must go on as the thing has begun,<br /> +She’s immortal—your child of the Echo and Sun.<br /> +But we’ll send you another, and fairer is she,<br /> +This maiden with locks that are flowing and free.<br /> +This maiden so gentle, so kind, and so fair,<br /> +With a flower like a star in the night of her hair.<br /> +With her eyes like the smoke that is misty and blue,<br /> +With her heart that is heavenly, and tender, and true.<br /> +She will die in the night, but no need you should mourn,<br /> +You shall bury her body and thence shall be born<br /> +A weed that is green, that is fragrant and fair,<br /> +With a flower like the star in the night of her hair.<br /> +And the leaves must ye burn till they offer to you <br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Soft +smoke, like her eyes that are misty and blue.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And the smoke shall ye breathe and no +more shall ye fret,<br /> +But the child of the Echo and Sun shall forget:<br /> +Shall forget all the trouble and torment she brings,<br /> +Shall bethink ye of none but delectable things;<br /> +And the sound of the wars with your brethren shall cease,<br /> +While ye smoke by the camp-fire the great pipe of +peace.”<br /> +So the last state of Man was by no means the worst,<br /> +The second gift softened the sting of the first.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor the child of the Echo and Sun doth he +heed<br /> +When he dreams with the Maid that was changed to the weed;<br /> +Though the Echo be silent, the Sun in a mist,<br /> +The Maid is the fairest that ever was kissed.<br /> +<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>And when +tempests are over and ended the rain,<br /> +And the child of the Sunshine is sunny again,<br /> +He comes back, glad at heart, and again is at one<br /> +With the changeable child of the Echo and Sun.</p> +<h2><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>RHYMES À LA MODE</h2> +<h3><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>BALLADE DEDICATORY,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +<i>MRS. ELTON</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>OF WHITE STAUNTON</i></span><span +class="GutSmall">.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>The</i></span><i> +painted Briton built his mound</i>,<br /> +<i>And left his celts and clay</i>,<br /> +<i>On yon fair slope of sunlit ground</i><br /> +<i>That fronts your garden gay</i>;<br /> +<i>The Roman came</i>, <i>he bore the sway</i>,<br /> +<i>He bullied</i>, <i>bought</i>, <i>and sold</i>,<br /> +<i>Your fountain sweeps his works away</i><br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>But still his crumbling urns are +found</i><br /> +<i>Within the window-bay</i>,<br /> +<i>Where once he listened to the sound</i><br /> +<i>That lulls you day by day</i>;—<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span><i>The +sound of summer winds at play</i>,<br /> +<i>The noise of waters cold</i><br /> +<i>To Yarty wandering on their way</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The Roman fell</i>: <i>his firm-set +bound</i><br /> +<i>Became the Saxon’s stay</i>;<br /> +<i>The bells made music all around</i><br /> +<i>For monks in cloisters grey</i>,<br /> +<i>Till fled the monks in disarray</i><br /> +<i>From their warm chantry’s fold</i>,<br /> +<i>Old Abbots slumber as they may</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap"><i>Envoy</i></span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Creeds</i>, <i>empires</i>, <i>peoples</i>, +<i>all decay</i>,<br /> +<i>Down into darkness</i>, <i>rolled</i>;<br /> +<i>May life that’s fleet be sweet</i>, <i>I pray</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>THE +FORTUNATE ISLANDS.</h3> +<h4><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>THE +FORTUNATE ISLANDS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">A DREAM IN JUNE.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> twilight of the +longest day<br /> + I lingered over Lucian,<br /> +Till ere the dawn a dreamy way<br /> + My spirit found, untrod of man,<br /> +Between the green sky and the grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">Amid the soft dusk suddenly<br /> + More light than air I seemed to sail,<br /> +Afloat upon the ocean sky,<br /> + While through the faint blue, clear and pale,<br /> +I saw the mountain clouds go by:<br /> + My barque had thought for helm and sail,<br /> +And one mist wreath for canopy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>Like torches on a marble floor<br /> + Reflected, so the wild stars shone,<br /> +Within the abysmal hyaline,<br /> + Till the day widened more and more,<br /> +And sank to sunset, and was gone,<br /> +And then, as burning beacons shine<br /> + On summits of a mountain isle,<br /> + A light to folk on sea that +fare,<br /> + So the sky’s beacons for a while<br /> + Burned in these islands of the +air.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then from a starry island set<br /> + Where one swift tide of wind there flows,<br /> +Came scent of lily and violet,<br /> + Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose,<br /> +Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine,<br /> +So delicate is the air and fine:<br /> +And forests of all fragrant trees<br /> + Sloped seaward from the central hill,<br /> +And ever clamorous were these<br /> +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>With +singing of glad birds; and still<br /> + Such music came as in the woods<br /> +Most lonely, consecrate to Pan,<br /> + The Wind makes, in his many moods,<br /> +Upon the pipes some shepherd Man,<br /> + Hangs up, in thanks for victory!<br /> +On these shall mortals play no more,<br /> + But the Wind doth touch them, over and +o’er,<br /> +And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the daylight and the dark<br /> + That island lies in silver air,<br /> +And suddenly my magic barque<br /> + Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there;<br /> +And by me stood the sentinel<br /> + Of them who in the island dwell;<br /> + All smiling did he bind my +hands,<br /> + With rushes green and rosy +bands,<br /> +They have no harsher bonds than these<br /> + The people of the pleasant lands<br /> +Within the wash of the airy seas!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Then was I to their city led:<br /> + Now all of ivory and gold<br /> +The great walls were that garlanded<br /> +The temples in their shining fold,<br /> + (Each fane of beryl built, and each<br /> + Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,)<br /> +And all about the town, and through,<br /> +There flowed a River fed with dew,<br /> + As sweet as roses, and as clear<br /> + As mountain crystals pure and +cold,<br /> +And with his waves that water kissed<br /> +The gleaming altars of amethyst<br /> + That smoke with victims all the year,<br /> +And sacred are to the Gods of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">There sat three Judges by the Gate,<br /> + And I was led before the Three,<br /> +And they but looked on me, and straight<br /> + The rosy bonds fell down from me<br /> + Who, being innocent, was free;<br /> +<a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>And I +might wander at my will<br /> +About that City on the hill,<br /> + Among the happy people clad<br /> + In purple weeds of woven air<br /> +Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves<br /> +At shut of languid summer eves<br /> + So light their raiment seemed; and glad<br /> +Was every face I looked on there!</p> +<p class="poetry">There was no heavy heat, no cold,<br /> + The dwellers there wax never old,<br /> + Nor wither with the waning +time,<br /> +But each man keeps that age he had<br /> + When first he won the fairy +clime.<br /> +The Night falls never from on high,<br /> + Nor ever burns the heat of noon.<br /> +But such soft light eternally<br /> + Shines, as in silver dawns of June<br /> +Before the Sun hath climbed the sky!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Within these pleasant streets and wide,<br /> + The souls of Heroes go and come,<br /> +Even they that fell on either side<br /> + Beneath the walls of Ilium;<br /> +And sunlike in that shadowy isle<br /> +The face of Helen and her smile<br /> + Makes glad the souls of them that knew<br /> +Grief for her sake a little while!<br /> +And all true Greeks and wise are there;<br /> +And with his hand upon the hair<br /> + Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates,<br /> +About him many youths and fair,<br /> + Hylas, Narcissus, and with these<br /> +Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew<br /> + By fleet Eurotas, unaware!</p> +<p class="poetry">All these their mirth and pleasure made<br /> + Within the plain Elysian,<br /> + The fairest meadow that may be,<br +/> +<a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>With all +green fragrant trees for shade<br /> + And every scented wind to fan,<br /> + And sweetest flowers to strew the +lea;<br /> +The soft Winds are their servants fleet<br /> + To fetch them every fruit at will<br /> + And water from the river chill;<br /> +And every bird that singeth sweet<br /> + Throstle, and merle, and nightingale<br /> + Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,—<br /> +Lily, and rose, and asphodel—<br /> + With these doth each guest twine his crown<br /> + And wreathe his cup, and lay him down<br /> + Beside some friend he loveth +well.</p> +<p class="poetry">There with the shining Souls I lay<br /> +When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say,<br /> + In far-off haunts of Memory,<br /> +<i>Whoso doth taste the Dead Men’s bread</i>,<br /> +<i>Shall dwell for ever with these Dead</i>,<br /> +<i>Nor ever shall his body lie</i><br /> +<a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span><i>Beside his friends</i>, <i>on the grey hill</i><br +/> +<i>Where rains weep</i>, <i>and the curlews shrill</i><br /> +<i>And the brown water wanders by</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then did a new soul in me wake,<br /> +The dead men’s bread I feared to break,<br /> +Their fruit I would not taste indeed<br /> +Were it but a pomegranate seed.<br /> +Nay, not with these I made my choice<br /> +To dwell for ever and rejoice,<br /> +For otherwhere the River rolls<br /> +That girds the home of Christian souls,<br /> +And these my whole heart seeks are found<br /> +On otherwise enchanted ground.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even so I put the cup away,<br /> + The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke,<br /> + And, nowise sorrowing, I woke<br /> +While, grey among the ruins grey<br /> +Chill through the dwellings of the dead,<br /> + The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea,<br /> +<a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>Then, in +a moment, flushed to red,<br /> + Flushed all the broken minster old,<br /> + And turned the shattered stones to gold,<br /> +And wakened half the world with me!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">L’Envoi</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">To E. W. G.</p> +<p>(Who also had rhymed on the <i>Fortunate Islands</i> of +Lucian).</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Each in the self-same field we glean</i><br +/> +<i>The field of the Samosatene</i>,<br /> +<i>Each something takes and something leaves</i><br /> + <i>And this must choose</i>, <i>and that +forego</i><br /> +<i>In Lucian’s visionary sheaves</i>,<br /> + <i>To twine a modern posy so</i>;<br /> +<i>But all my gleanings</i>, <i>truth to tell</i>,<br /> +<i>Are mixed with mournful asphodel</i>,<br /> +<i>While yours are wreathed with poppies red</i>,<br /> + <i>With flowers that Helen’s feet have +kissed</i>,<br /> +<a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span><i>With +leaves of vine that garlanded</i><br /> + <i>The Syrian Pantagruelist</i>,<br /> +<i>The sage who laughed the world away</i>,<br /> + <i>Who mocked at Gods</i>, <i>and men</i>, <i>and +care</i>,<br /> +<i>More sweet of voice than Rabelais</i>,<br /> + <i>And lighter-hearted than Voltaire</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>ALMAE MATRES.</h3> +<h4><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>ALMAE MATRES.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(ST. ANDREWS, 1862. OXFORD, +1865.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>St</i></span><i>. +Andrews by the Northern sea</i>,<br /> + <i>A haunted town it is to me</i>!<br /> +A little city, worn and grey,<br /> + The grey North Ocean girds it round.<br /> +And o’er the rocks, and up the bay,<br /> + The long sea-rollers surge and sound.<br /> +And still the thin and biting spray<br /> + Drives down the melancholy street,<br /> +And still endure, and still decay,<br /> + Towers that the salt winds vainly beat.<br /> +Ghost-like and shadowy they stand<br /> +Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>St. Leonard’s chapel, long ago<br /> + We loitered idly where the tall<br /> +Fresh budded mountain ashes blow<br /> + Within thy desecrated wall:<br /> +The tough roots rent the tomb below,<br /> + The April birds sang clamorous,<br /> +We did not dream, we could not know<br /> + How hardly Fate would deal with us!</p> +<p class="poetry">O, broken minster, looking forth<br /> + Beyond the bay, above the town,<br /> +O, winter of the kindly North,<br /> + O, college of the scarlet gown,<br /> +And shining sands beside the sea,<br /> + And stretch of links beyond the sand,<br /> +Once more I watch you, and to me<br /> + It is as if I touched his hand!</p> +<p class="poetry">And therefore art thou yet more dear,<br /> + O, little city, grey and sere,<br /> +<a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>Though +shrunken from thine ancient pride<br /> + And lonely by thy lonely sea,<br /> +Than these fair halls on Isis’ side,<br /> + Where Youth an hour came back to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of waters green and clear,<br /> + Of willows and of poplars tall,<br /> +And, in the spring time of the year,<br /> + The white may breaking over all,<br /> +And Pleasure quick to come at call.<br /> + And summer rides by marsh and wold,<br /> +And Autumn with her crimson pall<br /> + About the towers of Magdalen rolled;<br /> +And strange enchantments from the past,<br /> + And memories of the friends of old,<br /> +And strong Tradition, binding fast<br /> + The “flying terms” with bands of +gold,—</p> +<p class="poetry">All these hath Oxford: all are dear,<br /> + But dearer far the little town,<br /> +<a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>The +drifting surf, the wintry year,<br /> + The college of the scarlet gown,<br /> + <i>St. Andrews by the Northern +sea</i>,<br /> + <i>That is a haunted town to +me</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>DESIDERIUM.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">IN MEMORIAM S. F. A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> call of homing +rooks, the shrill<br /> + Song of some bird that watches late,<br /> +The cries of children break the still<br /> + Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">And o’er your far-off tomb the grey<br /> + Sad twilight broods, and from the trees<br /> +The rooks call on their homeward way,<br /> + And are you heedless quite of these?</p> +<p class="poetry">The clustered rowan berries red<br /> + And Autumn’s may, the clematis,<br /> +They droop above your dreaming head,<br /> + And these, and all things must you miss?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>Ah, you that loved the twilight air,<br /> + The dim lit hour of quiet best,<br /> +At last, at last you have your share<br /> + Of what life gave so seldom, rest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep,<br /> + Or labour, nearer the Divine,<br /> +And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep,<br /> + And gentle as thy soul, is thine!</p> +<p class="poetry">So let it be! But could I know<br /> + That thou in this soft autumn eve,<br /> +This hush of earth that pleased thee so,<br /> + Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.</p> +<h3><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>RHYMES À LA MODE.</h3> +<h4><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Our</span> youth began with +tears and sighs,<br /> +With seeking what we could not find;<br /> +Our verses all were threnodies,<br /> +In elegiacs still we whined;<br /> +Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,<br /> +We sought and knew not what we sought.<br /> +We marvel, now we look behind:<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!<br /> +Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!<br /> +What? not content with seas and skies,<br /> +With rainy clouds and southern wind,<br /> +<a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>With +common cares and faces kind,<br /> +With pains and joys each morning brought?<br /> +Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though youth “turns spectre-thin and +dies,”<br /> +To mourn for youth we’re not inclined;<br /> +We set our souls on salmon flies,<br /> +We whistle where we once repined.<br /> +Confound the woes of human-kind!<br /> +By Heaven we’re “well deceived,” I wot;<br /> +Who hum, contented or resigned,<br /> +“Life’s more amusing than we thought”!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>O nate mecum</i>, worn and lined<br /> +Our faces show, but that is naught;<br /> +Our hearts are young ’neath wrinkled rind:<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<h4><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>THE +LAST CAST.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">THE ANGLER’S APOLOGY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Just</span> one cast more! +how many a year<br /> + Beside how many a pool and stream,<br /> +Beneath the falling leaves and sere,<br /> + I’ve sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my +dream!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreamed of the sport since April first<br /> + Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,<br /> +Adown the pastoral valleys burst<br /> + Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreamed of the singing showers that break,<br +/> + And sting the lochs, or near or far,<br /> +And rouse the trout, and stir “the take”<br /> + From Urigil to Lochinvar.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Dreamed of the kind propitious sky<br /> + O’er Ari Innes brooding grey;<br /> +The sea trout, rushing at the fly,<br /> + Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Brief are man’s days at best; +perchance<br /> + I waste my own, who have not seen<br /> +The castled palaces of France<br /> + Shine on the Loire in summer green.</p> +<p class="poetry">And clear and fleet Eurotas still,<br /> + You tell me, laves his reedy shore,<br /> +And flows beneath his fabled hill<br /> + Where Dian drave the chase of yore.</p> +<p class="poetry">And “like a horse unbroken” yet<br +/> + The yellow stream with rush and foam,<br /> +’Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,<br /> + Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>I may not see them, but I doubt<br /> + If seen I’d find them half so fair<br /> +As ripples of the rising trout<br /> + That feed beneath the elms of Yair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, Spring I’d meet by Tweed or Ail,<br +/> + And Summer by Loch Assynt’s deep,<br /> +And Autumn in that lonely vale<br /> + Where wedded Avons westward sweep,</p> +<p class="poetry">Or where, amid the empty fields,<br /> + Among the bracken of the glen,<br /> +Her yellow wreath October yields,<br /> + To crown the crystal brows of Ken.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal,<br /> + Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide,<br /> +You never heard the ringing reel,<br /> + The music of the water side!