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diff --git a/3138-h/3138-h.htm b/3138-h/3138-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1f2d73 --- /dev/null +++ b/3138-h/3138-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,5252 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Ballades & Rhymes, by Andrew Lang</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .5em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, 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: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADES & RHYMES*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1911 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by +David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/coverb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Cover and spine" +title= +"Cover and spine" + src="images/covers.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/fpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Man playing at harpsichord" +title= +"Man playing at harpsichord" + src="images/fps.jpg" /> +</a></p> +<h1>BALLADES & RHYMES</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>From Ballades in Blue +China</i><br /> +<i>and Rhymes à la Mode</i></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">BY</span><br +/> +A. LANG</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“<i>Hom</i>, +<i>c’est une ballade</i>!”—<span +class="smcap">Vadius</span>.</p> +</blockquote> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">LONGMANS, GREEN AND CO.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA</span><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall">1911</span></p> +<p style="text-align: center">All rights reserved</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p class="poetry"> <a +name="pageiv"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +iv</span>“<i>Rondeaux</i>, <span +class="smcap">Ballades</span>,<br /> +<i>Chansons dizains</i>, <i>propos menus</i>,<br /> +<i>Compte moy qu’ilz sont devenuz</i>:<br /> +<i>Se faict il plus rien de nouveau</i>?”</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><span +class="smcap">Clement Marot</span>, <i>Dialogue de deux +Amoureux</i>.</p> +<blockquote><p>“I love a ballad but even too well; if it be +doleful matter, merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing +indeed, and sung lamentably.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>A Winter’s Tale</i>, Act +iv. sc. 3.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2><a name="pagev"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +v</span>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">BALLADES IN BLUE +CHINA.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Theocritus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page15">15</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Cleopatra’s Needle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page17">17</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Roulette</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page19">19</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Sleep</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page21">21</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Midnight Forest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page24">24</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Tweed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page27">27</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Book-hunter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page29">29</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Voyage to Cythera</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page31">31</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Summer Term</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page34">34</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Muse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page36">36</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade against the Jesuits</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page38">38</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Dead Cities</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page40">40</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page42">42</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Double Ballade of Primitive Man</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page44">44</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Autumn</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page47">47</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of True Wisdom</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page49">49</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Worldly Wealth</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page51">51</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevi"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vi</span>Ballade of Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page53">53</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Blue China</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page55">55</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Dead Ladies</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page57">57</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Villon’s Ballade of Good Counsel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Bookworm</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page61">61</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Valentine in form of Ballade</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page63">63</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Old Plays</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page65">65</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of his Books</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page67">67</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Dream</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page69">69</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of the Southern Cross</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page71">71</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Aucassin</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page73">73</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade Amoureuse</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page75">75</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Queen Anne</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page77">77</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of Blind Love</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page79">79</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page81">81</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Dizain</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page83">83</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">VERSES AND +TRANSLATIONS.</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>A Portrait of 1783</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page87">87</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Moon’s Minion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page90">90</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>In Ithaca</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page92">92</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Homer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page93">93</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Burial of Molière</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page94">94</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Bion</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page95">95</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Spring</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page96">96</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>Before the Snow</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page97">97</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page98">98</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Natural Theology</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page100">100</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Odyssey</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page102">102</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Ideal</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page103">103</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>The Fairy’s Gift</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page105">105</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Benedetta Ramus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page107">107</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Partant pour la Scribie</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page110">110</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>St. Andrews Bay</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page112">112</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p>Woman and the Weed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page114">114</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2"><p style="text-align: center">RHYMES À LA +MODE</p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Ballade Dedicatory</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page123">123</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Fortunate Islands</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Almae Matres</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page139">139</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Desiderium</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page143">143</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Rhymes à la Mode</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page145">145</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Middle Age</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page147">147</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Last Cast</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page140">140</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Twilight</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page153">153</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Summer</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page154">154</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Christmas Ghosts</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page156">156</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Love’s