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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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