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>Though Gods have walked your woods among,<br /> + Though nymphs have fled your banks along;<br /> +You speak not that familiar tongue<br /> + Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.</p> +<p class="poetry">My cradle song,—nor other hymn<br /> + I’d choose, nor gentler requiem dear<br /> +Than Tweed’s, that through death’s twilight dim,<br +/> + Mourned in the latest Minstrel’s ear!</p> +<h4><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>TWILIGHT.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">SONNET.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER RICHEPIN.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Light</span> has flown!<br +/> + Through the grey<br /> + The wind’s way<br /> +The sea’s moan<br /> +Sound alone!<br /> + For the day<br /> + These repay<br /> +And atone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarce I know,<br /> +Listening so<br /> + To the streams<br /> + Of the sea,<br /> + If old dreams<br /> + Sing to me!</p> +<h4><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>BALLADE OF SUMMER.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">TO C. H. ARKCOLL.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> strawberry +pottles are common and cheap,<br /> +Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,<br /> +When midnight dances are murdering sleep,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And far from Fleet Street, far from here,<br /> +The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,<br /> +And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">When clamour that doves in the lindens keep<br +/> +Mingles with musical plash of the weir,<br /> +Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And better a crust and a beaker of beer,<br /> +With rose-hung hedges on either hand,<br /> +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>Than a +palace in town and a prince’s cheer,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">When big trout late in the twilight leap,<br /> +When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,<br /> +When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer,<br /> +Where kine knee deep in the water stand,<br /> +On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,<br +/> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<h4><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Between</span> the +moonlight and the fire<br /> +In winter twilights long ago,<br /> +What ghosts we raised for your desire<br /> +To make your merry blood run slow!<br /> +How old, how grave, how wise we grow!<br /> +No Christmas ghost can make us chill,<br /> +Save <i>those</i> that troop in mournful row,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<p class="poetry">The beasts can talk in barn and byre<br /> +On Christmas Eve, old legends know,<br /> +As year by year the years retire,<br /> +We men fall silent then I trow,<br /> +Such sights hath Memory to show,<br /> +Such voices from the silence thrill,<br /> +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>Such +shapes return with Christmas snow,—<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, children of the village choir,<br /> +Your carols on the midnight throw,<br /> +Oh bright across the mist and mire<br /> +Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!<br /> +Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,<br /> +Let’s cheerily descend the hill;<br /> +Be welcome all, to come or go,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, <i>sursum corda</i>, soon or slow<br /> +We part, like guests who’ve joyed their fill;<br /> +Forget them not, nor mourn them so,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<h4><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>LOVE’S EASTER.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">SONNET.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> died here<br /> + Long ago;<br /> +O’er his bier,<br /> + Lying low,<br /> + Poppies throw;<br /> + Shed no tear;<br /> + Year by year,<br /> + Roses blow!</p> +<p class="poetry">Year by year,<br /> +Adon—dear<br /> + To Love’s Queen—<br /> + Does not die!<br /> + Wakes when green<br /> + May is nigh!</p> +<h4><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> has just +“put her gown on” at Girton,<br /> + She is learned in Latin and Greek,<br /> +But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on<br /> + That the prudish remark with a shriek.<br /> +In her accents, perhaps, she is weak<br /> + (Ladies <i>are</i>, one observes with a sigh),<br /> +But in Algebra—<i>there</i> she’s unique,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p class="poetry">She can talk about putting a “spirt +on”<br /> + (I admit, an unmaidenly freak),<br /> +And she dearly delighteth to flirt on<br /> + A punt in some shadowy creek;<br /> +Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak,<br /> + She can swim as a swallow can fly;<br /> +<a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>She can +fence, she can put with a cleek,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p class="poetry">She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton,<br /> + Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,<br /> +Old tiles with the secular dirt on,<br /> + Old marbles with noses to seek.<br /> +And her Cobet she quotes by the week,<br /> + And she’s written on +<i>κεν</i> and on +<i>καὶ</i>,<br /> +And her service is swift and oblique,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Princess, like a rose is her cheek,<br /> + And her eyes are as blue as the sky,<br /> +And I’d speak, had I courage to speak,<br /> + But—her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<h4><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>RONSARD’S GRAVE.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> wells, ye founts +that fall<br /> + From the steep mountain wall,<br /> +That fall, and flash, and fleet<br /> + With silver +feet,</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye woods, ye streams that lave<br /> +The meadows with your wave,<br /> + Ye hills, and valley fair,<br /> + Attend my +prayer!</p> +<p class="poetry">When Heaven and Fate decree<br /> +My latest hour for me,<br /> + When I must pass away<br /> + From pleasant +day,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>I ask that none may break<br /> +The marble for my sake,<br /> + Wishful to make more fair<br /> + My +sepulchre.</p> +<p class="poetry">Only a laurel tree<br /> +Shall shade the grave of me,<br /> + Only Apollo’s bough<br /> + Shall guard me +now!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now shall I be at rest<br /> +Among the spirits blest,<br /> + The happy dead that dwell—<br /> + Where,—who +may tell?</p> +<p class="poetry">The snow and wind and hail<br /> +May never there prevail,<br /> + Nor ever thunder fall<br /> + Nor storm at +all.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>But always fadeless there<br /> +The woods are green and fair,<br /> + And faithful ever more<br /> + Spring to that +shore!</p> +<p class="poetry">There shall I ever hear<br /> +Alcaeus’ music clear,<br /> + And sweetest of all things<br /> + There <span +class="smcap">Sappho</span> sings.</p> +<h4><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>SAN +TERENZO.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(The village in the bay of Spezia, +near which Shelley was living<br /> +before the wreck of the <i>Don Juan</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mid</span> April seemed +like some November day,<br /> + When through the glassy waters, dull as lead<br /> +Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,<br /> + Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,<br +/> + Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay<br /> +Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,<br /> +The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,—<br /> + His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen<br +/> + Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.<br +/> + Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,<br /> +<a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>When +suddenly the forest glades were stirred<br /> + With waving pinions, and a great sea bird<br /> +Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1880.</p> +<h4><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>ROMANCE.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> Love dwelt in a +Northern land.<br /> + A grey tower in a forest green<br /> +Was hers, and far on either hand<br /> + The long wash of the waves was seen,<br /> +And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,<br /> + The woven forest boughs between!</p> +<p class="poetry">And through the silver Northern night<br /> + The sunset slowly died away,<br /> +And herds of strange deer, lily-white,<br /> + Stole forth among the branches grey;<br /> +About the coming of the light,<br /> + They fled like ghosts before the day!</p> +<p class="poetry">I know not if the forest green<br /> + Still girdles round that castle grey;<br /> +<a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>I know +not if the boughs between<br /> + The white deer vanish ere the day;<br /> +Above my Love the grass is green,<br /> + My heart is colder than the clay!</p> +<h4><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY.</h4> +<p class="poetry">I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves<br /> + Among the shining salmon-flies;<br /> +A song for summer-time that grieves<br /> + I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves.<br /> + Between grey sea and golden sheaves,<br /> +Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,<br /> +I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves<br /> + Among the shining salmon-flies.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">TO C. H. ARKCOLL.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> them boast of +Arabia, oppressed<br /> + By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;<br /> +In the isles of the East and the West<br /> + That are sweet with the cinnamon trees<br /> +Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas<br /> + Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,<br /> +<a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>We are +more than content, if you please,<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best<br /> + With the scent of the limes, when the bees<br /> +Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest,<br /> + While the vintagers lay at their ease,<br /> +Had he sung in our northern degrees,<br /> + He’d have sought a securer retreat,<br /> +He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest<br /> + And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,<br /> +And the soul of the Southron might rest,<br /> + And be perfectly happy with these;<br /> +But <i>we</i>, that were nursed on the knees<br /> + Of the hills of the North, we would fleet<br /> +Where our hearts might their longing appease<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah Constance, the land of our quest<br /> + It is far from the sounds of the street,<br /> +Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<h4><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>VILLANELLE.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF +“LES VILLANELLES.”)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Villanelle</span>, why art +thou mute?<br /> + Hath the singer ceased to sing?<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Many a pipe and scrannel flute<br /> + On the breeze their discords fling;<br /> +Villanelle, why art <i>thou</i> mute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sound of tumult and dispute,<br /> +Noise of war the echoes bring;<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>Once he sang of bud and shoot<br /> + In the season of the Spring;<br /> +Villanelle, why art thou mute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Fading leaf and falling fruit<br /> + Say, “The year is on the wing,<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere the axe lie at the root,<br /> + Ere the winter come as king,<br /> +Villanelle, why art thou mute?<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<h4><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.</h4> +<p class="poetry">Αιαῖ ταὶ +μαλάχαι μὲν +ἐπὰν κατὰ +κᾶπον +ὄλωντα<br /> +ὕστερον αὖ +ζώοντι καὶ +εἰς ἔτος +ἄλλο +φύοντι<br /> +ἄμμες δ’ ὁι +μεγάλοι +καὶ +καρτεροί, +οἱ σοφοὶ +ἄνδες<br /> +ὁππότε πρᾶτα +θάνωμες, +ἀνάκοοι ἐν +χθονὶ +κοίλᾳ,<br /> +εὕδομες +εὖ μάλα +μακρὸν +ἀτέρμονα +νήγρετον +ὕπνον.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Alas</span>, for us no +second spring,<br /> + Like mallows in the garden-bed,<br /> +For these the grave has lost his sting,<br /> + Alas, for <i>us</i> no second spring,<br /> + Who sleep without awakening,<br /> +And, dead, for ever more are dead,<br /> + Alas, for us no second spring,<br /> + Like mallows in the +garden-bed!</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,<br /> + That boast themselves the sons of men!<br /> +<a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>Once +they go down into the grave—<br /> + Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,—<br /> + They perish and have none to save,<br /> + They are sown, and are not raised again;<br /> +Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,<br /> + That boast themselves the sons of men!</p> +<h4><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>BALLADE OF CRICKET.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">TO T. W. LANG.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> burden of hard +hitting: slog away!<br /> +Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a +“four,”<br /> +And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,<br /> +That thou art in for an uncommon score.<br /> +Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,<br /> +And thou to rival <span class="smcap">Thornton</span> shalt +aspire,<br /> +When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg +before,”—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The burden of much bowling, when the stay<br /> +Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower,<br /> +When “bailers” break not in their wonted way,<br /> +And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore,<br /> +<a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>When +length balls shoot no more, ah never more,<br /> +When all deliveries lose their former fire,<br /> +When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The burden of long fielding, when the clay<br +/> +Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower’s downpour,<br /> +And running still thou stumblest, or the ray<br /> +Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,<br /> +And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,<br /> +Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer,”<br /> +And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither +shore<br /> +Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,<br /> +Than King among the old, who play no more,—<br /> +“<i>This</i> is the end of every man’s +desire!”</p> +<h4><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>THE +LAST MAYING.</h4> +<blockquote><p>“It is told of the last Lovers which watched +May-night in the<br /> +forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this +land, that<br /> +they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but the +very<br /> +Venus herself, who bade them ‘make such cheer as they +might,<br /> +for’ said she, ‘I shall live no more in these Woods, +nor shall ye<br /> +endure to see another May time.’”—<span +class="smcap">Edmund Gorliot</span>, “Of Phantasies and +Omens,” p. 149. (1573.)</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Whence</span> do ye +come, with the dew on your hair?<br /> +From what far land are the boughs ye bear,<br /> + The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses,<br +/> +The light burned white in your faces fair?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“In a falling fane have we built our +house,<br /> +With the dying Gods we have held carouse,<br /> + And our lips are wan from their wild caresses,<br /> +Our hands are filled with their holy boughs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>As we crossed the lawn in the dying day<br /> +No fairy led us to meet the May,<br /> + But the very Goddess loved by lovers,<br /> +In mourning raiment of green and grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was not decked as for glee and game,<br /> +She was not veiled with the veil of flame,<br /> + The saffron veil of the Bride that covers<br /> +The face that is flushed with her joy and shame.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the laden branches the scent and dew<br /> +Mingled and met, and as snow to strew<br /> + The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses,<br /> +White flowers fell as the night wind blew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tears and kisses on lips and eyes<br /> +Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs<br /> + For grief that abides, and joy that passes,<br /> +For pain that tarries and mirth that flies.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>It chanced as the dawning grew to grey<br /> +Pale and sad on our homeward way,<br /> + With weary lips, and palled with pleasure<br /> +The Goddess met us, farewell to say.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye have made your choice, and the better +part,<br /> +Ye chose” she said, “and the wiser art;<br /> + In the wild May night drank all the measure,<br /> +The perfect pleasure of heart and heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye shall walk no more with the +May,” she said,<br /> +“Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead?<br /> + Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen,<br +/> +Sing as of old, and be happy and wed?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yea, they are glad as of old; but +you,<br /> +Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew,<br /> + Abide no more, for the springs are frozen,<br /> +And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>“Ye shall never know Summer again like this;<br +/> +Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis,<br /> + No more in the nymphs’ and dryads’ +playtime<br /> +Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Though the flowers in your golden hair +be bright,<br /> +Your golden hair shall be waste and white<br /> + On faded brows ere another May time<br /> + Bring the spring, but no more +delight.”</p> +<h4><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span>HOMERIC UNITY.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sacred keep of +Ilion is rent<br /> + By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow<br /> +Through plains where Simois and Scamander went<br /> + To war with Gods and heroes long ago.<br /> + Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low<br /> +In rich Mycenæ, do the Fates relent:<br /> + The bones of Agamemnon are a show,<br /> +And ruined is his royal monument.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dust and awful treasures of the Dead,<br /> + Hath Learning scattered wide, but vainly thee,<br /> +Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead,<br /> + And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see<br +/> +The crown that burns on thine immortal head<br /> + Of indivisible supremacy!</p> +<h4><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>IN +TINTAGEL.