Easter</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page158">158</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of the Girton Girl</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page159">159</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> <a name="pageviii"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. viii</span>Ronsard’s Grave</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> San Terenzo</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page164">164</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Romance</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of his own Country</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page168">168</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Villanelle</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Triolets after Moschus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page173">173</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Cricket</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page175">175</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Last Maying</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Homeric Unity</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page181">181</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> In Tintagel</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page182">182</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Pisidicê</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page184">184</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> From the East to the West</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page187">187</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Love the Vampire</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page188">188</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of the Book-man’s +Paradise</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page190">190</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of a Friar</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page192">192</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Neglected Merit</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page194">194</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Railway Novels</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page196">196</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Cloud Chorus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page198">198</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of Literary Fame</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page201">201</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> + +<td><p> Νήνεμος +Αἰών</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page203">203</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Science</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page205">205</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Barbarous Bird-Gods</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Man and the Ascidian</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page212">212</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Ballade of the Primitive Jest</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page215">215</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><a name="pageix"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +ix</span><span class="smcap">Cameos</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Cameos</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page217">217</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Helen on the Walls</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Isles of the Blessed</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page221">221</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Death</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page223">223</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Nysa</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page224">224</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Colonus (I.)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page225">225</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> ,, (II.)</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page226">226</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Passing of Œdipous</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page227">227</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Taming of Tyro</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page228">228</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> To Artemis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page229">229</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Criticism of Life</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page230">230</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Amaryllis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page231">231</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Cannibal Zeus</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page232">232</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> Invocation of Isis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page234">234</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p> The Coming of Isis</p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page235">235</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">The Spinet</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p><span class="smcap">Notes</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page237">237</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +1</span>INTRODUCTION</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Thirty</span> years have passed, like a +watch in the night, since the earlier of the two sets of verses +here reprinted, <i>Ballades in Blue China</i>, was +published. At first there were but twenty-two +<i>Ballades</i>; ten more were added later. They appeared +in a little white vellum wrapper, with a little blue Chinese +singer copied from a porcelain jar; and the frontispiece was a +little design by an etcher now famous.</p> +<p>Thirty years ago blue china was a kind of fetish in some +circles, æsthetic circles, of which the balladist was not a +member.</p> +<p>The <i>ballade</i> was an old French form of verse, in France +revived by Théodore de Banville, and restored to an +England which had long forgotten the Middle Ages, by my friends +Mr. Austin Dobson and Mr. Edmund Gosse. They, so far as I +can trust my memory, were the first to reintroduce these pleasant +old French <a name="page2"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +2</span><i>nugae</i>, while an anonymous author let loose upon +the town a whole winged flock of <i>ballades</i> of amazing +dexterity. This unknown balladist was Mr. Henley; perhaps +he was the first Englishman who ever burst into a <i>double +ballade</i>, and his translations of two of Villon’s +ballades into modern thieves’ slang were marvels of +dexterity. Mr. Swinburne wrote a serious <i>ballade</i>, +but the form, I venture to think, is not ‘wholly +serious,’ of its nature, in modern days; and he did not +persevere. Nor did the taste for these trifles long +endure. A good <i>ballade</i> is almost as rare as a good +sonnet, but a middling <i>ballade</i> is almost as easily written +as the majority of sonnets. Either form readily becomes +mechanical, cheap and facile. I have heard Mr. George +Meredith improvise a sonnet, a Petrarchian sonnet, obedient to +the rules, without pen and paper. He spoke ‘and the +numbers came’; he sonneted as easily as a living poet, in +his Eton days, improvised Latin elegiacs and Greek +hexameters.</p> +<p>The sonnet endures. Mr. Horace Hutchinson wrote +somewhere: “When you have read a sonnet, you feel that +though there does not seem to be much of it, you have done a good +<a name="page3"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 3</span>deal, as +when you have eaten a cold hard-boiled egg.” Still +people keep on writing sonnets, because the sonnet is wholly +serious. In an English sonnet you cannot easily be flippant +of pen. A few great poets have written immortal +sonnets—among them are Milton, Wordsworth, and Keats. +Thus the sonnet is a thing which every poet thinks it worth while +to try at; like Felix Arvers, he may be made immortal by a single +sonnet. Even I have written one too many! Every +anthologist wants to anthologise it (<i>The Odyssey</i>); it +never was a favourite of my own, though it had the honour to be +kindly spoken of by Mr. Matthew Arnold.</p> +<p>On the other hand, no man since François Villon has +been immortalised by a single ballade—<i>Mais où +sont les neiges d’antan</i>?</p> +<p>To speak in any detail about these poor ballades would be to +indite a part of an autobiography. Looking back at the +little book, ‘what memories it stirs’ in one to +whom</p> +<blockquote><p>‘Fate has done this wrong,<br /> +That I should write too much and live too long.’</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="page4"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 4</span><i>The +Ballade of the Tweed</i>, and the <i>Rhymes à la Mode</i>, +were dedicated to the dearest of kinsmen, a cricketer and +angler. The <i>Ballade of Roulette</i> was inscribed to R. +R., a gallant veteran of the Indian Mutiny, a leader of Light +Horse, whose father was a friend of Sir Walter Scott. He +was himself a Borderer, in whose defeats on the green field of +Roulette I often shared, long, long ago.</p> +<p>So many have gone ‘into the world of light’ that +it is a happiness to think of him to whom <i>The Ballade of +Golf</i> was dedicated, and to remember that he is still capable +of scoring his double century at cricket, and of lifting the ball +high over the trees beyond the boundaries of a great +cricket-field. Perhaps Mr. Leslie Balfour-Melville will +pardon me for mentioning his name, linked as it is with so many +common memories. ‘One is taken and another +left.’</p> +<p>A different sort of memory attaches itself to <i>A Ballade of +Dead Cities</i>. It was written in a Theocritean amoebean +way, in competition with Mr. Edmund Gosse; he need not be ashamed +of the circumstance, for another shepherd, who was umpire, +awarded the prize <a name="page5"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +5</span>(two kids just severed from their dams) to his victorious +muse.</p> +<p>The <i>Ballade of the Midnight Forest</i>, the Ballade of the +Huntress Artemis, was translated from Théodore de +Banville, whose beautiful poem came so near the Greek, that when +the late Provost of Oriel translated a part of its English shadow +into Greek hexameters, you might suppose, as you read, that they +were part of a lost Homeric Hymn.