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span> lady, lady, leave +the creeping mist,<br /> + And leave the iron castle by the sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, from the sea there came a ghost that +kissed<br /> + My lips, and so I cannot come to thee!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah lady, leave the cruel landward wind<br /> + That crusts the blighted flowers with bitter +foam!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, for his arms are cold and strong to +bind,<br /> + And I must dwell with him and make my home!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page183"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 183</span>LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, for the Spring is fair in Joyous Guard<br +/> + And down deep alleys sweet birds sing again.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I must tarry with the winter hard,<br /> + And with the bitter memory of pain,<br /> +Although the Spring be fair in Joyous Guard,<br /> + And in the gardens glad birds sing again!</p> +<h4><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>PISIDICÊ.</h4> +<p>The incident is from the Love Stories of Parthenius, who +preserved fragments of a lost epic on the expedition of Achilles +against Lesbos, an island allied with Troy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> daughter of the +Lesbian king<br /> + Within her bower she watched the war,<br /> +Far off she heard the arrows ring,<br /> + The smitten harness ring afar;<br /> +And, fighting from the foremost car,<br /> + Saw one that smote where all must flee;<br /> +More fair than the Immortals are<br /> + He seemed to fair Pisidicê!</p> +<p class="poetry">She saw, she loved him, and her heart<br /> + Before Achilles, Peleus’ son,<br /> +<a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>Threw +all its guarded gates apart,<br /> + A maiden fortress lightly won!<br /> +And, ere that day of fight was done,<br /> + No more of land or faith recked she,<br /> +But joyed in her new life begun,—<br /> + Her life of love, Pisidicê!</p> +<p class="poetry">She took a gift into her hand,<br /> + As one that had a boon to crave;<br /> +She stole across the ruined land<br /> + Where lay the dead without a grave,<br /> +And to Achilles’ hand she gave<br /> + Her gift, the secret postern’s key.<br /> +“To-morrow let me be thy slave!”<br /> + Moaned to her love Pisidicê.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere dawn the Argives’ clarion call<br /> + Rang down Methymna’s burning street;<br /> +They slew the sleeping warriors all,<br /> + They drove the women to the fleet,<br /> +<a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>Save +one, that to Achilles’ feet<br /> + Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he:<br /> +“For her no doom but death is meet,”<br /> + And there men stoned Pisidicê.</p> +<p class="poetry">In havens of that haunted coast,<br /> + Amid the myrtles of the shore,<br /> +The moon sees many a maiden ghost<br /> + Love’s outcast now and evermore.<br /> +The silence hears the shades deplore<br /> + Their hour of dear-bought love; but <i>thee</i><br +/> +The waves lull, ’neath thine olives hoar,<br /> + To dreamless rest, Pisidicê!</p> +<h4><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>FROM +THE EAST TO THE WEST.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Returning</span> from what +other seas<br /> + Dost thou renew thy murmuring,<br /> +Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of these<br /> + To tell, the shores where float and cling<br /> +My love, my hope, my memories?</p> +<p class="poetry">Say does my lady wake to note<br /> + The gold light into silver die?<br /> +Or do thy waves make lullaby,<br /> + While dreams of hers, like angels, float<br /> +Through star-sown spaces of the sky?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, would such angels came to me<br /> + That dreams of mine might speak with hers,<br /> +Nor wake the slumber of the sea<br /> + With words as low as winds that be<br /> +Awake among the gossamers!</p> +<h4><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>LOVE +THE VAMPIRE.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">Ο +ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ’Σ +ΤΟΝ ΤΑΦΟ.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> level sands and grey,<br /> + Stretch leagues and leagues away,<br /> +Down to the border line of sky and foam,<br /> + A spark of sunset burns,<br /> + The grey tide-water turns,<br /> +Back, like a ghost from her forbidden home!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Here, without pyre or +bier,<br /> + Light Love was buried here,<br /> +Alas, his grave was wide and deep enough,<br /> + Thrice, with averted head,<br /> + We cast dust on the dead,<br /> +And left him to his rest. An end of Love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page189"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 189</span>“No stone to roll away,<br /> + No seal of snow or clay,<br /> +Only soft dust above his wearied eyes,<br /> + But though the sudden sound<br /> + Of Doom should shake the ground,<br /> +And graves give up their ghosts, he will not rise!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> So each to each we said!<br +/> + Ah, but to either bed<br /> +Set far apart in lands of North and South,<br /> + Love as a Vampire came<br /> + With haggard eyes aflame,<br /> +And kissed us with the kisses of his mouth!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thenceforth in dreams must +we<br /> + Each other’s shadow see<br /> +Wand’ring unsatisfied in empty lands,<br /> + Still the desirèd face<br /> + Fleets from the vain embrace,<br /> +And still the shape evades the longing hands.</p> +<h4><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN’S PARADISE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> <i>is</i> a +Heaven, or here, or there,—<br /> +A Heaven there is, for me and you,<br /> +Where bargains meet for purses spare,<br /> +Like ours, are not so far and few.<br /> +Thuanus’ bees go humming through<br /> +The learned groves, ’neath rainless skies,<br /> +O’er volumes old and volumes new,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">There treasures bound for Longepierre<br /> +Keep brilliant their morocco blue,<br /> +There Hookes’ <i>Amanda</i> is not rare,<br /> +Nor early tracts upon Peru!<br /> +<a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>Racine +is common as Rotrou,<br /> +No Shakespeare Quarto search defies,<br /> +And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Eve,—not our first mother +fair,—<br /> +But Clovis Eve, a binder true;<br /> +Thither does Bauzonnet repair,<br /> +Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!<br /> +But never come the cropping crew<br /> +That dock a volume’s honest size,<br /> +Nor they that “letter” backs askew,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, do not Heber and De Thou,<br /> +And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise,<br /> +<i>La chasse au bouquin</i> still pursue<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise?</p> +<h4><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>BALLADE OF A FRIAR.</h4> +<p>(Clement Marot’s <i>Frère Lubin</i>, though +translated by Longfellow and others, has not hitherto been +rendered into the original measure of <i>ballade à double +refrain</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Some</span> ten or twenty +times a day,<br /> +To bustle to the town with speed,<br /> +To dabble in what dirt he may,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +But any sober life to lead<br /> +Upon an exemplary plan,<br /> +Requires a Christian indeed,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p class="poetry">Another’s wealth on his to lay,<br /> +With all the craft of guile and greed,<br /> +To leave you bare of pence or pay,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +<a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>But +watch him with the closest heed,<br /> +And dun him with what force you can,—<br /> +He’ll not refund, howe’er you plead,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p class="poetry">An honest girl to lead astray,<br /> +With subtle saw and promised meed,<br /> +Requires no cunning crone and grey,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +He preaches an ascetic creed,<br /> +But,—try him with the water can—<br /> +A dog will drink, whate’er his breed,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">In good to fail, in ill succeed,<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +In honest works to lead the van,<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<h4><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>BALLADE OF NEGLECTED MERIT. <a +name="citation194"></a><a href="#footnote194" +class="citation">[194]</a></h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">have</span> scribbled in +verse and in prose,<br /> +I have painted “arrangements in greens,”<br /> +And my name is familiar to those<br /> +Who take in the high class magazines;<br /> +I compose; I’ve invented machines;<br /> +I have written an “Essay on Rhyme”;<br /> +For my county I played, in my teens,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I have lived, as a chief, with the Crows;<br /> +I have “interviewed” Princes and Queens;<br /> +I have climbed the Caucasian snows;<br /> +I abstain, like the ancients, from beans,—<br /> +<a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>I’ve a guess what Pythagoras means<br /> +When he says that to eat them’s a crime,—<br /> +I have lectured upon the Essenes,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve a fancy as morbid as Poe’s,<br +/> +I can tell what is meant by “Shebeens,”<br /> +I have breasted the river that flows<br /> +Through the land of the wild Gadarenes;<br /> +I can gossip with Burton on <i>skenes</i>,<br /> +I can imitate Irving (the Mime),<br /> +And my sketches are quainter than Keene’s,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">So the tower of mine eminence leans<br /> +Like the Pisan, and mud is its lime;<br /> +I’m acquainted with Dukes and with Deans,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<h4><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>BALLADE OF RAILWAY NOVELS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> others praise +analysis<br /> + And revel in a “cultured” style,<br /> +And follow the subjective Miss <a name="citation196"></a><a +href="#footnote196" class="citation">[196]</a><br /> + From Boston to the banks of Nile,<br /> +Rejoice in anti-British bile,<br /> + And weep for fickle hero’s woe,<br /> +These twain have shortened many a mile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.</p> +<p class="poetry">These damsels of +“Democracy’s,”<br /> + How long they stop at every stile!<br /> +<a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 197</span>They +smile, and we are told, I wis,<br /> + Ten subtle reasons <i>why</i> they smile.<br /> +Give <i>me</i> your villains deeply vile,<br /> + Give me Lecoq, Jottrat, and Co.,<br /> +Great artists of the ruse and wile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, novel readers, tell me this,<br /> + Can prose that’s polished by the file,<br /> +Like great Boisgobey’s mysteries,<br /> + Wet days and weary ways beguile,<br /> +And man to living reconcile,<br /> + Like these whose every trick we know?<br /> +The agony how high they pile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, friend, how many and many a while<br /> + They’ve made the slow time fleetly flow,<br /> +And solaced pain and charmed exile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.</p> +<h4><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>THE +CLOUD CHORUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(FROM ARISTOPHANES.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Socrates speaks</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hither</span>, come hither, +ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves here;<br /> +Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,<br +/> +Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens +clear,<br /> +Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile’s +overflow,<br /> +Or whether you dwell by Mæotis mere<br /> +Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!<br /> +And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Clouds sing</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore<br /> +<a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>Of the +father of streams, from the sounding sea,<br /> +Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar.<br /> +Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we!<br /> +Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest,<br /> + On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,<br /> +On the waters that murmur east and west<br /> + On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice,<br /> +For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,<br /> + And the bright rays gleam;<br /> +Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare<br /> +In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere<br /> + From the height of the heaven, on the land and +air,<br /> + And the Ocean stream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,<br +/> + Let us gaze on Pallas’ citadel,<br /> + In the country of Cecrops, fair +and dear<br /> + The mystic land of the holy +cell,<br /> + Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,<br /> + And the gifts of the Gods that +know not stain<br /> +<a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>And a +people of mortals that know not fear.<br /> +For the temples tall, and the statues fair,<br /> +And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there,<br /> +The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers<br /> + And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,<br /> +And the musical voices that fill the hours,<br /> + And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing!</p> +<h4><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">“All these for +Fourpence.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, where are the +endless Romances<br /> +Our grandmothers used to adore?<br /> +The Knights with their helms and their lances,<br /> +Their shields and the favours they wore?<br /> +And the Monks with their magical lore?<br /> +They have passed to Oblivion and <i>Nox</i>,<br /> +They have fled to the shadowy shore,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p class="poetry">And where the poetical fancies<br /> +Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?<br /> +The lyric’s melodious expanses,<br /> +The Epics in cantos a score?<br /> +<a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>They +have been and are not: no more<br /> +Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,<br /> +Nor the ladies their languors deplore,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p class="poetry">And the Music! The songs and the +dances?<br /> +The tunes that Time may not restore?<br /> +And the tomes where Divinity prances?<br /> +And the pamphlets where Heretics roar?<br /> +They have ceased to be even a bore,—<br /> +The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,—<br /> +They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to +the core,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,<br /> +On the chest without cover or locks,<br /> +Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,—<br /> +They are <i>all</i> in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<h4><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>Νήνεμος +Αἰών.</h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">would</span> my days had +been in other times,<br /> +A moment in the long unnumbered years<br /> +That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk,<br /> +In peaceful lands that border on the Nile.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn<br /> +Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade<br /> +And shelter of the cool Himâlayan hills.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +That I in some old abbey of Touraine<br /> +Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life,<br /> +Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +When quiet life to death not terrible<br /> +Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead<br /> +Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>SCIENCE.</h3> +<h4><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>THE +BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS: A SAVAGE PARABASIS.</h4> +<p>In the <i>Aves</i> of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare +that they are older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of +men. This idea recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and +I have made the savage Bird-gods state their own case.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Birds sing</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> would have you to +wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked on the spit, and +are baked in the pan,<br /> +Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and +made war ere the making of Man!<br /> +For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the +world like a barque without rudder or sail<br /> +Floated on through the night, ’twas a Bird struck a light, +’twas a flash from the bright feather’d +Tonatiu’s <a name="citation207"></a><a href="#footnote207" +class="citation">[207]</a> tail!<br /> +<a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>Then the +Hawk <a name="citation208a"></a><a href="#footnote208a" +class="citation">[208a]</a> with some dry wood flew up in the +sky, and afar, safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon,<br /> +And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they +recked not of care that should come on them soon.<br /> +For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, <a +name="citation208b"></a><a href="#footnote208b" +class="citation">[208b]</a> and a-musing he fell at the close of +the day;<br /> +Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some +bark of the best, and a clawful of clay. <a +name="citation208c"></a><a href="#footnote208c" +class="citation">[208c]</a><br /> +And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without +feathers (his game was a puzzle to all);<br /> +Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, +lastly, he uttered a magical call:<br /> +Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped +up, who but they, and embracing they fell,<br /> +<a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>And +<i>this</i> was the baking of Man, and his making; but now +he’s forsaking his Father, Pundjel!<br /> +Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to +crown their desire who was found but the Wren?<br /> +To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for +this has a name in the memory of men! <a +name="citation209a"></a><a href="#footnote209a" +class="citation">[209a]</a><br /> +And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it +through without falter or fail?<br /> +Why the Hawk ’twas again, and great Indra to men would +appear, now and then, in the shape of a Quail,<br /> +While the Thlinkeet’s delight is the Bird of the Night, the +beak and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl. <a +name="citation209b"></a><a href="#footnote209b" +class="citation">[209b]</a><br /> +And who for man’s need brought the famed Suttung’s +mead? why ’tis told in the creed of the Sagamen strong,<br +/> +<a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>’Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from +the blue, and gave mortals the brew that’s the fountain of +song. <a name="citation210a"></a><a href="#footnote210a" +class="citation">[210a]</a><br /> +Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young +brave overawes when in need of a squaw,<br /> +Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct +you blame if he thus breaks the law?