</p> +<p>I never wrote a <i>double ballade</i>, and stanzas four and +five of the <i>Double Ballade of Primitive Man</i> were +contributed by the learned <i>doyen</i> of Anthropology, Mr. E. +B. Tylor, author of Primitive Culture.</p> +<p><i>À tout seigneur tout honneur</i>!</p> +<p>In <i>Ballade of his Choice of a Sepulchre</i>, the Windburg +is a hill in Teviotdale. <i>A Portrait of 1783</i> was +written on a French engraving after Morland, and <i>Benedetta +Ramus</i> was addressed to a mezzotint (an artist’s proof, +‘very rare’). It is after Romney and is +‘My Beauty,’ as Charles Lamb said (once, unluckily, +to a Scot) of an engraving, after Lionardo, of some fair dead +lady.</p> +<p>The sonnet, <i>Natural Theology</i>, is the germ of <a +name="page6"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 6</span>what the author +has since written, in <i>The Making of Religion</i>, on the long +neglected fact that many of the lowest savages known share the +belief in a benevolent All Father and Judge of men.</p> +<p>Concerning verses in <i>Rhymes à la Mode</i>, visitors +to St. Andrews may be warned not to visit St. Leonard’s +Chapel, described in the second stanza of <i>Almae +Matres</i>. In the writer’s youth, and even in middle +age,</p> +<blockquote><p>He loitered idly where the tall<br /> + Fresh-budded mountain-ashes blow<br /> +Within its desecrated wall.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The once beautiful ruins carpeted with grass and wild flowers +have been doubly desecrated by persons, academic persons, having +authority and a plentiful lack of taste. The slim +mountain-ashes, fair as the young palm-tree that Odysseus saw +beside the shrine of Apollo in Delos, have been cut down by the +academic persons to whom power is given. The grass and +flowers have been rooted up. Hideous little wooden fences +enclose the grave slabs: a roof of a massive kind has been dumped +down on the old walls, and the windows, once so graceful in their +airy <a name="page7"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 7</span>lines, +have been glazed in a horrible manner, while the ugly iron gate +precludes entrance to a shrine which is now a black and dismal +dungeon.</p> +<blockquote><p>“Oh, be that roof as lead to lead<br /> +Above the dull Restorer’s head,<br /> +A Minstrel’s malison is said!”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Notes explanatory are added to the Rhymes, and their +information, however valuable, need not here be repeated.</p> +<h2><a name="page9"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 9</span>BALLADES +IN BLUE CHINA</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><i>Tout</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" + src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a><br /> +<i>par</i></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: center"><i>Soullas</i></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h3><a name="page11"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 11</span><i>A +BALLADE OF XXXII BALLADES</i>.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>Friend</i>, <i>when you bear a care-dulled +eye</i>,<br /> +<i>And brow perplexed with things of weight</i>,<br /> +<i>And fain would bid some charm untie</i><br /> +<i>The bonds that hold you all too strait</i>,<br /> +<i>Behold a solace to your fate</i>,<br /> +<i>Wrapped in this cover’s china blue</i>;<br /> +<i>These ballades fresh and delicate</i>,<br /> +<i>This dainty troop of Thirty-two</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The mind</i>, <i>unwearied</i>, <i>longs to +fly</i><br /> +<i>And commune with the wise and great</i>;<br /> +<i>But that same ether</i>, <i>rare and high</i>,<br /> +<i>Which glorifies its worthy mate</i>,<br /> +<i>To breath forspent is disparate</i>:<br /> +<i>Laughing and light and airy-new</i><br /> +<i>These come to tickle the dull pate</i>,<br /> +<i>This dainty troop of Thirty-two</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page12"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +12</span><i>Most welcome then</i>, <i>when you and I</i>,<br /> +<i>Forestalling days for mirth too late</i>,<br /> +<i>To quips and cranks and fantasy</i><br /> +<i>Some choice half-hour dedicate</i>,<br /> +<i>They weave their dance with measured rate</i><br /> +<i>Of rhymes enlinked in order due</i>,<br /> +<i>Till frowns relax and cares abate</i>,<br /> +<i>This dainty troop of Thirty-two</i>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Princes, of toys that please your state<br /> +Quainter are surely none to view<br /> +Than these which pass with tripping gait,<br /> +This dainty troop of Thirty-two.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">F. P.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><a +name="page13"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 13</span><span +class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +AUSTIN DOBSON.</p> +<p style="text-align: center" class="poetry"><i>Un Livre est un +ami qui change</i>—<i>quelquefois</i>.<br /> +1880.<br /> +1888</p> +<h3><a name="page15"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +15</span>BALLADE TO THEOCRITUS, IN WINTER.</h3> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: +center">ἐσορῶν τὰν +Σικελὰν ἐς +ἅλα.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">Id. viii. 56.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar<br /> +Of London, and the bustling street,<br /> +For still, by the Sicilian shore,<br /> +The murmur of the Muse is sweet.<br /> +Still, still, the suns of summer greet<br /> +The mountain-grave of Helikê,<br /> +And shepherds still their songs repeat<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">What though they worship Pan no more,<br /> +That guarded once the shepherd’s seat,<br /> +They chatter of their rustic lore,<br /> +They watch the wind among the wheat:<br /> +<a name="page16"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 16</span>Cicalas +chirp, the young lambs bleat,<br /> +Where whispers pine to cypress tree;<br /> +They count the waves that idly beat<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Theocritus! thou canst restore<br /> +The pleasant years, and over-fleet;<br /> +With thee we live as men of yore,<br /> +We rest where running waters meet:<br /> +And then we turn unwilling feet<br /> +And seek the world—so must it be—<br /> +<i>We</i> may not linger in the heat<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Master,—when rain, and snow, and sleet<br +/> +And northern winds are wild, to thee<br /> +We come, we rest in thy retreat,<br /> +Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page17"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +17</span>BALLADE OF CLEOPATRA’S NEEDLE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Ye giant shades of <span +class="smcap">Ra</span> and <span class="smcap">Tum</span>,<br /> +Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,<br /> +If murmurs of our planet come<br /> +To exiles in the precincts wan<br /> +Where, fetish or Olympian,<br /> +To help or harm no more ye list,<br /> +Look down, if look ye may, and scan<br /> +This monument in London mist!</p> +<p class="poetry">Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb<br /> +That once were read of him that ran<br /> +When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum<br /> +Wild music of the Bull began;<br /> +When through the chanting priestly clan<br /> +Walk’d Ramses, and the high sun kiss’d<br /> +This stone, with blessing scored and ban—<br /> +This monument in London mist.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page18"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +18</span>The stone endures though gods be numb;<br /> +Though human effort, plot, and plan<br /> +Be sifted, drifted, like the sum<br /> +Of sands in wastes Arabian.<br /> +What king may deem him more than man,<br /> +What priest says Faith can Time resist<br /> +While <i>this</i> endures to mark their span—<br /> +This monument in London mist?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, the stone’s shade on your +divan<br /> +Falls; it is longer than ye wist:<br /> +It preaches, as Time’s gnomon can,<br /> +This monument in London mist!</p> +<h3><a name="page19"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +19</span>BALLADE OF ROULETTE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO R. R.</p> +<p class="poetry">This life—one was thinking to-day,<br /> +In the midst of a medley of fancies—<br /> +Is a game, and the board where we play<br /> +Green earth with her poppies and pansies.<br /> +Let <i>manque</i> be faded romances,<br /> +Be <i>passe</i> remorse and regret;<br /> +Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette.</p> +<p class="poetry">The lover will stake as he may<br /> +His heart on his Peggies and Nancies;<br /> +The girl has her beauty to lay;<br /> +The saint has his prayers and his trances;<br /> +The poet bets endless expanses<br /> +In Dreamland; the scamp has his debt:<br /> +How they gaze at the wheel as it glances—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>The Kaiser will stake his array<br /> +Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;<br /> +An Englishman punts with his pay,<br /> +And glory the <i>jeton</i> of France is;<br /> +Your artists, or Whistlers or Vances,<br /> +Have voices or colours to bet;<br /> +Will you moan that its motion askance is—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">The prize that the pleasure enhances?<br /> +The prize is—at last to forget<br /> +The changes, the chops, and the chances—<br /> +The wheel of Dame Fortune’s roulette.</p> +<h3><a name="page21"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +21</span>BALLADE OF SLEEP.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The hours are passing slow,<br /> +I hear their weary tread<br /> +Clang from the tower, and go<br /> +Back to their kinsfolk dead.<br /> +Sleep! death’s twin brother dread!<br /> +Why dost thou scorn me so?<br /> +The wind’s voice overhead<br /> +Long wakeful here I know,<br /> +And music from the steep<br /> +Where waters fall and flow.<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?</p> +<p class="poetry">All sounds that might bestow<br /> +Rest on the fever’d bed,<br /> +All slumb’rous sounds and low<br /> +Are mingled here and wed,<br /> +And bring no drowsihed.