<br /> +For you still hold it wrong if a <i>lubra</i> <a +name="citation210b"></a><a href="#footnote210b" +class="citation">[210b]</a> belong to the self-same <i>kobong</i> +<a name="citation210c"></a><a href="#footnote210c" +class="citation">[210c]</a> that is Father of you,<br /> +To take <i>her</i> as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give +her a wide berth; quite right of you, too.<br /> +For <i>her</i> father, you know, is <i>your</i> father, the Crow, +and no blessing but woe from the wedding would spring.<br /> +Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and +were strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. <a +name="citation210d"></a><a href="#footnote210d" +class="citation">[210d]</a><br /> +<a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>Thus on +Earth’s little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your +gratitude’s small for the favours they’ve done,<br /> +And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you +plunder and kill the bright birds one by one;<br /> +There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and +the Moa has fled from the sight of the sun!</p> +<h4><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>MAN +AND THE ASCIDIAN.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">A MORALITY.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">The</span> Ancestor +remote of Man,”<br /> +Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,”<br /> +A scanty sort of water-beast<br /> +That, ninety million years at least<br /> +Before Gorillas came to be,<br /> +Went swimming up and down the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their ancestors the pious praise,<br /> +And like to imitate their ways;<br /> +How, then, does our first parent live,<br /> +What lesson has his life to give?</p> +<p class="poetry">Th’ Ascidian tadpole, young and gay,<br +/> +Doth Life with one bright eye survey,<br /> +<a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>His +consciousness has easy play.<br /> +He’s sensitive to grief and pain,<br /> +Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain,<br /> +And everything that fits the state<br /> +Of creatures we call vertebrate.<br /> +But age comes on; with sudden shock<br /> +He sticks his head against a rock!<br /> +His tail drops off, his eye drops in,<br /> +His brain’s absorbed into his skin;<br /> +He does not move, nor feel, nor know<br /> +The tidal water’s ebb and flow,<br /> +But still abides, unstirred, alone,<br /> +A sucker sticking to a stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">And we, his children, truly we<br /> +In youth are, like the Tadpole, free.<br /> +And where we would we blithely go,<br /> +Have brains and hearts, and feel and know.<br /> +Then Age comes on! To Habit we<br /> +Affix ourselves and are not free;<br /> +<a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>Th’ Ascidian’s rooted to a rock,<br /> +And we are bond-slaves of the clock;<br /> +Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law,<br /> +From these our heads we cannot draw:<br /> +Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in,<br /> +And daily thicker grows our skin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know<br /> +The wide world’s moving ebb and flow,<br /> +The clanging currents ring and shock,<br /> +But we are rooted to the rock.<br /> +And thus at ending of his span,<br /> +Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man<br /> +Revert to the Ascidian.</p> +<h4><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST.</h4> +<blockquote><p>“What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at +before the tall blonde<br /> +Aryan drove him into the corners of +Europe?”—<i>Brander Matthews</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> an ancient +Jest!<br /> +Palæolithic man<br /> +In his arboreal nest<br /> +The sparks of fun would fan;<br /> +My outline did he plan,<br /> +And laughed like one possessed,<br /> +’Twas thus my course began,<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am an early Jest!<br /> +Man delved, and built, and span;<br /> +Then wandered South and West<br /> +The peoples Aryan,<br /> +<a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span><i>I</i> +journeyed in their van;<br /> +The Semites, too, confessed,—<br /> +From Beersheba to Dan,—<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am an ancient Jest,<br /> +Through all the human clan,<br /> +Red, black, white, free, oppressed,<br /> +Hilarious I ran!<br /> +I’m found in Lucian,<br /> +In Poggio, and the rest,<br /> +I’m dear to Moll and Nan!<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, you may storm and ban—<br /> +Joe Millers <i>are</i> a pest,<br /> +Suppress me if you can!<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>CAMEOS.<br /> +<i>SONNETS FROM THE ANTIQUE</i>.</h3> +<p>These versions from classical passages are pretty close to the +original, except where compression was needed, as in the sonnets +from Pausanias and Apuleius, or where, as in the case of +fragments of Æschylus and Sophocles, a little expansion was +required.</p> +<h4><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>CAMEOS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>The</i></span><i> graver +by Apollo’s shrine</i>,<br /> + <i>Before the Gods had fled</i>, <i>would +stand</i>,<br /> + <i>A shell or onyx in his hand</i>,<br /> +<i>To copy there the face divine</i>,<br /> +<i>Till earnest touches</i>, <i>line by line</i>,<br /> + <i>Had wrought the wonder of the land</i><br /> + <i>Within a beryl’s golden band</i>,<br /> +<i>Or on some fiery opal fine</i>.<br /> +<i>Ah</i>! <i>would that as some ancient ring</i><br /> +<i>To us</i>, <i>on shell or stone</i>, <i>doth bring</i>,<br /> + <i>Art’s marvels perished long ago</i>,<br /> +<i>So I</i>, <i>within the sonnet’s space</i>,<br /> + <i>The large Hellenic lines might trace</i>,<br /> + <i>The statue in the +cameo</i>!</p> +<h4><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>HELEN ON THE WALLS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Iliad</i>, iii. 146.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Helen to the +Scæan portals came,<br /> +Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus,<br /> +Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus,<br /> +And many another of a noble name,<br /> +Famed warriors, now in council more of fame.<br /> +Always above the gates, in converse thus<br /> +They chattered like cicalas garrulous;<br /> +Who marking Helen, swore “it is no shame<br /> +That armed Achæan knights, and Ilian men<br /> +For such a woman’s sake should suffer long.<br /> +Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she.<br /> +Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again<br /> +Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong<br /> +To us, and children’s children yet to be.”</p> +<h4><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>THE +ISLES OF THE BLESSED.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Pindar</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 106, 107 +(95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the light of the +sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls of the True<br /> + Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where +reigneth the rose;<br /> +And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits +o’er them and through<br /> + Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where +the frankincense blows:<br /> +Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it +glows,<br /> + And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the +pleasures on Earth that they knew,<br /> +<a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>And in +chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy +those,<br /> + And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and +rises anew.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from +ancient pollution and stain,<br /> + These at the end of the age, be they prince, be they +singer, or seer;<br /> +These to the world shall be born as of old, shall be sages +again;<br /> + These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and +shall die, and shall hear<br /> +Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them +amain,<br /> + And their glory shall dwell in the land where they +dwelt, while year calls unto year!</p> +<h4><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>DEATH.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Æsch.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, +156.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all Gods Death +alone<br /> + Disdaineth sacrifice:<br /> +No man hath found or shown<br /> + The gift that Death would prize.<br /> + In vain are songs or sighs,<br /> +Pæan, or praise, or moan,<br /> + Alone beneath the skies<br /> +Hath Death no altar-stone!</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no head so dear<br /> + That men would grudge to Death;<br /> +Let Death but ask, we give<br /> +All gifts that we may live;<br /> +But though Death dwells so near,<br /> + We know not what he saith.</p> +<h4><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>NYSA.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Soph.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 235; +<i>Æsch.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 56.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> these +Nysæan shores divine<br /> + The clusters ripen in a day.<br /> + At dawn the blossom shreds away;<br /> +The berried grapes are green and fine<br /> +And full by noon; in day’s decline<br /> + They’re purple with a bloom of grey,<br /> + And e’er the twilight plucked are they,<br /> +And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">But through the night with torch in hand<br /> + Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare;<br /> + The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare,<br /> +The muffled timbrels swell and sound,<br /> + And drown the clamour of the band<br /> +Like thunder moaning underground.</p> +<h4><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>COLONUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Œd. Col.</i>, +667–705.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> be the fairest +homes the land can show,<br /> + The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here<br /> +The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear,<br /> +For well the deep green gardens doth she know.<br /> +Groves of the God, where winds may never blow,<br /> + Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer<br /> + Among the myriad-berried ivy dear,<br /> +Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.</p> +<p class="poetry">For here he loves to dwell, and here resort<br +/> +These Nymphs that are his nurses and his court,<br /> +And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs<br /> + The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair<br /> + Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair,<br +/> +Demeter, and to wreathe the Maiden’s brows!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page226"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 226</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yea</span>, here the dew of +Heaven upon the grain<br /> + Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring,<br /> + Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering,<br /> +That day by day revisiteth the plain.<br /> +Nor do the Goddesses the grove disdain,<br /> + But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing,<br /> + And here they love to weave their dancing ring,<br +/> +With Aphrodite of the golden rein.</p> +<p class="poetry">And here there springs a plant that knoweth +not<br /> + The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle,<br /> +Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot<br /> + It dwells, the grey-leaved olive; ne’er shall +guile<br /> +Nor force of foemen root it from the spot:<br /> + Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!</p> +<h4><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>THE +PASSING OF ŒDIPOUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Œd. Col.</i>, +1655–1666.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> Œdipous +departed, who may tell<br /> + Save Theseus only? for there neither came<br /> + The burning bolt of thunder, and the flame<br /> +To blast him into nothing, nor the swell<br /> +Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell.<br /> + But some diviner herald none may name<br /> + Called him, or inmost Earth’s abyss became<br +/> +The painless place where such a soul might dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Howe’er it chanced, untouched of +malady,<br /> + Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament,<br /> +With comfort on the twilight way he went,<br /> + Passing, if ever man did, wondrously;<br /> +From this world’s death to life divinely rent,<br /> + Unschooled in Time’s last lesson, how we +die.</p> +<h4><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>THE +TAMING OF TYRO.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Soph.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, +587.)</p> +<p>(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus, +cruelly entreated her in all things, and chiefly in this, that +she let sheer her beautiful hair.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> fierce +Sidero’s word the thralls drew near,<br /> + And shore the locks of Tyro,—like ripe corn<br +/> + They fell in golden harvest,—but forlorn<br /> +The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear,<br /> + Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn<br /> +Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer,<br /> +And drive her where, within the waters clear,<br /> + She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart<br /> + Who marking that wild thing made weak and tame,<br +/> + Broken, and grieving for her glory +gone,<br /> +Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart<br /> + Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came<br /> +And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!</p> +<h4><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>TO +ARTEMIS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hippol.</i>, <i>Eurip.</i>, +73–87.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> thee soft crowns +in thine untrampled mead<br /> + I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear;<br /> +Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed,<br /> + Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there;<br /> + Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair<br +/> +The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed<br /> +Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead<br /> + About the grassy close that is her care!</p> +<p class="poetry">Souls only that are gracious and serene<br /> + By gift of God, in human lore unread,<br /> +May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green<br /> + That now I wreathe for thine immortal head,<br /> +I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen,<br /> + And by thy whispered voice am comforted.</p> +<h4><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>CRITICISM OF LIFE.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hippol.</i>, <i>Eurip.</i>, +252–266.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Long</span> life hath +taught me many things, and shown<br /> + That lukewarm loves for men who die are best,<br /> + Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,<br /> +Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast;<br /> +Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,<br /> + Now cherished, now away at random thrown!<br /> + Grievous it is for other’s grief to moan,<br +/> +Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wise ruling this of life: but yet again<br /> + Perchance too rigid diet is not well;<br /> +He lives not best who dreads the coming pain<br /> + And shunneth each delight desirable:<br /> +<i>Flee thou extremes</i>, this word alone is plain,<br /> + Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!</p> +<h4><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>AMARYLLIS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(Theocritus, Idyll, iii.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Amaryllis, wilt +thou never peep<br /> + From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine?<br /> +Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep,<br /> + These didst thou long for, and all these are +thine.<br /> +Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep<br /> + Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine;<br /> +To watch thee waken, Love, and watch thee sleep,<br /> + Within thy grot below the shadowy pine.<br /> +Now know I Love, a cruel god is he,<br /> + The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear;<br +/> +And truly to the bone he burneth me.<br /> + But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne’er a tear,<br +/> +Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee;<br /> + Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.</p> +<h4><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>THE +CANNIBAL ZEUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">A.D. 160.</p> +<blockquote><p>Καὶ +ἔθυσε τὸ +βρέφος, καὶ +ἔσπεισεν +ἐπὶ τοῦ +βωμοῦ τὸ +αἶμα—έπὶ +τούτου +βωμοῦ τῷ Δὺ +θύoυσιν ἐv +ἀπoῤῥήτῳ.—<i>Paus.</i> +viii. 38.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">None</span> elder city doth +the Sun behold<br /> + Than ancient Lycosura; ’twas begun<br /> + Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun,<br /> +And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold<br /> +The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: ’tis told<br /> + That whoso fares within that forest dun<br /> + Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the Sun,<br /> +Ay, and within the year his life is cold!</p> +<p class="poetry">Hard by dwelt he <a name="citation232"></a><a +href="#footnote232" class="citation">[232]</a> who, while the +Gods deigned eat<br /> +At good men’s tables, gave them dreadful meat,<br /> + A child he slew:—his mountain altar green<br +/> +<a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>Here +still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me,<br /> +Piteous, but as they are let these things be,<br /> + And as from the beginning they have been!</p> +<h4><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>INVOCATION OF ISIS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Apuleius</i>, <i>Metamorph. +XI.</i>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> that art +sandalled on immortal feet<br /> + With leaves of palm, the prize of Victory;<br /> +Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet,<br /> + Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky,<br /> + I pray thee by all names men name thee by!<br /> +Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat!<br /> + Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh!<br /> +Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or, yet more dread, divine Persephone<br /> + From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near;<br +/> +Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea;<br /> + Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer:<br /> +By all thy names and rites I summon thee;<br /> + By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear!</p> +<h4><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>THE +COMING OF ISIS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">So</span> Lucius prayed, +and sudden, from afar,<br /> + Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright<br /> +Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star;<br /> + She came in deep blue raiment of the night,<br /> + Above her robes that now were snowy white,<br /> +Now golden as the moons of harvest are,<br /> +Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bar,<br /> + Now stained with all the lustre of the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he who saw her knew her, and he knew<br /> + The awful symbols borne in either hand;<br /> +The golden urn that laves Demeter’s dew,<br /> + The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand;<br +/> +The shaken seistron’s music, tinkling through<br /> + The temples of that old Osirian land.</p> +<h3><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>THE +SPINET.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>My</i></span><i> +heart’s an old Spinet with strings</i><br /> + <i>To laughter chiefly tuned</i>, <i>but some</i><br +/> + <i>That Fate has practised hard on</i>, +<i>dumb</i>,<br /> +<i>They answer not whoever sings</i>.<br /> +<i>The ghosts of half-forgotten things</i><br /> + <i>Will touch the keys with fingers numb</i>,<br /> + <i>The little mocking spirits come</i><br /> +<i>And thrill it with their fairy wings</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>A jingling harmony it makes</i><br /> + <i>My heart</i>, <i>my lyre</i>, <i>my old +Spinet</i>,<br /> +<i>And now a memory it wakes</i>,<br /> + <i>And now the music means</i> +“<i>forget</i>,”<br /> +<i>And little heed the player takes</i><br /> + <i>Howe’er the thoughtful critic fret</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +237</span>NOTES.</h2> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span>. <i>The Fortunate +Islands</i>. This piece is a rhymed loose version of a +passage in the <i>Vera Historia</i> of Lucian. The humorist +was unable to resist the temptation to introduce passages of +mockery, which are here omitted. Part of his description of +the Isles of the Blest has a close and singular resemblance to +the New Jerusalem of the Apocalypse. The clear River of +Life and the prodigality of gold and of precious stones may +especially be noticed.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span>. <i>Whoso doth taste the +Dead Men’s bread</i>, <i>&c.</i> This belief that +the living may visit, on occasion, the dwellings of the dead, but +can never return to earth if they taste the food of the departed, +is expressed in myths of worldwide distribution. Because +she ate the pomegranate seed, Persephone became subject to the +spell of Hades. In Apuleius, Psyche, when she visits the +place of souls, is advised to abstain from food. Kohl found +the myth among the Ojibbeways, Mr. Codrington among the Solomon +Islanders; it occurs in Samoa, in the Finnish Kalewala (where +Wainamoinen, in Pohjola, refrains from touching meat or drink), +and the belief has left its mark on the mediæval ballad of +Thomas of Ercildoune. When <a name="page240"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 240</span>he is in Fairy Land, the Fairy Queen +supplies him with the bread and wine of earth, and will not +suffer him to touch the fruits which grow “in this +countrie.” See also “Wandering Willie” in +<i>Redgauntlet</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span>. <i>The latest +minstrel</i>. “The sound of all others dearest to his +ear, the gentle ripple of Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly +audible as we knelt around the bed and his eldest son kissed and +closed his eyes.”—Lockhart’s <i>Life of +Scott</i>, vii., 394.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span>. <i>Ronsard’s +Grave</i>. This version ventures to condense the original +which, like most of the works of the Pleiad, is unnecessarily +long.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span>. <i>The snow</i>, <i>and +wind</i>, <i>and hail</i>. Ronsard’s rendering of the +famous passage in Odyssey, vi., about the dwellings of the +Olympians. The vision of a Paradise of learned lovers and +poets constantly recurs in the poetry of Joachim du Bellay, and +of Ronsard.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span>. <i>Romance</i>. +Suggested by a passage in <i>La Faustin</i>, by M. E. de +Goncourt, a curious moment of poetry in a repulsive piece of +<i>naturalisme</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span>. <i>M. Boulmier</i>, author +of <i>Les Villanelles</i>, died shortly after this +<i>villanelle</i> was written; he had not published a larger +collection on which he had been at work.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span>. <i>Edmund +Gorliot</i>. The bibliophile will not easily procure +Gorliot’s book, which is not in the catalogues. +Throughout <i>The Last Maying</i> there is reference to the +<i>Pervigilium Veneris</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span>. <i>Bird-Gods</i>. +Apparently Aristophanes preserved, in a burlesque form, the +remnants of a genuine myth. Almost all savage religions +have their bird-gods, and it is probable that Aristophanes did +not invent, but <a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>only used a surviving myth of which there are scarcely +any other traces in Greek literature.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span>. <i>Spinet</i>. The +accent is on the last foot, even when the word is written +<i>spinnet</i>. Compare the remarkable Liberty which Pamela +took with the 137th Psalm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>My Joys and Hopes all overthrown</i>,<br /> + <i>My Heartstrings almost broke</i>,<br /> +<i>Unfit my Mind for Melody</i>,<br /> + <i>Much more to bear a Joke</i>.<br /> +<i>But yet</i>, <i>if from my Innocence</i><br /> +<i>I</i>, <i>even in Thought</i>, <i>should slide</i>,<br /> +<i>Then</i>, <i>let my fingers quite forget</i><br /> + <i>The sweet Spinnet to guide</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><i>Pamela</i>, <i>or +Virtue Rewarded</i>, vol. i.,<br /> +p. 184., 1785.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by <span +class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson</span> & Co.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Edinburgh London</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote35"></a><a href="#citation35" +class="footnote">[35]</a> Cf. “Suggestions for +Academic Reorganization.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote46"></a><a href="#citation46" +class="footnote">[46]</a> The last three stanzas are by an +eminent Anthropologist.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48"></a><a href="#citation48" +class="footnote">[48]</a> Thomas of Ercildoune.</p> +<p><a name="footnote66"></a><a href="#citation66" +class="footnote">[66]</a> A knavish publisher.</p> +<blockquote><p><a name="footnote88"></a><a href="#citation88" +class="footnote">[88]</a> Vous y verrez, belle Julie,<br /> +Que ce chapeau tout maltraité<br /> +Fut, dans un instant de folie,<br /> +Par les Grâces même inventé.</p> +<p>‘À Julie.’ <i>Essais en Prose et en +Vers</i>, par Joseph Lisle; Paris. An. V. de la +République.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="footnote108"></a><a href="#citation108" +class="footnote">[108]</a> “I have broken many a pane +of glass marked Cruel Parthenissa,” says the aunt of Sophia +Western in <i>Tom Jones</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote194"></a><a href="#citation194" +class="footnote">[194]</a> N.B. There is only one +veracious statement in this ballade, which must not be accepted +as autobiographical.</p> +<p><a name="footnote196"></a><a href="#citation196" +class="footnote">[196]</a> These lines do <i>not</i> apply +to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller, and her delightful sisters, +<i>Gades adituræ mecum</i>, in the pocket edition of Mr. +James’s novels, if ever I go to Gades.</p> +<p><a name="footnote207"></a><a href="#citation207" +class="footnote">[207]</a> Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well +known to the Dacotahs and Zulus.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208a"></a><a href="#citation208a" +class="footnote">[208a]</a> The Hawk, in the myth of the +Galinameros of Central California, lit up the Sun.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208b"></a><a href="#citation208b" +class="footnote">[208b]</a> Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the +demiurge and “culture-hero” of several Australian +tribes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208c"></a><a href="#citation208c" +class="footnote">[208c]</a> The Creation of Man is thus +described by the Australians.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209a"></a><a href="#citation209a" +class="footnote">[209a]</a> In Andaman, Thlinkeet, +Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is the Prometheus Purphoros; +in Normandy this part is played by the Wren.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209b"></a><a href="#citation209b" +class="footnote">[209b]</a> Yehl: the Raven God of the +Thlinkeets.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210a"></a><a href="#citation210a" +class="footnote">[210a]</a> Indra stole Soma as a Hawk and as a +Quail. For Odin’s feat as a Bird, see +<i>Bragi’s Telling</i> in the Younger Edda.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210b"></a><a href="#citation210b" +class="footnote">[210b]</a> Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave +Australians their marriage laws.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210c"></a><a href="#citation210c" +class="footnote">[210c]</a> <i>Lubra</i>, a woman; kobong, +“totem;” or, to please Mr. Max Müller, +“otem.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote210d"></a><a href="#citation210d" +class="footnote">[210d]</a> The Crow was the Hawk’s +rival.</p> +<p><a name="footnote232"></a><a href="#citation232" +class="footnote">[232]</a> Lycaon, the first werewolf.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADES & RHYMES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3138-h.htm or 3138-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/1/3/3138 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver.12.12.00*END* + + + + + +This etext was produced from the 1911 Longmans, Green and Co. +"Ballades and Rhymes" edition by David Price, email +ccx074@coventry.ac.uk + + + + + +Ballads in Blue China and Verses and Translations + +by Andrew Lang + + + + +Introduction +BALLADES IN BLUE CHINA. + Ballade of Theocritus + Ballade of Cleopatra's Needle + Ballade of Roulette + Ballade of Sleep + Ballade of the Midnight Forest + Ballade of the Tweed + Ballade of the Book-hunter + Ballade of the Voyage to Cythera + Ballade of the Summer Term + Ballade of the Muse + Ballade against the Jesuits + Ballade of Dead Cities + Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf + Double Ballade of Primitive Man + Ballade of Autumn + Ballade of True Wisdom + Ballade of Worldly Wealth + Ballade of Life + Ballade of Blue China + Ballade of Dead Ladies + Villon's Ballade of Good Counsel + Ballade of the Bookworm + Valentine in form of Ballade + Ballade of Old Plays + Ballade of his Books + Ballade of the Dream + Ballade of the Southern Cross + Ballade of Aucassin + Ballade Amoureuse + Ballade of Queen Anne + Ballade of Blind Love + Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre + Dizain +VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS. + A Portrait of 1783 + The Moon's Minion + In Ithaca + Homer + The Burial of Moliere + Bion + Spring + Before the Snow + Villanelle + Natural Theology + The Odyssey + Ideal + The Fairy's Gift + Benedetta Ramus + Partant pour la Scribie + St. Andrews Bay + Woman and the Weed + + + + +"Rondeaux, BALLADES, +Chansons dizains, propos menus, +Compte moy qu'ils sont devenuz: +Se faict il plus rien de nouveau?" +CLEMENT MAROT, Dialogue de deux +Amoureux. + +"I love a ballad but even too well; if it be doleful matter, merrily +set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed, and sung lamentably." +A Winter's Tale, Act iv. sc. 3. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + + + +Thirty years have passed, like a watch in the night, since the +earlier of the two sets of verses here reprinted, Ballades in Blue +China, was published. At first there were but twenty-two Ballades; +ten more were added later. They appeared in a little white vellum +wrapper, with a little blue Chinese singer copied from a porcelain +jar; and the frontispiece was a little design by an etcher now +famous. + +Thirty years ago blue china was a kind of fetish in some circles, +aesthetic circles, of which the balladist was not a member. + +The ballade was an old French form of verse, in France revived by +Theodore de Banville, and restored to an England which had long +forgotten the Middle Ages, by my friends Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. +Edmund Gosse. They, so far as I can trust my memory, were the first +to reintroduce these pleasant old French nugae, while an anonymous +author let loose upon the town a whole winged flock of ballades of +amazing dexterity. This unknown balladist was Mr. Henley; perhaps +he was the first Englishman who ever burst into a double ballade, +and his translations of two of Villon's ballades into modern +thieves' slang were marvels of dexterity. Mr. Swinburne wrote a +serious ballade, but the form, I venture to think, is not 'wholly +serious,' of its nature, in modern days; and he did not persevere. +Nor did the taste for these trifles long endure. A good ballade is +almost as rare as a good sonnet, but a middling ballade is almost as +easily written as the majority of sonnets. Either form readily +becomes mechanical, cheap and facile. I have heard Mr. George +Meredith improvise a sonnet, a Petrarchian sonnet, obedient to the +rules, without pen and paper. He spoke 'and the numbers came'; he +sonneted as easily as a living poet, in his Eton days, improvised +Latin elegiacs and Greek hexameters. + +The sonnet endures. Mr. Horace Hutchinson wrote somewhere: "When +you have read a sonnet, you feel that though there does not seem to +be much of it, you have done a good deal, as when you have eaten a +cold hard-boiled egg." Still people keep on writing sonnets, +because the sonnet is wholly serious. In an English sonnet you +cannot easily be flippant of pen. A few great poets have written +immortal sonnets--among them are Milton, Wordsworth, and Keats. +Thus the sonnet is a thing which every poet thinks it worth while to +try at; like Felix Arvers, he may be made immortal by a single +sonnet. Even I have written one too many! Every anthologist wants +to anthologise it (The Odyssey); it never was a favourite of my own, +though it had the honour to be kindly spoken of by Mr. Matthew +Arnold. + +On the other hand, no man since Francois Villon has been +immortalised by a single ballade--Mais ou sont les neiges d'antan? + +To speak in any detail about these poor ballades would be to indite +a part of an autobiography. Looking back at the little book, 'what +memories it stirs' in one to whom + + +'Fate has done this wrong, +That I should write too much and live too long.' + + +The Ballade of the Tweed, and the Rhymes a la Mode, were dedicated +to the dearest of kinsmen, a cricketer and angler. The Ballade of +Roulette was inscribed to R. R., a gallant veteran of the Indian +Mutiny, a leader of Light Horse, whose father was a friend of Sir +Walter Scott. He was himself a Borderer, in whose defeats on the +green field of Roulette I often shared, long, long ago. + +So many have gone 'into the world of light' that it is a happiness +to think of him to whom The Ballade of Golf was dedicated, and to +remember that he is still capable of scoring his double century at +cricket, and of lifting the ball high over the trees beyond the +boundaries of a great cricket-field. Perhaps Mr. Leslie Balfour- +Melville will pardon me for mentioning his name, linked as it is +with so many common memories. 'One is taken and another left.' + +A different sort of memory attaches itself to A Ballade of Dead +Cities. It was written in a Theocritean amoebean way, in +competition with Mr. Edmund Gosse; he need not be ashamed of the +circumstance, for another shepherd, who was umpire, awarded the +prize (two kids just severed from their dams) to his victorious +muse. + +The Ballade of the Midnight Forest, the Ballade of the Huntress +Artemis, was translated from Theodore de Banville, whose beautiful +poem came so near the Greek, that when the late Provost of Oriel +translated a part of its English shadow into Greek hexameters, you +might suppose, as you read, that they were part of a lost Homeric +Hymn. + +I never wrote a double ballade, and stanzas four and five of the +Double Ballade of Primitive Man were contributed by the learned +doyen of Anthropology, Mr. E. B. Tylor, author of Primitive Culture. + +A tout seigneur tout honneur! + +In Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre, the Windburg is a hill in +Teviotdale. A Portrait of 1783 was written on a French engraving +after Morland, and Benedetta Ramus was addressed to a mezzotint (an +artist's proof, 'very rare'). It is after Romney and is 'My +Beauty,' as Charles Lamb said (once, unluckily, to a Scot) of an +engraving, after Lionardo, of some fair dead lady. + +The sonnet, Natural Theology, is the germ of what the author has +since written, in The Making of Religion, on the long neglected fact +that many of the lowest savages known share the belief in a +benevolent All Father and Judge of men. + +Concerning verses in Rhymes a la Mode, visitors to St. Andrews may +be warned not to visit St. Leonard's Chapel, described in the second +stanza of Almae Matres. In the writer's youth, and even in middle +age, + + +He loitered idly where the tall +Fresh-budded mountain-ashes blow +Within its desecrated wall. + + +The once beautiful ruins carpeted with grass and wild flowers have +been doubly desecrated by persons, academic persons, having +authority and a plentiful lack of taste. The slim mountain-ashes, +fair as the young palm-tree that Odysseus saw beside the shrine of +Apollo in Delos, have been cut down by the academic persons to whom +power is given. The grass and flowers have been rooted up. Hideous +little wooden fences enclose the grave slabs: a roof of a massive +kind has been dumped down on the old walls, and the windows, once so +graceful in their airy lines, have been glazed in a horrible manner, +while the ugly iron gate precludes entrance to a shrine which is now +a black and dismal dungeon. + + +"Oh, be that roof as lead to lead +Above the dull Restorer's head, +A Minstrel's malison is said!" + + +Notes explanatory are added to the Rhymes, and their information, +however valuable, need not here be repeated. + + + +A BALLADE OF XXXII BALLADES. + + + +Friend, when you bear a care-dulled eye, +And brow perplexed with things of weight, +And fain would bid some charm untie +The bonds that hold you all too strait, +Behold a solace to your fate, +Wrapped in this cover's china blue; +These ballades fresh and delicate, +This dainty troop of Thirty-two! + +The mind, unwearied, longs to fly +And commune with the wise and great; +But that same ether, rare and high, +Which glorifies its worthy mate, +To breath forspent is disparate: +Laughing and light and airy-new +These come to tickle the dull pate, +This dainty troop of Thirty-two. + +Most welcome then, when you and I, +Forestalling days for mirth too late, +To quips and cranks and fantasy +Some choice half-hour dedicate, +They weave their dance with measured rate +Of rhymes enlinked in order due, +Till frowns relax and cares abate, +This dainty troop of Thirty-two. + +ENVOY. + +Princes, of toys that please your state +Quainter are surely none to view +Than these which pass with tripping gait, +This dainty troop of Thirty-two. + +F. P. + + + +TO +AUSTIN DOBSON. +Un Livre est un ami qui change--quelquefois. +1880. +1888 + + + +BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER. +[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] +Id. viii. 56. + + + +Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar +Of London, and the bustling street, +For still, by the Sicilian shore, +The murmur of the Muse is sweet. +Still, still, the suns of summer greet +The mountain-grave of Helike, +And shepherds still their songs repeat +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. + +What though they worship Pan no more, +That guarded once the shepherd's seat, +They chatter of their rustic lore, +They watch the wind among the wheat: +Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat, +Where whispers pine to cypress tree; +They count the waves that idly beat +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea. + +Theocritus! thou canst restore +The pleasant years, and over-fleet; +With thee we live as men of yore, +We rest where running waters meet: +And then we turn unwilling feet +And seek the world--so must it be - +WE may not linger in the heat +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! + +ENVOY. + +Master,--when rain, and snow, and sleet +And northern winds are wild, to thee +We come, we rest in thy retreat, +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea! + + + +BALLADE OF CLEOPATRA'S NEEDLE. + + + +Ye giant shades of RA and TUM, +Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian, +If murmurs of our planet come +To exiles in the precincts wan +Where, fetish or Olympian, +To help or harm no more ye list, +Look down, if look ye may, and scan +This monument in London mist! + +Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb +That once were read of him that ran +When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum +Wild music of the Bull began; +When through the chanting priestly clan +Walk'd Ramses, and the high sun kiss'd +This stone, with blessing scored and ban - +This monument in London mist. + +The stone endures though gods be numb; +Though human effort, plot, and plan +Be sifted, drifted, like the sum +Of sands in wastes Arabian. +What king may deem him more than man, +What priest says Faith can Time resist +While THIS endures to mark their span - +This monument in London mist? + +ENVOY. + +Prince, the stone's shade on your divan +Falls; it is longer than ye wist: +It preaches, as Time's gnomon can, +This monument in London mist! + + + +BALLADE OF ROULETTE. +TO R. R. + + + +This life--one was thinking to-day, +In the midst of a medley of fancies - +Is a game, and the board where we play +Green earth with her poppies and pansies. +Let manque be faded romances, +Be passe remorse and regret; +Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances - +The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette. + +The lover will stake as he may +His heart on his Peggies and Nancies; +The girl has her beauty to lay; +The saint has his prayers and his trances; +The poet bets endless expanses +In Dreamland; the scamp has his debt: +How they gaze at the wheel as it glances - +The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette! + +The Kaiser will stake his array +Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances; +An Englishman punts with his pay, +And glory the jeton of France is; +Your artists, or Whistlers or Vances, +Have voices or colours to bet; +Will you moan that its motion askance is - +The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette? + +ENVOY. + +The prize that the pleasure enhances? +The prize is--at last to forget +The changes, the chops, and the chances - +The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette. + + + +BALLADE OF SLEEP. + + + +The hours are passing slow, +I hear their weary tread +Clang from the tower, and go +Back to their kinsfolk dead. +Sleep! death's twin brother dread! +Why dost thou scorn me so? +The wind's voice overhead +Long wakeful here I know, +And music from the steep +Where waters fall and flow. +Wilt thou not hear sue, Sleep? + +All sounds that might bestow +Rest on the fever'd bed, +All slumb'rous sounds and low +Are mingled here and wed, +And bring no drowsihed. +Shy dreams flit to and fro +With shadowy hair dispread; +With wistful eyes that glow, +And silent robes that sweep. +Thou wilt not hear me; no? +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? + +What cause hast thou to show +Of sacrifice unsped? +Of all thy slaves below +I most have laboured +With service sung and said; +Have cull'd such buds as blow, +Soft poppies white and red, +Where thy still gardens grow, +And Lethe's waters weep. +Why, then, art thou my foe? +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? + +ENVOY. + +Prince, ere the dark be shred +By golden shafts, ere now +And long the shadows creep: +Lord of the wand of lead, +Soft-footed as the snow, +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep! + + + +BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST. +AFTER THEODORE DE BANVILLE. + + + +Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, +Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree; +The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold, +And wolves still dread Diana roaming free +In secret woodland with her company. +'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite +When now the wolds are bathed in silver light, +And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey, +Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + +With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold +The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee, +Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold +Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, +The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy; +Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, +The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white, +With one long sigh for summers pass'd away; +The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + +She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold +She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee +Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd, +But her delight is all in archery, +And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she +More than her hounds that follow on the flight; +The goddess draws a golden bow of might +And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay. +She tosses loose her locks upon the night, +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + +ENVOY. + +Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, +The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight: +Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray +There is the mystic home of our delight, +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way. + + + +BALLADE OF THE TWEED. +(LOWLAND SCOTCH.) +TO T. W. LANG. + + + +The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe, +A weary cry frae ony toun; +The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa', +They praise a' ither streams aboon; +They boast their braes o' bonny Doon: +Gie ME to hear the ringing reel, +Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon +By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel! + +There's Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and a', +Where trout swim thick in May and June; +Ye'll see them take in showers o' snaw +Some blinking, cauldrife April noon: +Rax ower the palmer and march-broun, +And syne we'll show a bonny creel, +In spring or simmer, late or soon, +By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel! + +There's mony a water, great or sma', +Gaes singing in his siller tune, +Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw, +Beneath the sun-licht or the moon: +But set us in our fishing-shoon +Between the Caddon-burn and Peel, +And syne we'll cross the heather broun +By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel! + +ENVOY. + +Deil take the dirty, trading loon +Wad gar the water ca' his wheel, +And drift his dyes and poisons doun +By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel! + + + +BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER. + + + +In torrid heats of late July, +In March, beneath the bitter bise, +He book-hunts while the loungers fly, - +He book-hunts, though December freeze; +In breeches baggy at the knees, +And heedless of the public jeers, +For these, for these, he hoards his fees, - +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs. + +No dismal stall escapes his eye, +He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, +There soiled romanticists may lie, +Or Restoration comedies; +Each tract that flutters in the breeze +For him is charged with hopes and fears, +In mouldy novels fancy sees +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs. + +With restless eyes that peer and spy, +Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, +In dismal nooks he loves to pry, +Whose motto evermore is Spes! +But ah! the fabled treasure flees; +Grown rarer with the fleeting years, +In rich men's shelves they take their ease, - +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs! + +ENVOY. + +Prince, all the things that tease and please, - +Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, +What are they but such toys as these - +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs? + + + +BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA. +AFTER THEODORE DE BANVILLE. + + + +I know Cythera long is desolate; +I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green. +Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight +A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, +Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! +So be it, but we seek a fabled shore, +To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, +To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile; +There let us land, there dream for evermore: +"It may be we shall touch the happy isle." + +The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, +If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene +We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate +Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. +Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen +That veils the fairy coast we would explore. +Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar, +Come, for the air of this old world is vile, +Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; +"It may be we shall touch the happy isle." + +Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate +Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, +And ruined is the palace of our state; +But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen +The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. +Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, +Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, +Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile; +Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: +"It may be we shall touch the happy isle!" + +ENVOY. + +Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore. +Ah, singing birds your happy music pour! +Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; +Flit to these ancient gods we still adore: +"It may be we shall touch the happy isle!" + + + +BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM. +(Being a Petition, in the form of a Ballade, praying the University +Commissioners to spare the Summer Term.) + + + +When Lent and Responsions are ended, +When May with fritillaries waits, +When the flower of the chestnut is splendid, +When drags are at all of the gates +(Those drags the philosopher "slates" +With a scorn that is truly sublime), {1} +Life wins from the grasp of the Fates +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + +When wickets are bowl'd and defended, +When Isis is glad with "the Eights," +When music and sunset are blended, +When Youth and the summer are mates, +When Freshmen are heedless of "Greats," +And when note-books are cover'd with rhyme, +Ah, these are the hours that one rates - +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + +When the brow of the Dean is unbended +At luncheons and mild tete-a-tetes, +When the Tutor's in love, nor offended +By blunders in tenses or dates; +When bouquets are purchased of Bates, +When the bells in their melody chime, +When unheeded the Lecturer prates - +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + +ENVOY. + +Reformers of Schools and of States, +Is mirth so tremendous a crime? +Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates - +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time! + + + +BALLADE OF THE MUSE +Quem tu, Melpomene, semel. + + + +The man whom once, Melpomene, +Thou look'st on with benignant sight, +Shall never at the Isthmus be +A boxer eminent in fight, +Nor fares he foremost in the flight +Of Grecian cars to victory, +Nor goes with Delian laurels dight, +The man thou lov'st, Melpomene! + +Not him the Capitol shall see, +As who hath crush'd the threats and might +Of monarchs, march triumphantly; +But Fame shall crown him, in his right +Of all the Roman lyre that smite +The first; so woods of Tivoli +Proclaim him, so her waters bright, +The man thou lov'st, Melpomene! + +The sons of queenly Rome count ME, +Me too, with them whose chants delight, - +The poets' kindly company; +Now broken is the tooth of spite, +But thou, that temperest aright +The golden lyre, all, all to thee +He owes--life, fame, and fortune's height - +The man thou lov'st, Melpomene! + +ENVOY. + +Queen, that to mute lips could'st unite +The wild swan's dying melody! +Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite - +The man thou lov'st, Melpomene? + + + +BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS. +AFTER LA FONTAINE. + + + +Rome does right well to censure all the vain +Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach +That earthly joys are damnable! 'Tis plain +We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach; +No, amble on! We'll gain it, one and all; +The narrow path's a dream fantastical, +And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven +Mirth from the world. We'll scale the heavenly wall, +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! + +He does not hold a man may well be slain +Who vexes with unseasonable speech, +You MAY do murder for five ducats gain, +NOT for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach; +He ventures (most consistently) to teach +That there are certain cases that befall +When perjury need no good man appal, +And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven. +Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl, +"Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!" + +"For God's sake read me somewhat in the strain +Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!" +Why should I name them all? a mighty train - +So many, none may know the name of each. +Make these your compass to the heavenly beach, +These only in your library instal: +Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small, +Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven; +I tell you, and the common voice doth call, +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! + +ENVOY. + +SATAN, that pride did hurry to thy fall, +Thou porter of the grim infernal hall - +Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven! +To shun thy shafts, to 'scape thy hellish thrall, +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven! + + + +BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES. +TO E. W. GOSSE. + + + +The dust of Carthage and the dust +Of Babel on the desert wold, +The loves of Corinth, and the lust, +Orchomenos increased with gold; +The town of Jason, over-bold, +And Cherson, smitten in her prime - +What are they but a dream half-told? +Where are the cities of old time? + +In towns that were a kingdom's trust, +In dim Atlantic forests' fold, +The marble wasteth to a crust, +The granite crumbles into mould; +O'er these--left nameless from of old - +As over Shinar's brick and slime, +One vast forgetfulness is roll'd - +Where are the cities of old time? + +The lapse of ages, and the rust, +The fire, the frost, the waters cold, +Efface the evil and the just; +From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, +To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd +Beneath the wave a dreamy chime +That echo'd from the mountain-hold, - +"Where are the cities of old time?" + +ENVOY. + +Prince, all thy towns and cities must +Decay as these, till all their crime, +And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust +Where are the cities of old time. + + + +BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF. +(EAST FIFESHIRE.) + + + +There are laddies will drive ye a ba' +To the burn frae the farthermost tee, +But ye mauna think driving is a', +Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, +Ye may land in the sand or the sea; +And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen, +Tak' the word that an auld man'll gie, +Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! + +The auld folk are crouse, and they craw +That their putting is pawky and slee; +In a bunker they're nae gude ava', +But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. +And a lassie can putt--ony she, - +Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, +But a cleek-shot's the billy for me, +Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! + +I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw, +I hae play'd since the year thirty-three, +I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw, +And I trust I may play till I dee; +And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, +For I speak o' the thing I hae seen - +Tom Morris, I ken, will agree - +Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! + +ENVOY. + +Prince, faith you're improving a wee, +And, Lord, man, they tell me you're keen; +Tak' the best o' advice that can be, +Tak' aye tent to be up on the green! + + + +DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN. +TO J. A. FARRER. + + + +He lived in a cave by the seas, +He lived upon oysters and foes, +But his list of forbidden degrees, +An extensive morality shows; +Geological evidence goes +To prove he had never a pan, +But he shaved with a shell when he chose, - +'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. + +He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, +He worshipp'd the river that flows, +And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, +And bogies, and serpents, and crows; +He buried his dead with their toes +Tucked-up, an original plan, +Till their knees came right under their nose, - +'Twas the manner of Primitive Man. + +His communal wives, at his ease, +He would curb with occasional blows; +Or his State had a queen, like the bees +(As another philosopher trows): +When he spoke, it was never in prose, +But he sang in a strain that would scan, +For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) +'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! + +On the coasts that incessantly freeze, +With his stones, and his bones, and his bows; +On luxuriant tropical leas, +Where the summer eternally glows, +He is found, and his habits disclose +(Let theology say what she can) +That he lived in the long, long agos, +'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! + +From a status like that of the Crees, +Our society's fabric arose, - +Develop'd, evolved, if you please, +But deluded chronologists chose, +In a fancied accordance with Mos +es, 4000 B. C. for the span +When he rushed on the world and its woes, - +'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! + +But the mild anthropologist,--HE'S +Not RECENT inclined to suppose +Flints Palaeolithic like these, +Quaternary bones such as those! +In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.'s, +First epoch, the Human began, +Theologians all to expose, - +'Tis the MISSION of Primitive