<br /> +<a name="page22"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 22</span>Shy dreams +flit to and fro<br /> +With shadowy hair dispread;<br /> +With wistful eyes that glow,<br /> +And silent robes that sweep.<br /> +Thou wilt not hear me; no?<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?</p> +<p class="poetry">What cause hast thou to show<br /> +Of sacrifice unsped?<br /> +Of all thy slaves below<br /> +I most have labourèd<br /> +With service sung and said;<br /> +Have cull’d such buds as blow,<br /> +Soft poppies white and red,<br /> +Where thy still gardens grow,<br /> +And Lethe’s waters weep.<br /> +Why, then, art thou my foe?<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, ere the dark be shred<br /> +By golden shafts, ere low<br /> +<a name="page23"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 23</span>And long +the shadows creep:<br /> +Lord of the wand of lead,<br /> +Soft-footed as the snow,<br /> +Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!</p> +<h3><a name="page24"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +24</span>BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER THÉODORE DE +BANVILLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,<br +/> +Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;<br /> +The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,<br /> +And wolves still dread Diana roaming free<br /> +In secret woodland with her company.<br /> +’Tis thought the peasants’ hovels know her rite<br /> +When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,<br /> +And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,<br /> +Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page25"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +25</span>With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold<br /> +The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee,<br /> +Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold<br /> +Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,<br /> +The wild red dwarf, the nixies’ enemy;<br /> +Then ’mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright,<br /> +The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white,<br /> +With one long sigh for summers pass’d away;<br /> +The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<p class="poetry">She gleans her silvan trophies; down the +wold<br /> +She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee<br /> +Mixed with the music of the hunting roll’d,<br /> +But her delight is all in archery,<br /> +And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she<br /> +More than her hounds that follow on the flight;<br /> +The goddess draws a golden bow of might<br /> +And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.<br /> +She tosses loose her locks upon the night,<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page26"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 26</span>ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the +spite,<br /> +The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight:<br /> +Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray<br /> +There is the mystic home of our delight,<br /> +And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.</p> +<h3><a name="page27"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +27</span>BALLADE OF THE TWEED.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(LOWLAND SCOTCH.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">TO T. W. LANG.</p> +<p class="poetry">The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe,<br /> +A weary cry frae ony toun;<br /> +The Spey, that loups o’er linn and fa’,<br /> +They praise a’ ither streams aboon;<br /> +They boast their braes o’ bonny Doon:<br /> +Gie <i>me</i> to hear the ringing reel,<br /> +Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon<br /> +By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and +a’,<br /> +Where trout swim thick in May and June;<br /> +Ye’ll see them take in showers o’ snaw<br /> +Some blinking, cauldrife April noon:<br /> +Rax ower the palmer and march-broun,<br /> +And syne we’ll show a bonny creel,<br /> +In spring or simmer, late or soon,<br /> +By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page28"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +28</span>There’s mony a water, great or sma’,<br /> +Gaes singing in his siller tune,<br /> +Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw,<br /> +Beneath the sun-licht or the moon:<br /> +But set us in our fishing-shoon<br /> +Between the Caddon-burn and Peel,<br /> +And syne we’ll cross the heather broun<br /> +By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Deil take the dirty, trading loon<br /> +Wad gar the water ca’ his wheel,<br /> +And drift his dyes and poisons doun<br /> +By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!</p> +<h3><a name="page29"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +29</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER.</h3> +<p class="poetry">In torrid heats of late July,<br /> +In March, beneath the bitter <i>bise</i>,<br /> +He book-hunts while the loungers fly,—<br /> +He book-hunts, though December freeze;<br /> +In breeches baggy at the knees,<br /> +And heedless of the public jeers,<br /> +For these, for these, he hoards his fees,—<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.</p> +<p class="poetry">No dismal stall escapes his eye,<br /> +He turns o’er tomes of low degrees,<br /> +There soiled romanticists may lie,<br /> +Or Restoration comedies;<br /> +Each tract that flutters in the breeze<br /> +For him is charged with hopes and fears,<br /> +In mouldy novels fancy sees<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page30"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +30</span>With restless eyes that peer and spy,<br /> +Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees,<br /> +In dismal nooks he loves to pry,<br /> +Whose motto evermore is <i>Spes</i>!<br /> +But ah! the fabled treasure flees;<br /> +Grown rarer with the fleeting years,<br /> +In rich men’s shelves they take their ease,—<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, all the things that tease and +please,—<br /> +Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears,<br /> +What are they but such toys as these—<br /> +Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?</p> +<h3><a name="page31"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +31</span>BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER THÉODORE DE +BANVILLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">I know Cythera long is desolate;<br /> +I know the winds have stripp’d the gardens green.<br /> +Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun’s weight<br /> +A barren reef lies where Love’s flowers have been,<br /> +Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!<br /> +So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,<br /> +To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,<br /> +To wander where Love’s labyrinths beguile;<br /> +There let us land, there dream for evermore:<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page32"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +32</span>The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate,<br /> +If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene<br /> +We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate<br /> +Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.<br /> +Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen<br /> +That veils the fairy coast we would explore.<br /> +Come, though the sea be vex’d, and breakers roar,<br /> +Come, for the air of this old world is vile,<br /> +Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”</p> +<p class="poetry">Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate<br /> +Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen,<br /> +And ruined is the palace of our state;<br /> +But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen<br /> +The shrill wind sings the silken cords between.<br /> +Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore,<br /> +Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar,<br /> +Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile;<br /> +Love’s panthers sleep ’mid roses, as of yore:<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page33"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 33</span>ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as +heretofore.<br /> +Ah, singing birds your happy music pour!<br /> +Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile;<br /> +Flit to these ancient gods we still adore:<br /> +“It may be we shall touch the happy isle!”</p> +<h3><a name="page34"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +34</span>BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Being a Petition</i>, <i>in the +form of a Ballade</i>, <i>praying the University Commissioners to +spare the Summer Term</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry">When Lent and Responsions are ended,<br /> +When May with fritillaries waits,<br /> +When the flower of the chestnut is splendid,<br /> +When drags are at all of the gates<br /> +(Those drags the philosopher “slates”<br /> +With a scorn that is truly sublime), <a name="citation35"></a><a +href="#footnote35" class="citation">[35]</a><br /> +Life wins from the grasp of the Fates<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<p class="poetry">When wickets are bowl’d and defended,<br +/> +When Isis is glad with “the Eights,”<br /> +When music and sunset are blended,<br /> +When Youth and the summer are mates,<br /> +<a name="page35"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 35</span>When +Freshmen are heedless of “Greats,”<br /> +And when note-books are cover’d with rhyme,<br /> +Ah, these are the hours that one rates—<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<p class="poetry">When the brow of the Dean is unbended<br /> +At luncheons and mild tête-à-têtes,<br /> +When the Tutor’s in love, nor offended<br /> +By blunders in tenses or dates;<br /> +When bouquets are purchased of Bates,<br /> +When the bells in their melody chime,<br /> +When unheeded the Lecturer prates—<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Reformers of Schools and of States,<br /> +Is mirth so tremendous a crime?<br /> +Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates—<br /> +Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!</p> +<h3><a name="page36"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +36</span>BALLADE OF THE MUSE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Quem tu</i>, <i>Melpomene</i>, +<i>semel</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">The man whom once, Melpomene,<br /> +Thou look’st on with benignant sight,<br /> +Shall never at the Isthmus be<br /> +A boxer eminent in fight,<br /> +Nor fares he foremost in the flight<br /> +Of Grecian cars to victory,<br /> +Nor goes with Delian laurels dight,<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!</p> +<p class="poetry">Not him the Capitol shall see,<br /> +As who hath crush’d the threats and might<br /> +Of monarchs, march triumphantly;<br /> +But Fame shall crown him, in his right<br /> +Of all the Roman lyre that smite<br /> +The first; so woods of Tivoli<br /> +Proclaim him, so her waters bright,<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page37"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +37</span>The sons of queenly Rome count <i>me</i>,<br /> +Me too, with them whose chants delight,—<br /> +The poets’ kindly company;<br /> +Now broken is the tooth of spite,<br /> +But thou, that temperest aright<br /> +The golden lyre, all, all to thee<br /> +He owes—life, fame, and fortune’s height—<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Queen, that to mute lips could’st +unite<br /> +The wild swan’s dying melody!<br /> +Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite—<br /> +The man thou lov’st, Melpomene?</p> +<h3><a name="page38"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +38</span>BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER LA FONTAINE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Rome does right well to censure all the vain<br +/> +Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach<br /> +That earthly joys are damnable! ’Tis plain<br /> +We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach;<br /> +No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one and all;<br /> +The narrow path’s a dream fantastical,<br /> +And Arnauld’s quite superfluously driven<br /> +Mirth from the world. We’ll scale the heavenly +wall,<br /> +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!</p> +<p class="poetry">He does not hold a man may well be slain<br /> +Who vexes with unseasonable speech,<br /> +You <i>may</i> do murder for five ducats gain,<br /> +<i>Not</i> for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach;<br /> +He ventures (most consistently) to teach<br /> +<a name="page39"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 39</span>That there +are certain cases that befall<br /> +When perjury need no good man appal,<br /> +And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven.<br /> +Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl,<br /> +“Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!”</p> +<p class="poetry">“For God’s sake read me somewhat in +the strain<br /> +Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!”<br /> +Why should I name them all? a mighty train—<br /> +So many, none may know the name of each.<br /> +Make these your compass to the heavenly beach,<br /> +These only in your library instal:<br /> +Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small,<br /> +Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven;<br /> +I tell you, and the common voice doth call,<br /> +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Satan</i>, that pride did hurry to thy +fall,<br /> +Thou porter of the grim infernal hall—<br /> +Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven!<br /> +To shun thy shafts, to ‘scape thy hellish thrall,<br /> +Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!</p> +<h3><a name="page40"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +40</span>BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO E. W. GOSSE.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dust of Carthage and the dust<br /> +Of Babel on the desert wold,<br /> +The loves of Corinth, and the lust,<br /> +Orchomenos increased with gold;<br /> +The town of Jason, over-bold,<br /> +And Cherson, smitten in her prime—<br /> +What are they but a dream half-told?<br /> +Where are the cities of old time?</p> +<p class="poetry">In towns that were a kingdom’s trust,<br +/> +In dim Atlantic forests’ fold,<br /> +The marble wasteth to a crust,<br /> +The granite crumbles into mould;<br /> +O’er these—left nameless from of old—<br /> +As over Shinar’s brick and slime,<br /> +One vast forgetfulness is roll’d—<br /> +Where are the cities of old time?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page41"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +41</span>The lapse of ages, and the rust,<br /> +The fire, the frost, the waters cold,<br /> +Efface the evil and the just;<br /> +From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,<br /> +To drown’d Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll’d<br /> +Beneath the wave a dreamy chime<br /> +That echo’d from the mountain-hold,—<br /> +“Where are the cities of old time?”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, all thy towns and cities must<br /> +Decay as these, till all their crime,<br /> +And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust<br /> +Where are the cities of old time.</p> +<h3><a name="page42"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +42</span>BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(EAST FIFESHIRE.)</p> +<p class="poetry">There are laddies will drive ye a ba’<br +/> +To the burn frae the farthermost tee,<br /> +But ye mauna think driving is a’,<br /> +Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,<br /> +Ye may land in the sand or the sea;<br /> +And ye’re dune, sir, ye’re no worth a preen,<br /> +Tak’ the word that an auld man ’ll gie,<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<p class="poetry">The auld folk are crouse, and they craw<br /> +That their putting is pawky and slee;<br /> +In a bunker they’re nae gude ava’,<br /> +But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.<br /> +And a lassie can putt—ony she,—<br /> +Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean,<br /> +<a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 43</span>But a +cleek-shot’s the billy for me,<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<p class="poetry">I hae play’d in the frost and the +thaw,<br /> +I hae play’d since the year thirty-three,<br /> +I hae play’d in the rain and the snaw,<br /> +And I trust I may play till I dee;<br /> +And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,<br /> +For I speak o’ the thing I hae seen—<br /> +Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, faith you’re improving a wee,<br +/> +And, Lord, man, they tell me you’re keen;<br /> +Tak’ the best o’ advice that can be,<br /> +Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!</p> +<h3><a name="page44"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 44</span>DOUBLE +BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO J. A. FARRER.</p> +<p class="poetry">He lived in a cave by the seas,<br /> +He lived upon oysters and foes,<br /> +But his list of forbidden degrees,<br /> +An extensive morality shows;<br /> +Geological evidence goes<br /> +To prove he had never a pan,<br /> +But he shaved with a shell when he chose,—<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man.</p> +<p class="poetry">He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze,<br +/> +He worshipp’d the river that flows,<br /> +And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,<br /> +And bogies, and serpents, and crows;<br /> +He buried his dead with their toes<br /> +Tucked-up, an original plan,<br /> +Till their knees came right under their nose,—<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page45"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +45</span>His communal wives, at his ease,<br /> +He would curb with occasional blows;<br /> +Or his State had a queen, like the bees<br /> +(As another philosopher trows):<br /> +When he spoke, it was never in prose,<br /> +But he sang in a strain that would scan,<br /> +For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">On the coasts that incessantly freeze,<br /> +With his stones, and his bones, and his bows;<br /> +On luxuriant tropical leas,<br /> +Where the summer eternally glows,<br /> +He is found, and his habits disclose<br /> +(Let theology say what she can)<br /> +That he lived in the long, long agos,<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">From a status like that of the Crees,<br /> +Our society’s fabric arose,—<br /> +Develop’d, evolved, if you please,<br /> +But deluded chronologists chose,<br /> +<a name="page46"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 46</span>In a +fancied accordance with Mos<br /> +es, 4000 <span class="GutSmall">B.C.</span> for the span<br /> +When he rushed on the world and its woes,—<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!</p> +<p class="poetry">But the mild +anthropologist,—<i>he’s</i><br /> +Not <i>recent</i> inclined to suppose<br /> +Flints Palæolithic like these,<br /> +Quaternary bones such as those!<br /> +In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.’s,<br /> +First epoch, the Human began,<br /> +Theologians all to expose,—<br /> +’Tis the <i>mission</i> of Primitive Man.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Max</span>, proudly your +Aryans pose,<br /> +But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,<br /> +For, as every Darwinian knows,<br /> +’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! <a +name="citation46"></a><a href="#footnote46" +class="citation">[46]</a></p> +<h3><a name="page47"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +47</span>BALLADE OF AUTUMN.</h3> +<p class="poetry">We built a castle in the air,<br /> +In summer weather, you and I,<br /> +The wind and sun were in your hair,—<br /> +Gold hair against a sapphire sky:<br /> +When Autumn came, with leaves that fly<br /> +Before the storm, across the plain,<br /> +You fled from me, with scarce a sigh—<br /> +My Love returns no more again!</p> +<p class="poetry">The windy lights of Autumn flare:<br /> +I watch the moonlit sails go by;<br /> +I marvel how men toil and fare,<br /> +The weary business that they ply!<br /> +Their voyaging is vanity,<br /> +And fairy gold is all their gain,<br /> +And all the winds of winter cry,<br /> +“My Love returns no more again!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page48"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +48</span>Here, in my castle of Despair,<br /> +I sit alone with memory;<br /> +The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,<br /> +To keep the outcast company.