Man. + +ENVOY. + +MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, +But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, +For, as every Darwinian knows, +'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! {2} + + + +BALLADE OF AUTUMN. + + + +We built a castle in the air, +In summer weather, you and I, +The wind and sun were in your hair, - +Gold hair against a sapphire sky: +When Autumn came, with leaves that fly +Before the storm, across the plain, +You fled from me, with scarce a sigh - +My Love returns no more again! + +The windy lights of Autumn flare: +I watch the moonlit sails go by; +I marvel how men toil and fare, +The weary business that they ply! +Their voyaging is vanity, +And fairy gold is all their gain, +And all the winds of winter cry, +"My Love returns no more again!" + +Here, in my castle of Despair, +I sit alone with memory; +The wind-fed wolf has left his lair, +To keep the outcast company. +The brooding owl he hoots hard by, +The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane, +The Rhymer's soothest prophecy,--{3} +My Love returns no more again! + +ENVOY. + +Lady, my home until I die +Is here, where youth and hope were slain: +They flit, the ghosts of our July, +My Love returns no more again! + + + +BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM. + + + +While others are asking for beauty or fame, +Or praying to know that for which they should pray, +Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame, +Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey, +The sage has found out a more excellent way - +To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers, +And his humble petition puts up day by day, +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + +Inventors may bow to the God that is lame, +And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray; +Philosophers kneel to the God without name, +Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they; +The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay, +The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours; +But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay, +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + +Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame +(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day +With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)! +O grant me a house by the beach of a bay, +Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play +With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! +And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + +ENVOY. + +Gods, grant or withhold it; your "yea" and your "nay" +Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours: +But life IS worth living, and here we would stay +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers. + + + +BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH. +(OLD FRENCH.) + + + +Money taketh town and wall, +Fort and ramp without a blow; +Money moves the merchants all, +While the tides shall ebb and flow; +Money maketh Evil show +Like the Good, and Truth like lies: +These alone can ne'er bestow +Youth, and health, and Paradise. + +Money maketh festival, +Wine she buys, and beds can strow; +Round the necks of captains tall, +Money wins them chains to throw, +Marches soldiers to and fro, +Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes: +These alone can ne'er bestow +Youth, and health, and Paradise. + +Money wins the priest his stall; +Money mitres buys, I trow, +Red hats for the Cardinal, +Abbeys for the novice low; +Money maketh sin as snow, +Place of penitence supplies: +These alone can ne'er bestow +Youth, and health, and Paradise. + + + +BALLADE OF LIFE. +"'Dead and gone,'--a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life." +Death's Jest Book. + + + +Say, fair maids, maying +In gardens green, +In deep dells straying, +What end hath been +Two Mays between +Of the flowers that shone +And your own sweet queen - +"They are dead and gone!" + +Say, grave priests, praying +In dule and teen, +From cells decaying +What have ye seen +Of the proud and mean, +Of Judas and John, +Of the foul and clean? - +"They are dead and gone!" + +Say, kings, arraying +Loud wars to win, +Of your manslaying +What gain ye glean? +"They are fierce and keen, +But they fall anon, +On the sword that lean, - +They are dead and gone!" + +ENVOY. + +Through the mad world's scene, +We are drifting on, +To this tune, I ween, +"They are dead and gone!" + + + +BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA. + + + +There's a joy without canker or cark, +There's a pleasure eternally new, +'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark +Of china that's ancient and blue; +Unchipp'd all the centuries through +It has pass'd, since the chime of it rang, +And they fashion'd it, figure and hue, +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + +These dragons (their tails, you remark, +Into bunches of gillyflowers grew), - +When Noah came out of the ark, +Did these lie in wait for his crew? +They snorted, they snapp'd, and they slew, +They were mighty of fin and of fang, +And their portraits Celestials drew +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + +Here's a pot with a cot in a park, +In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, +Where the lovers eloped in the dark, +Lived, died, and were changed into two +Bright birds that eternally flew +Through the boughs of the may, as they sang: +'Tis a tale was undoubtedly true +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + +ENVOY. + +Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, +Kind critic, your "tongue has a tang" +But--a sage never heeded a shrew +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + + +BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES. +(AFTER VILLON.) + + + +Nay, tell me now in what strange air +The Roman Flora dwells to-day. +Where Archippiada hides, and where +Beautiful Thais has passed away? +Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, +By mere or stream,--around, below? +Lovelier she than a woman of clay; +Nay, but where is the last year's snow? + +Where is wise Heloise, that care +Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? +All for her love he found a snare, +A maimed poor monk in orders grey; +And where's the Queen who willed to slay +Buridan, that in a sack must go +Afloat down Seine,--a perilous way - +Nay, but where is the last year's snow? + +Where's that White Queen, a lily rare, +With her sweet song, the Siren's lay? +Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? +Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? +Good Joan, whom English did betray +In Rouen town, and burned her? No, +Maiden and Queen, no man may say; +Nay, but where is the last year's snow? + +ENVOY. + +Prince, all this week thou need'st not pray, +Nor yet this year the thing to know. +One burden answers, ever and aye, +"Nay, but where is the last year's snow?" + + + +VILLON'S BALLADE +OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE. + + + +Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, +Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, +You'll burn your fingers at the feat, +And howl like other folks that fry. +All evil folks that love a lie! +And where goes gain that greed amasses, +By wile, and trick, and thievery? +'Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + +Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, +With game, and shame, and jollity, +Go jigging through the field and street, +With MYST'RY and MORALITY; +Win gold at GLEEK,--and that will fly, +Where all you gain at PASSAGE passes, - +And that's? You know as well as I, +'Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + +Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, +Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, +Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, +If you've no clerkly skill to ply; +You'll gain enough, with husbandry, +But--sow hempseed and such wild grasses, +And where goes all you take thereby? - +'Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + +ENVOY. + +Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, +Your linen that the snow surpasses, +Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly, +'Tis all to taverns and to lasses! + + + +BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM. + + + +Far in the Past I peer, and see +A Child upon the Nursery floor, +A Child with books upon his knee, +Who asks, like Oliver, for more! +The number of his years is IV, +And yet in Letters hath he skill, +How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! +The Books I loved, I love them still! + +One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three +They commonly bestowed of yore) +The Love of Books, the Golden Key +That opens the Enchanted Door; +Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o'er +And o'er doth JACK his Giants kill, +And there is all ALADDIN'S store, - +The Books I loved, I love them still! + +Take all, but leave my Books to me! +These heavy creels of old we bore +We fill not now, nor wander free, +Nor wear the heart that once we wore; +Not now each River seems to pour +His waters from the Muses' hill; +Though something's gone from stream and shore, +The Books I loved, I love them still! + +ENVOY. + +Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, +We bow submissive to thy will, +Ah grant, by some benign decree, +The Books I loved--to love them still. + + + +VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE. + + + +The soft wind from the south land sped, +He set his strength to blow, +From forests where Adonis bled, +And lily flowers a-row: +He crossed the straits like streams that flow, +The ocean dark as wine, +To my true love to whisper low, +To be your Valentine. + +The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, +Besprent with drifted snow, +"I'll send an April day," she said, +"To lands of wintry woe." +He came,--the winter's overthrow +With showers that sing and shine, +Pied daisies round your path to strow, +To be your Valentine. + +Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, +'Neath suns Egyptian glow, +In places of the princely dead, +By the Nile's overflow, +The swallow preened her wings to go, +And for the North did pine, +And fain would brave the frost her foe, +To be your Valentine. + +ENVOY. + +Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, +Their various voice combine; +But that they crave on ME bestow, +To be your Valentine. + + + +BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS. +(Les OEuvres de Monsieur Moliere. A Paris, chez Louys Billaine, a +la Palme. M.D.C. LXVI.) + + + +LA COUR. + +When these Old Plays were new, the King, +Beside the Cardinal's chair, +Applauded, 'mid the courtly ring, +The verses of Moliere; +Point-lace was then the only wear, +Old Corneille came to woo, +And bright Du Parc was young and fair, +When these Old Plays were new! + +LA COMEDIE. + +How shrill the butcher's cat-calls ring, +How loud the lackeys swear! +Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling, +At Brecourt, fuming there! +The Porter's stabbed! a Mousquetaire +Breaks in with noisy crew - +'Twas all a commonplace affair +When these Old Plays were new! + +LA VILLE. + +When these Old Plays were new! They bring +A host of phantoms rare: +Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, +Old faces peaked with care: +Menage's smirk, de Vise's stare, +The thefts of Jean Ribou,--{4} +Ah, publishers were hard to bear +When these Old Plays were new. + +ENVOY. + +Ghosts, at your Poet's word ye dare +To break Death's dungeons through, +And frisk, as in that golden air, +When these Old Plays were new! + + + +BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS. + + + +Here stand my books, line upon line +They reach the roof, and row by row, +They speak of faded tastes of mine, +And things I did, but do not, know: +Old school books, useless long ago, +Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in, +Could scarcely answer "yes" or "no" - +The many things I've tried and failed in! + +Here's Villon, in morocco fine, +(The Poet starved, in mud and snow,) +Glatigny does not crave to dine, +And Rene's tears forget to flow. +And here's a work by Mrs. Crowe, +With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in; +Ah, all my ghosts have gone below - +The many things I've tried and failed in! + +He's touched, this mouldy Greek divine, +The Princess D'Este's hand of snow; +And here the arms of D'Hoym shine, +And there's a tear-bestained Rousseau: +Here's Carlyle shrieking "woe on woe" +(The first edition, this, he wailed in); +I once believed in him--but oh, +The many things I've tried and failed in! + +ENVOY. + +Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine +Quite other balances are scaled in; +May you succeed, though I repine - +"The many things I've tried and failed in!" + + + +BALLADE OF THE DREAM. + + + +Swift as sound of music fled +When no more the organ sighs, +Sped as all old days are sped, +So your lips, love, and your eyes, +So your gentle-voiced replies +Mine one hour in sleep that seem, +Rise and flit when slumber flies, +Following darkness like a dream! + +Like the scent from roses red, +Like the dawn from golden skies, +Like the semblance of the dead +From the living love that hies, +Like the shifting shade that lies +On the moonlight-silvered stream, +So you rise when dreams arise, +Following darkness like a dream! + +Could some spell, or sung or said, +Could some kindly witch and wise, +Lull for aye this dreaming head +In a mist of memories, +I would lie like him who lies +Where the lights on Latmos gleam, - +Wake not, find not Paradise +Following darkness like a dream! + +ENVOY. + +Sleep, that giv'st what Life denies, +Shadowy bounties and supreme, +Bring the dearest face that flies +Following darkness like a dream! + + + +BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS. + + + +Fair islands of the silver fleece, +Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, +Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, +Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; +OUR bolt is shot, our tale is told, +Our ship of state in storms may toss, +But ye are young if we are old, +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! + +Ay, WE must dwindle and decrease, +Such fates the ruthless years unfold; +And yet we shall not wholly cease, +We shall not perish unconsoled; +Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold +Within the sea's inviolate fosse, +And boast her sons of English mould, +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! + +All empires tumble--Rome and Greece - +Their swords are rust, their altars cold! +For us, the Children of the Seas, +Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled, +For us, in Fortune's books enscrolled, +I read no runes of hopeless loss; +Nor--while YE last--our knell is tolled, +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! + +ENVOY. + +Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold, +When o'er thy grave has grown the moss, +Still Rule Australia shall be trolled +In Islands of the Southern Cross! + + + +BALLADE OF AUCASSIN + + + +Where smooth the southern waters run +By rustling leagues of poplars grey, +Beneath a veiled soft southern sun, +We wandered out of yesterday, +Went maying through that ancient May +Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet, +And loitered by the fountain spray +With Aucassin and Nicolette. + +The grass-grown paths are trod of none +Where through the woods they went astray. +The spider's traceries are spun +Across the darkling forest way. +There come no knights that ride to slay, +No pilgrims through the grasses wet, +No shepherd lads that sang their say +With Aucassin and Nicolette! + +'Twas here by Nicolette begun +Her bower of boughs and grasses gay; +'Scaped from the cell of marble dun +'Twas here the lover found the fay, +Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play! +How hard we find it to forget +Who fain would dwell with them as they, +With Aucassin and Nicolette. + +ENVOY. + +Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay! +For youth, for love we both regret. +How fair they seem, how far away, +With Aucassin and Nicolette! + + + +BALLADE AMOUREUSE. +AFTER FROISSART. + + + +Not Jason nor Medea wise, +I crave to see, nor win much lore, +Nor list to Orpheus' minstrelsies; +Nor Her'cles would I see, that o'er +The wide world roamed from shore to shore; +Nor, by St. James, Penelope, - +Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: +To see my Love suffices me! + +Virgil and Cato, no man vies +With them in wealth of clerkly store; +I would not see them with mine eyes; +Nor him that sailed, sans sail nor oar, +Across the barren sea and hoar, +And all for love of his ladye; +Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more: +To see my Love suffices me! + +I heed not Pegasus, that flies +As swift as shafts the bowmen pour; +Nor famed Pygmalion's artifice, +Whereof the like was ne'er before; +Nor Oleus, that drank of yore +The salt wave of the whole great sea: +Why? dost thou ask? 