<br /> +The brooding owl he hoots hard by,<br /> +<i>The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane</i>,<br /> +The Rhymer’s soothest prophecy,—<a +name="citation48"></a><a href="#footnote48" +class="citation">[48]</a><br /> +My Love returns no more again!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Lady, my home until I die<br /> +Is here, where youth and hope were slain;<br /> +They flit, the ghosts of our July,<br /> +My Love returns no more again!</p> +<h3><a name="page49"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +49</span>BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM.</h3> +<p class="poetry">While others are asking for beauty or fame,<br +/> +Or praying to know that for which they should pray,<br /> +Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,<br /> +Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey,<br /> +The sage has found out a more excellent way—<br /> +To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,<br /> +And his humble petition puts up day by day,<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry">Inventors may bow to the God that is lame,<br +/> +And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;<br /> +Philosophers kneel to the God without name,<br /> +Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;<br /> +The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,<br /> +The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;<br /> +But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page50"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +50</span>Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame<br /> +(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day<br /> +With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!<br /> +O grant me a house by the beach of a bay,<br /> +Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play<br /> +With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!<br /> +And I’d leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Gods, grant or withhold it; your +“yea” and your “nay”<br /> +Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:<br /> +But life <i>is</i> worth living, and here we would stay<br /> +For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.</p> +<h3><a name="page51"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +51</span>BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(OLD FRENCH.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Money taketh town and wall,<br /> +Fort and ramp without a blow;<br /> +Money moves the merchants all,<br /> +While the tides shall ebb and flow;<br /> +Money maketh Evil show<br /> +Like the Good, and Truth like lies:<br /> +These alone can ne’er bestow<br /> +Youth, and health, and Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry">Money maketh festival,<br /> +Wine she buys, and beds can strow;<br /> +Round the necks of captains tall,<br /> +Money wins them chains to throw,<br /> +Marches soldiers to and fro,<br /> +Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes:<br /> +These alone can ne’er bestow<br /> +Youth, and health, and Paradise.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page52"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +52</span>Money wins the priest his stall;<br /> +Money mitres buys, I trow,<br /> +Red hats for the Cardinal,<br /> +Abbeys for the novice low;<br /> +Money maketh sin as snow,<br /> +Place of penitence supplies:<br /> +These alone can ne’er bestow<br /> +Youth, and health, and Paradise.</p> +<h3><a name="page53"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +53</span>BALLADE OF LIFE.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“‘Dead and gone,’—a sorry +burden of the Ballad of Life.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><i>Death’s Jest Book</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">Say, fair maids, maying<br /> +In gardens green,<br /> +In deep dells straying,<br /> +What end hath been<br /> +Two Mays between<br /> +Of the flowers that shone<br /> +And your own sweet queen—<br /> +“They are dead and gone!”</p> +<p class="poetry">Say, grave priests, praying<br /> +In dule and teen,<br /> +From cells decaying<br /> +What have ye seen<br /> +Of the proud and mean,<br /> +Of Judas and John,<br /> +Of the foul and clean?—<br /> +“They are dead and gone!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page54"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +54</span>Say, kings, arraying<br /> +Loud wars to win,<br /> +Of your manslaying<br /> +What gain ye glean?<br /> +“They are fierce and keen,<br /> +But they fall anon,<br /> +On the sword that lean,—<br /> +They are dead and gone!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through the mad world’s scene,<br /> +We are drifting on,<br /> +To this tune, I ween,<br /> +“They are dead and gone!”</p> +<h3><a name="page55"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +55</span>BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA.</h3> +<p class="poetry">There’s a joy without canker or cark,<br +/> +There’s a pleasure eternally new,<br /> +’Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark<br /> +Of china that’s ancient and blue;<br /> +Unchipp’d all the centuries through<br /> +It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang,<br /> +And they fashion’d it, figure and hue,<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<p class="poetry">These dragons (their tails, you remark,<br /> +Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),—<br /> +When Noah came out of the ark,<br /> +Did these lie in wait for his crew?<br /> +They snorted, they snapp’d, and they slew,<br /> +They were mighty of fin and of fang,<br /> +And their portraits Celestials drew<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page56"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +56</span>Here’s a pot with a cot in a park,<br /> +In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,<br /> +Where the lovers eloped in the dark,<br /> +Lived, died, and were changed into two<br /> +Bright birds that eternally flew<br /> +Through the boughs of the may, as they sang:<br /> +’Tis a tale was undoubtedly true<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do,<br /> +Kind critic, your “tongue has a tang”<br /> +But—a sage never heeded a shrew<br /> +In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.</p> +<h3><a name="page57"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +57</span>BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER VILLON.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, tell me now in what strange air<br /> +The Roman Flora dwells to-day.<br /> +Where Archippiada hides, and where<br /> +Beautiful Thais has passed away?<br /> +Whence answers Echo, afield, astray,<br /> +By mere or stream,—around, below?<br /> +Lovelier she than a woman of clay;<br /> +Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?</p> +<p class="poetry">Where is wise Héloïse, that care<br +/> +Brought on Abeilard, and dismay?<br /> +All for her love he found a snare,<br /> +A maimed poor monk in orders grey;<br /> +And where’s the Queen who willed to slay<br /> +Buridan, that in a sack must go<br /> +Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way—<br /> +Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page58"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +58</span>Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare,<br /> +With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay?<br /> +Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?<br /> +Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?<br /> +Good Joan, whom English did betray<br /> +In Rouen town, and burned her? No,<br /> +Maiden and Queen, no man may say;<br /> +Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, all this week thou need’st not +pray,<br /> +Nor yet this year the thing to know.<br /> +One burden answers, ever and aye,<br /> +“Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?”</p> +<h3><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>VILLON’S BALLADE<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL +LIFE.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry">Nay, be you pardoner or cheat,<br /> +Or cogger keen, or mumper shy,<br /> +You’ll burn your fingers at the feat,<br /> +And howl like other folks that fry.<br /> +All evil folks that love a lie!<br /> +And where goes gain that greed amasses,<br /> +By wile, and trick, and thievery?<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<p class="poetry">Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet,<br +/> +With game, and shame, and jollity,<br /> +Go jigging through the field and street,<br /> +With <i>myst’ry</i> and <i>morality</i>;<br /> +Win gold at <i>gleek</i>,—and that will fly,<br /> +Where all you gain at <i>passage</i> passes,—<br /> +And that’s? You know as well as I,<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page60"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +60</span>Nay, forth from all such filth retreat,<br /> +Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry,<br /> +Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat,<br /> +If you’ve no clerkly skill to ply;<br /> +You’ll gain enough, with husbandry,<br /> +But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses,<br /> +And where goes all you take thereby?—<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Your clothes, your hose, your broidery,<br /> +Your linen that the snow surpasses,<br /> +Or ere they’re worn, off, off they fly,<br /> +’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!</p> +<h3><a name="page61"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +61</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Far in the Past I peer, and see<br /> +A Child upon the Nursery floor,<br /> +A Child with books upon his knee,<br /> +Who asks, like Oliver, for more!<br /> +The number of his years is IV,<br /> +And yet in Letters hath he skill,<br /> +How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!<br /> +The Books I loved, I love them still!</p> +<p class="poetry">One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three<br /> +They commonly bestowed of yore)<br /> +The Love of Books, the Golden Key<br /> +That opens the Enchanted Door;<br /> +Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er<br /> +And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill,<br /> +And there is all ALADDIN’S store,—<br /> +The Books I loved, I love them still!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page62"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +62</span>Take all, but leave my Books to me!<br /> +These heavy creels of old we bore<br /> +We fill not now, nor wander free,<br /> +Nor wear the heart that once we wore;<br /> +Not now each River seems to pour<br /> +His waters from the Muses’ hill;<br /> +Though something’s gone from stream and shore,<br /> +The Books I loved, I love them still!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea,<br /> +We bow submissive to thy will,<br /> +Ah grant, by some benign decree,<br /> +The Books I loved—to love them still.</p> +<h3><a name="page63"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +63</span>VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The soft wind from the south land sped,<br /> +He set his strength to blow,<br /> +From forests where Adonis bled,<br /> +And lily flowers a-row:<br /> +He crossed the straits like streams that flow,<br /> +The ocean dark as wine,<br /> +To my true love to whisper low,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<p class="poetry">The Spring half-raised her drowsy head,<br /> +Besprent with drifted snow,<br /> +“I’ll send an April day,” she said,<br /> +“To lands of wintry woe.”<br /> +He came,—the winter’s overthrow<br /> +With showers that sing and shine,<br /> +Pied daisies round your path to strow,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page64"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +64</span>Where sands of Egypt, swart and red,<br /> +’Neath suns Egyptian glow,<br /> +In places of the princely dead,<br /> +By the Nile’s overflow,<br /> +The swallow preened her wings to go,<br /> +And for the North did pine,<br /> +And fain would brave the frost her foe,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so,<br /> +Their various voice combine;<br /> +But that they crave on <i>me</i> bestow,<br /> +To be your Valentine.</p> +<h3><a name="page65"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +65</span>BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Les Œuvres de Monsieur +Molière</i>. <i>A Paris</i>,<br /> +<i>chez Louys Billaine</i>, <i>à la Palme</i>.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">M.D.C. LXVI.</span>)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LA COUR.</p> +<p class="poetry">When these Old Plays were new, the King,<br /> +Beside the Cardinal’s chair,<br /> +Applauded, ’mid the courtly ring,<br /> +The verses of Molière;<br /> +Point-lace was then the only wear,<br /> +Old Corneille came to woo,<br /> +And bright Du Parc was young and fair,<br /> +When these Old Plays were new!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LA COMÉDIE.</p> +<p class="poetry">How shrill the butcher’s cat-calls +ring,<br /> +How loud the lackeys swear!<br /> +Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling,<br /> +At Brécourt, fuming there!<br /> +<a name="page66"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 66</span>The +Porter’s stabbed! a Mousquetaire<br /> +Breaks in with noisy crew—<br /> +’Twas all a commonplace affair<br /> +When these Old Plays were new!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LA VILLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">When these Old Plays were new! They +bring<br /> +A host of phantoms rare:<br /> +Old jests that float, old jibes that sting,<br /> +Old faces peaked with care:<br /> +Ménage’s smirk, de Visé’s stare,<br /> +The thefts of Jean Ribou,—<a name="citation66"></a><a +href="#footnote66" class="citation">[66]</a><br /> +Ah, publishers were hard to bear<br /> +When these Old Plays were new.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ghosts, at your Poet’s word ye dare<br /> +To break Death’s dungeons through,<br /> +And frisk, as in that golden air,<br /> +When these Old Plays were new!</p> +<h3><a name="page67"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +67</span>BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Here stand my books, line upon line<br /> +They reach the roof, and row by row,<br /> +They speak of faded tastes of mine,<br /> +And things I did, but do not, know:<br /> +Old school books, useless long ago,<br /> +Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in,<br /> +Could scarcely answer “yes” or +“no”—<br /> +The many things I’ve tried and failed in!</p> +<p class="poetry">Here’s Villon, in morocco fine,<br /> +(The Poet starved, in mud and snow,)<br /> +Glatigny does not crave to dine,<br /> +And René’s tears forget to flow.<br /> +And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe,<br /> +With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in;<br /> +Ah, all my ghosts have gone below—<br /> +The many things I’ve tried and failed in!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page68"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +68</span>He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine,<br /> +The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow;<br /> +And here the arms of D’Hoym shine,<br /> +And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau:<br /> +Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe”<br /> +(The first edition, this, he wailed in);<br /> +I once believed in him—but oh,<br /> +The many things I’ve tried and failed in!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine<br /> +Quite other balances are scaled in;<br /> +May you succeed, though I repine—<br /> +“The many things I’ve tried and failed in!”</p> +<h3><a name="page69"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +69</span>BALLADE OF THE DREAM.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Swift as sound of music fled<br /> +When no more the organ sighs,<br /> +Sped as all old days are sped,<br /> +So your lips, love, and your eyes,<br /> +So your gentle-voiced replies<br /> +Mine one hour in sleep that seem,<br /> +Rise and flit when slumber flies,<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Like the scent from roses red,<br /> +Like the dawn from golden skies,<br /> +Like the semblance of the dead<br /> +From the living love that hies,<br /> +Like the shifting shade that lies<br /> +On the moonlight-silvered stream,<br /> +So you rise when dreams arise,<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page70"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +70</span>Could some spell, or sung or said,<br /> +Could some kindly witch and wise,<br /> +Lull for aye this dreaming head<br /> +In a mist of memories,<br /> +I would lie like him who lies<br /> +Where the lights on Latmos gleam,—<br /> +Wake not, find not Paradise<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies,<br +/> +Shadowy bounties and supreme,<br /> +Bring the dearest face that flies<br /> +<i>Following darkness like a dream</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page71"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +71</span>BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Fair islands of the silver fleece,<br /> +Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,<br /> +Whose havens are the haunts of Peace,<br /> +Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;<br /> +<i>Our</i> bolt is shot, our tale is told,<br /> +Our ship of state in storms may toss,<br /> +But ye are young if we are old,<br /> +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<p class="poetry">Ay, <i>we</i> must dwindle and decrease,<br /> +Such fates the ruthless years unfold;<br /> +And yet we shall not wholly cease,<br /> +We shall not perish unconsoled;<br /> +Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold<br /> +Within the sea’s inviolate fosse,<br /> +And boast her sons of English mould,<br /> +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page72"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +72</span>All empires tumble—Rome and Greece—<br /> +Their swords are rust, their altars cold!<br /> +For us, the Children of the Seas,<br /> +Who ruled where’er the waves have rolled,<br /> +For us, in Fortune’s books enscrolled,<br /> +I read no runes of hopeless loss;<br /> +Nor—while <i>ye</i> last—our knell is tolled,<br /> +Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Britannia, when thy hearth’s a-cold,<br +/> +When o’er thy grave has grown the moss,<br /> +Still <i>Rule Australia</i> shall be trolled<br /> +In Islands of the Southern Cross!</p> +<h3><a name="page73"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +73</span>BALLADE OF AUCASSIN</h3> +<p class="poetry">Where smooth the southern waters run<br /> +By rustling leagues of poplars grey,<br /> +Beneath a veiled soft southern sun,<br /> +We wandered out of yesterday,<br /> +Went maying through that ancient May<br /> +Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,<br /> +And loitered by the fountain spray<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette.</p> +<p class="poetry">The grass-grown paths are trod of none<br /> +Where through the woods they went astray.<br /> +The spider’s traceries are spun<br /> +Across the darkling forest way.<br /> +There come no knights that ride to slay,<br /> +No pilgrims through the grasses wet,<br /> +No shepherd lads that sang their say<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page74"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +74</span>’Twas here by Nicolette begun<br /> +Her bower of boughs and grasses gay;<br /> +’Scaped from the cell of marble dun<br /> +’Twas here the lover found the fay,<br /> +Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play!<br /> +How hard we find it to forget<br /> +Who fain would dwell with them as they,<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, ’tis a melancholy lay!<br /> +For youth, for love we both regret.<br /> +How fair they seem, how far away,<br /> +With Aucassin and Nicolette!</p> +<h3><a name="page75"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +75</span>BALLADE AMOUREUSE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER FROISSART.</p> +<p class="poetry">Not Jason nor Medea wise,<br /> +I crave to see, nor win much lore,<br /> +Nor list to Orpheus’ minstrelsies;<br /> +Nor Her’cles would I see, that o’er<br /> +The wide world roamed from shore to shore;<br /> +Nor, by St. James, Penelope,—<br /> +Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore:<br /> +To see my Love suffices me!