'Tis as I swore - +To see my Love suffices me! + + + +BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE. + + + +The modish Airs, +The Tansey Brew, +The SWAINS and FAIRS +In curtained Pew; +Nymphs KNELLER drew, +Books BENTLEY read, - +Who knows them, who? +QUEEN ANNE is dead! + +We buy her Chairs, +Her China blue, +Her red-brick Squares +We build anew; +But ah! we rue, +When all is said, +The tale o'er-true, +QUEEN ANNE is dead! + +Now BULLS and BEARS, +A ruffling Crew, +With Stocks and Shares, +With Turk and Jew, +Go bubbling through +The Town ill-bred: +The World's askew, +QUEEN ANNE is dead! + +ENVOY. + +Friend, praise the new; +The old is fled: +Vivat FROU-FROU! +QUEEN ANNE is dead! + + + +BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE. +(AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.) + + + +Who have loved and ceased to love, forget +That ever they loved in their lives, they say; +Only remember the fever and fret, +And the pain of Love, that was all his pay; +All the delight of him passes away +From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met - +Too late did I love you, my love, and yet +I shall never forget till my dying day. + +Too late were we 'ware of the secret net +That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray; +There were we taken and snared, Lisette, +In the dungeon of La Fausse Amistie; +Help was there none in the wide world's fray, +Joy was there none in the gift and the debt; +Too late we knew it, too long regret - +I shall never forget till my dying day! + +We must live our lives, though the sun be set, +Must meet in the masque where parts we play, +Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet; +Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay: +But while snows of winter or flowers of May +Are the sad year's shroud or coronet, +In the season of rose or of violet, +I shall never forget till my dying day! + +ENVOY. + +Queen, when the clay is my coverlet, +When I am dead, and when you are grey, +Vow, where the grass of the grave is wet, +"I shall never forget till my dying day!" + + + +BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE. + + + +Here I'd come when weariest! + Here the breast +Of the Windburg's tufted over +Deep with bracken; here his crest + Takes the west, +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover. + +Silent here are lark and plover; + In the cover +Deep below the cushat best +Loves his mate, and croons above her + O'er their nest, +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover. + +Bring me here, Life's tired-out guest, + To the blest +Bed that waits the weary rover, +Here should failure be confessed; + Ends my quest, +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover! + +ENVOY. + +Friend, or stranger kind, or lover, +Ah, fulfil a last behest, + Let me rest +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover! + + + +DIZAIN. + + + +As, to the pipe, with rhythmic feet +In windings of some old-world dance, +The smiling couples cross and meet, +Join hands, and then in line advance, +So, to these fair old tunes of France, +Through all their maze of to-and-fro, +The light-heeled numbers laughing go, +Retreat, return, and ere they flee, +One moment pause in panting row, +And seem to say--Vos plaudite! + +A.D. + + + +ORONTE--Ce ne sont point de ces grands vers pompeux, +Mais de petits vers! +"Le Misanthrope," Acte i., Sc. 2. + + + +A PORTRAIT OF 1783. + + + +Your hair and chin are like the hair +And chin Burne-Jones's ladies wear; +You were unfashionably fair + In '83; +And sad you were when girls are gay, +You read a book about Le vrai +Merite de l'homme, alone in May. +What CAN it be, +Le vrai merite de l'homme? Not gold, +Not titles that are bought and sold, +Not wit that flashes and is cold, + But Virtue merely! +Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau +(And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know), +You bade the crowd of foplings go, + You glanced severely, +Dreaming beneath the spreading shade +Of 'that vast hat the Graces made;' {5} +So Rouget sang--while yet he played + With courtly rhyme, +And hymned great Doisi's red perruque, +And Nice's eyes, and Zulme's look, +And dead canaries, ere he shook + The sultry time +With strains like thunder. Loud and low +Methinks I hear the murmur grow, +The tramp of men that come and go + With fire and sword. +They war against the quick and dead, +Their flying feet are dashed with red, +As theirs the vintaging that tread + Before the Lord. +O head unfashionably fair, +What end was thine, for all thy care? +We only see thee dreaming there: + We cannot see +The breaking of thy vision, when +The Rights of Man were lords of men, +When virtue won her own again + In '93. + + + +THE MOON'S MINION. +(FROM THE PROSE OF C. BAUDELAIRE.) + + + +Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear, + The wand'ring waters, green and grey; +Thine eyes are wonderful and clear, + And deep, and deadly, even as they; +The spirit of the changeful sea + Informs thine eyes at night and noon, +She sways the tides, and the heart of thee, + The mystic, sad, capricious Moon! + +The Moon came down the shining stair + Of clouds that fleck the summer sky, +She kissed thee, saying, "Child, be fair, + And madden men's hearts, even as I; +Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet, + That know me and are known of me; +The lover thou shalt never meet, + The land where thou shalt never be!" + +She held thee in her chill embrace, + She kissed thee with cold lips divine, +She left her pallor on thy face, + That mystic ivory face of thine; +And now I sit beside thy feet, + And all my heart is far from thee, +Dreaming of her I shall not meet, + And of the land I shall not see! + + + +IN ITHACA. + + + +"And now am I greatly repenting that ever I left my life with thee, +and the immortality thou didst promise me."--Letter of Odysseus to +Calypso. Luciani Vera Historia. + +'Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was o'er + With all the waves and wars, a weary while, + Grew restless in his disenchanted isle, +And still would watch the sunset, from the shore, +Go down the ways of gold, and evermore + His sad heart followed after, mile on mile, + Back to the Goddess of the magic wile, +Calypso, and the love that was of yore. + +Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee yet + To look across the sad and stormy space, + Years of a youth as bitter as the sea, +Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet, + Because, within a fair forsaken place + The life that might have been is lost to thee. + + + +HOMER. + + + +Homer, thy song men liken to the sea + With all the notes of music in its tone, + With tides that wash the dim dominion +Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee +Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me + Thy verse seems as the River of source unknown + That glasses Egypt's temples overthrown +In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally. + +No wiser we than men of heretofore + To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast; +Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore, + As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast +His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore + Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past. + + + +THE BURIAL OF MOLIERE. +(AFTER J. TRUFFIER.) + + + +Dead--he is dead! The rouge has left a trace + On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear, + Even while the people laughed that held him dear +But yesterday. He died,--and not in grace, +And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace + To slander him whose Tartuffe made them fear, + And gold must win a passage for his bier, +And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place. + +Ah, Moliere, for that last time of all, + Man's hatred broke upon thee, and went by, +And did but make more fair thy funeral. + Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily, +Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall, + For torch, the stars along the windy sky! + + + +BION. + + + +The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying + The Muses heard, and loved it long ago; +They heard the hollows of the hills replying, + They heard the weeping water's overflow; +They winged the sacred strain--the song undying, + The song that all about the world must go, - +When poets for a poet dead are sighing, + The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low. + +And dirge to dirge that answers, and the weeping + For Adonais by the summer sea, +The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping + Far from 'the forest ground called Thessaly'), +These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping, + And are but echoes of the moan for thee. + + + +SPRING. +(AFTER MELEAGER.) + + + +Now the bright crocus flames, and now + The slim narcissus takes the rain, +And, straying o'er the mountain's brow, + The daffodilies bud again. + The thousand blossoms wax and wane +On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough, +But fairer than the flowers art thou, + Than any growth of hill or plain. + +Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown, +That my Love's feet may tread it down, + Like lilies on the lilies set: +My Love, whose lips are softer far +Than drowsy poppy petals are, + And sweeter than the violet! + + + +BEFORE THE SNOW. +(AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.) + + + +The winter is upon us, not the snow, + The hills are etched on the horizon bare, + The skies are iron grey, a bitter air, +The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro. +One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow, + Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare. + Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where +The black trees seem to shiver as you go. + +Beyond lie church and steeple, with their old + And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer, +A sharper gust would shake them from their hold, + Yet up that path, in summer of the year, +And past that melancholy pile we strolled + To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer. + + + +VILLANELLE. +TO LUCIA. + + + +Apollo left the golden Muse + And shepherded a mortal's sheep, +Theocritus of Syracuse! + +To mock the giant swain that woo's + The sea-nymph in the sunny deep, +Apollo left the golden Muse. + +Afield he drove his lambs and ewes, + Where Milon and where Battus reap, +Theocritus of Syracuse! + +To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise + Below the dim Sicilian steep +Apollo left the golden Muse. + +Ye twain did loiter in the dews, + Ye slept the swain's unfever'd sleep, +Theocritus of Syracuse! + +That Time might half with HIS confuse + Thy songs,--like his, that laugh and leap, - +Theocritus of Syracuse, + Apollo left the golden Muse! + + + +NATURAL THEOLOGY. +[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] OD. III. 47. + + + +"Once CAGN was like a father, kind and good, + But He was spoiled by fighting many things; +He wars upon the lions in the wood, + And breaks the Thunder-bird's tremendous wings; +But still we cry to Him,--'We are thy brood - + O Cagn, be merciful!' and us He brings +To herds of elands, and great store of food, + And in the desert opens water-springs." + +So Qing, King Nqsha's Bushman hunter, spoke, + Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair, +When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke + Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air: +And suddenly in each man's heart there woke + A pang, a sacred memory of prayer. + + + +THE ODYSSEY. + + + +As one that for a weary space has lain + Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine + In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, +Where that AEaean isle forgets the main, +And only the low lutes of love complain, + And only shadows of wan lovers pine, + As such an one were glad to know the brine +Salt on his lips, and the large air again, - +So gladly, from the songs of modern speech + Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free + Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, + And through the music of the languid hours, +They hear like ocean on a western beach + The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. + + + +IDEAL. + + + +Suggested by a female head in wax, of unknown date, but supposed to +be either of the best Greek age, or a work of Raphael or Leonardo. +It is now in the Lille Museum. + +Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, + Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, +A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, + Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe! + Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, +While magical his fingers o'er thee strayed, + Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio +Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade + +That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn, + Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace, + And that grave tenderness of thine awhile; +Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face + Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn, + And only on thy lips I find her smile. + + + +THE FAIRY'S GIFT. +"Take short views."--SYDNEY SMITH. + + + +The Fays that to my christ'ning came + (For come they did, my nurses taught me), +They did not bring me wealth or fame, + 'Tis very little that they brought me. +But one, the crossest of the crew, + The ugly old one, uninvited, +Said, "I shall be avenged on YOU, + My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!" +With magic juices did she lave + Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure. +Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave, + HERS is the present that I treasure! + +The bore whom others fear and flee, + I do not fear, I do not flee him; +I pass him calm as calm can be; + I do not cut--I do not see him! +And with my feeble eyes and dim, + Where YOU see patchy fields and fences, +For me the mists of Turner swim - + MY "azure distance" soon commences! +Nay, as I blink about the streets + Of this befogged and miry city, +Why, almost every girl one meets + Seems preternaturally pretty! +"Try spectacles," one's friends intone; + "You'll see the world correctly through them." +But I have visions of my own, + And not for worlds would I undo them. + + + +BENEDETTA RAMUS. +AFTER ROMNEY. + + + +Mysterious Benedetta! who +That Reynolds or that Romney drew +Was ever half so fair as you, + Or is so well forgot? +These eyes of melancholy brown, +These woven locks, a shadowy crown, +Must surely have bewitched the town; + Yet you're remembered not. + +Through all that prattle of your age, +Through lore of fribble and of sage +I've read, and chiefly Walpole's page, + Wherein are beauties famous; +I've haunted ball, and rout, and sale; +I've heard of Devonshire and Thrale, +And all the Gunnings' wondrous tale, + But nothing of Miss Ramus. + +And yet on many a lattice pane +'Fair Benedetta,' scrawled in vain +By lovers' diamonds, must remain + To tell us you were cruel. {6} +But who, of all that sighed and swore - +Wits, poets, courtiers by the score - +Did win and on his bosom wore + This hard and lovely jewel? + +Why, dilettante records say +An Alderman, who came that way, +Woo'd you and made you Lady Day; + You crowned his civic flame. +It suits a melancholy song +To think your heart had suffered wrong, +And that you lived not very long + To be a City dame! + +Perchance you were a Mourning Bride, +And conscious of a heart that died +With one who fell by Rodney's side + In blood-stained Spanish bays. +Perchance 'twas no such thing, and you +Dwelt happy with your knight and true, +And, like Aurora, watched a crew + Of rosy little Days! + +Oh, lovely face and innocent! +Whatever way your fortunes went, +And if to earth your life was lent + For little space or long, +In your kind eyes we seem to see +What Woman at her best may be, +And offer to your memory + An unavailing song! + + + +PARTANT POUR LA SCRIBIE. +[Scribie, on the north-east littoral of Bohemia, is the land of +stage conventions. It is named after the discoverer, M. Scribe.] + + + +A pleasant land is Scribie, where + The light comes mostly from below, +And seems a sort of symbol rare + Of things at large, and how they go, +In rooms where doors are everywhere + And cupboards shelter friend or foe. + +This is a realm where people tell + Each other, when they chance to meet, +Of things that long ago befell - + And do most solemnly repeat +Secrets they both know very well, + Aloud, and in the public street! + +A land where lovers go in fours, + Master and mistress, man and maid; +Where people listen at the doors + Or 'neath a table's friendly shade, +And comic Irishmen in scores + Roam o'er the scenes all undismayed: + +A land where Virtue in distress + Owes much to uncles in disguise; +Where British sailors frankly bless + Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes; +And where the villain doth confess, + Conveniently, before he dies! + +A land of lovers false and gay; + A land where people dread a "curse;" +A land of letters gone astray, + Or intercepted, which is worse; +Where weddings false fond maids betray, + And all the babes are changed at nurse. + +Oh, happy land, where things come right! + We of the world where things go ill; +Where lovers love, but don't unite; + Where no one finds the Missing Will - +Dominion of the heart's delight, + Scribie, we've loved, and love thee still! + + + +ST. ANDREW'S BAY. + + + +NIGHT. + +Ah, listen through the music, from the shore, +The "melancholy long-withdrawing roar"; +Beneath the Minster, and the windy caves, +The wide North Ocean, marshalling his waves +Even so forlorn--in worlds beyond our ken - +May sigh the seas that are not heard of men; +Even so forlorn, prophetic of man's fate, +Sounded the cold sea-wave disconsolate, +When none but God might hear the boding tone, +As God shall hear the long lament alone, +When all is done, when all the tale is told, +And the gray sea-wave echoes as of old! + +MORNING. + +This was the burden of the Night, + The saying of the sea, +But lo! the hours have brought the light, +The laughter of the waves, the flight +Of dipping sea-birds, foamy white, + That are so glad to be! +"Forget!" the happy creatures cry, + "Forget Night's monotone, +With us be glad in sea and sky, +The days are thine, the days that fly, +The days God gives to know him by, + And not the Night alone!" + + + +WOMAN AND THE WEED. +(FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND MYTH.) + + + +In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes began, +How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man! +From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam, +There was nobody waiting to welcome him home; +For the Man had been made, but the woman had NOT, +And Earth was a highly detestable spot. +Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled, +They did not converse but they struggled and howled, +For Man had no tact--he would ne'er take a hint, +And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint. + +So Man was alone, and he wished he could see +On the Earth some one like him, but fairer than he, +With locks like the red gold, a smile like the sun, +To welcome him back when his hunting was done. +And he sighed for a voice that should answer him still, +Like the affable Echo he heard on the hill: +That should answer him softly and always agree, +AND OH, Man reflected, HOW NICE IT WOULD BE! + +So he prayed to the Gods, and they stooped to his prayer, +And they spoke to the Sun on his way through the air, +And he married the Echo one fortunate morn, +And Woman, their beautiful daughter, was born! +The daughter of Sunshine and Echo she came +With a voice like a song, with a face like a flame; +With a face like a flame, and a voice like a song, +And happy was Man, but it was not for long! + +For weather's a painfully changeable thing, +Not always the child of the Echo would sing; +And the face of the Sun may be hidden with mist, +And his child can be terribly cross if she list. +And unfortunate Man had to learn with surprise +That a frown's not peculiar to masculine eyes; +That the sweetest of voices can scold and can sneer, +And cannot be answered--like men--with a spear. + +So Man went and called to the Gods in his woe, +And they answered him--"Sir, you would needs have it so: +And the thing must go on as the thing has begun, +She's immortal--your child of the Echo and Sun. +But we'll send you another, and fairer is she, +This maiden with locks that are flowing and free. +This maiden so gentle, so kind, and so fair, +With a flower like a star in the night of her hair. +With her eyes like the smoke that is misty and blue, +With her heart that is heavenly, and tender, and true. +She will die in the night, but no need you should mourn, +You shall bury her body and thence shall be born +A weed that is green, that is fragrant and fair, +With a flower like the star in the night of her hair. +And the leaves must ye burn till they offer to you +Soft smoke, like her eyes that are misty and blue. + +"And the smoke shall ye breathe and no more shall ye fret, +But the child of the Echo and Sun shall forget: +Shall forget all the trouble and torment she brings, +Shall bethink ye of none but delectable things; +And the sound of the wars with your brethren shall cease, +While ye smoke by the camp-fire the great pipe of peace." +So the last state of Man was by no means the worst, +The second gift softened the sting of the first. + +Nor the child of the Echo and Sun doth he heed +When he dreams with the Maid that was changed to the weed; +Though the Echo be silent, the Sun in a mist, +The Maid is the fairest that ever was kissed. +And when tempests are over and ended the rain, +And the child of the Sunshine is sunny again, +He comes back, glad at heart, and again is at one +With the changeable child of the Echo and Sun. + + + +Footnotes: + +{1} Cf. "Suggestions for Academic Reorganization." + +{2} The last three stanzas are by an eminent Anthropologist. + +{3} Thomas of Ercildoune. + +{4} A knavish publisher. + +{5} Vous y verrez, belle Julie, +Que ce chapeau tout maltraite +Fut, dans un instant de folie, +Par les Graces meme invente. + +'A Julie.' Essais en Prose et en Vers, par Joseph Lisle; Paris. +An. V. de la Republique. + +{6} "I have broken many a pane of glass marked Cruel Parthenissa," +says the aunt of Sophia Western in Tom Jones. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Ballads in Blue China, by Andrew Lang + diff --git a/old/3138.zip b/old/3138.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..a3e5aea --- /dev/null +++ b/old/3138.zip |