</p> +<p class="poetry">Virgil and Cato, no man vies<br /> +With them in wealth of clerkly store;<br /> +I would not see them with mine eyes;<br /> +Nor him that sailed, <i>sans</i> sail nor oar,<br /> +Across the barren sea and hoar,<br /> +And all for love of his ladye;<br /> +Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more:<br /> +To see my Love suffices me!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page76"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +76</span>I heed not Pegasus, that flies<br /> +As swift as shafts the bowmen pour;<br /> +Nor famed Pygmalion’s artifice,<br /> +Whereof the like was ne’er before;<br /> +Nor Oléus, that drank of yore<br /> +The salt wave of the whole great sea:<br /> +Why? dost thou ask? ’Tis as I swore—<br /> +To see my Love suffices me!</p> +<h3><a name="page77"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +77</span>BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The modish Airs,<br /> +The Tansey Brew,<br /> +The <i>Swains</i> and <i>Fairs</i><br /> +In curtained Pew;<br /> +Nymphs <span class="smcap">Kneller</span> drew,<br /> +Books <span class="smcap">Bentley</span> read,—<br /> +Who knows them, who?<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<p class="poetry">We buy her Chairs,<br /> +Her China blue,<br /> +Her red-brick Squares<br /> +We build anew;<br /> +But ah! we rue,<br /> +When all is said,<br /> +The tale o’er-true,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>Now <i>Bulls</i> and <i>Bears</i>,<br /> +A ruffling Crew,<br /> +With Stocks and Shares,<br /> +With Turk and Jew,<br /> +Go bubbling through<br /> +The Town ill-bred:<br /> +The World’s askew,<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, praise the new;<br /> +The old is fled:<br /> +<i>Vivat</i> <span class="smcap">Frou</span>-<span +class="smcap">Frou</span>!<br /> +<span class="smcap">Queen Anne</span> is dead!</p> +<h3><a name="page79"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +79</span>BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Who have loved and ceased to love, forget<br /> +That ever they loved in their lives, they say;<br /> +Only remember the fever and fret,<br /> +And the pain of Love, that was all his pay;<br /> +All the delight of him passes away<br /> +From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met—<br /> +Too late did I love you, my love, and yet<br /> +I shall never forget till my dying day.</p> +<p class="poetry">Too late were we ‘ware of the secret +net<br /> +That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray;<br /> +There were we taken and snared, Lisette,<br /> +In the dungeon of <b>La Fausse Amistié</b>;<br /> +Help was there none in the wide world’s fray,<br /> +Joy was there none in the gift and the debt;<br /> +<a name="page80"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 80</span>Too late +we knew it, too long regret—<br /> +I shall never forget till my dying day!</p> +<p class="poetry">We must live our lives, though the sun be +set,<br /> +Must meet in the masque where parts we play,<br /> +Must cross in the maze of Life’s minuet;<br /> +Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay:<br /> +But while snows of winter or flowers of May<br /> +Are the sad year’s shroud or coronet,<br /> +In the season of rose or of violet,<br /> +I shall never forget till my dying day!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Queen, when the clay is my coverlet,<br /> +When I am dead, and when you are grey,<br /> +Vow, where the grass of the grave is wet,<br /> +“I shall never forget till my dying day!”</p> +<h3><a name="page81"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +81</span>BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Here I’d come when weariest!<br /> + Here the breast<br /> +Of the Windburg’s tufted over<br /> +Deep with bracken; here his crest<br /> + Takes the west,<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.</p> +<p class="poetry">Silent here are lark and plover;<br /> + In the cover<br /> +Deep below the cushat best<br /> +Loves his mate, and croons above her<br /> + O’er their nest,<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.</p> +<p class="poetry">Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest,<br +/> + To the blest<br /> +Bed that waits the weary rover,<br /> +<a name="page82"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 82</span>Here +should failure be confessed;<br /> + Ends my quest,<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ENVOY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, or stranger kind, or lover,<br /> +Ah, fulfil a last behest,<br /> + Let me rest<br /> +Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!</p> +<h3><a name="page83"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +83</span>DIZAIN.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><i>As</i>, <i>to the pipe</i>, <i>with rhythmic +feet</i><br /> +<i>In windings of some old-world dance</i>,<br /> +<i>The smiling couples cross and meet</i>,<br /> +<i>Join hands</i>, <i>and then in line advance</i>,<br /> +<i>So</i>, <i>to these fair old tunes of France</i>,<br /> +<i>Through all their maze of to-and-fro</i>,<br /> +<i>The light-heeled numbers laughing go</i>,<br /> +<i>Retreat</i>, <i>return</i>, <i>and ere they flee</i>,<br /> +<i>One moment pause in panting row</i>,<br /> +<i>And seem to say—Vos plaudite</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">A. D.</p> +<h2><a name="page85"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 85</span>VERSES +AND TRANSLATIONS.</h2> +<blockquote><p><a name="page86"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +86</span><span class="smcap">Oronte</span>—<i>Ce ne sont +point de ces grands vers pompeux</i>,<br /> +<i>Mais de petits vers</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">“Le Misanthrope,” Acte +i., Sc. 2.</p> +</blockquote> +<h3><a name="page87"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 87</span>A +PORTRAIT OF 1783.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Your hair and chin are like the hair<br /> +And chin Burne-Jones’s ladies wear;<br /> +You were unfashionably fair<br /> + In ’83;<br /> +And sad you were when girls are gay,<br /> +You read a book about <i>Le vrai</i><br /> +<i>Mérite de l’homme</i>, alone in May.<br /> +What <i>can</i> it be,<br /> +<i>Le vrai mérite de l’homme</i>? Not gold,<br +/> +Not titles that are bought and sold,<br /> +Not wit that flashes and is cold,<br /> + But Virtue merely!<br /> +Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau<br /> +(And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know),<br /> +You bade the crowd of foplings go,<br /> + You glanced severely,<br /> +<a name="page88"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 88</span>Dreaming +beneath the spreading shade<br /> +Of ‘that vast hat the Graces made;’ <a +name="citation88"></a><a href="#footnote88" +class="citation">[88]</a><br /> +So Rouget sang—while yet he played<br /> + With courtly rhyme,<br /> +And hymned great Doisi’s red perruque,<br /> +And Nice’s eyes, and Zulmé’s look,<br /> +And dead canaries, ere he shook<br /> + The sultry time<br /> +With strains like thunder. Loud and low<br /> +Methinks I hear the murmur grow,<br /> +The tramp of men that come and go<br /> + With fire and sword.<br /> +They war against the quick and dead,<br /> +Their flying feet are dashed with red,<br /> +As theirs the vintaging that tread<br /> + Before the Lord.<br /> +<a name="page89"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 89</span>O head +unfashionably fair,<br /> +What end was thine, for all thy care?<br /> +We only see thee dreaming there:<br /> + We cannot see<br /> +The breaking of thy vision, when<br /> +The Rights of Man were lords of men,<br /> +When virtue won her own again<br /> + In ’93.</p> +<h3><a name="page90"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 90</span>THE +MOON’S MINION.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(FROM THE PROSE OF C. +BAUDELAIRE.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear,<br /> + The wand’ring waters, green and grey;<br /> +Thine eyes are wonderful and clear,<br /> + And deep, and deadly, even as they;<br /> +The spirit of the changeful sea<br /> + Informs thine eyes at night and noon,<br /> +She sways the tides, and the heart of thee,<br /> + The mystic, sad, capricious Moon!</p> +<p class="poetry">The Moon came down the shining stair<br /> + Of clouds that fleck the summer sky,<br /> +She kissed thee, saying, “Child, be fair,<br /> + And madden men’s hearts, even as I;<br /> +Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet,<br /> + That know me and are known of me;<br /> +The lover thou shalt never meet,<br /> + The land where thou shalt never be!”</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>She held thee in her chill embrace,<br /> + She kissed thee with cold lips divine,<br /> +She left her pallor on thy face,<br /> + That mystic ivory face of thine;<br /> +And now I sit beside thy feet,<br /> + And all my heart is far from thee,<br /> +Dreaming of her I shall not meet,<br /> + And of the land I shall not see!</p> +<h3><a name="page92"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 92</span>IN +ITHACA.</h3> +<blockquote><p>“And now am I greatly repenting that ever I +left my life with thee, and the immortality thou didst promise +me.”—<i>Letter of Odysseus to Calypso</i>. +Luciani <i>Vera Historia</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">’Tis thought Odysseus when the strife was +o’er<br /> + With all the waves and wars, a weary while,<br /> + Grew restless in his disenchanted isle,<br /> +And still would watch the sunset, from the shore,<br /> +Go down the ways of gold, and evermore<br /> + His sad heart followed after, mile on mile,<br /> + Back to the Goddess of the magic wile,<br /> +Calypso, and the love that was of yore.</p> +<p class="poetry">Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee +yet<br /> + To look across the sad and stormy space,<br /> + Years of a youth as bitter as the sea,<br /> +Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet,<br /> + Because, within a fair forsaken place<br /> + The life that might have been is lost to thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page93"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +93</span>HOMER.</h3> +<p class="poetry">Homer, thy song men liken to the sea<br /> + With all the notes of music in its tone,<br /> + With tides that wash the dim dominion<br /> +Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee<br /> +Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me<br /> + Thy verse seems as the River of source unknown<br /> + That glasses Egypt’s temples overthrown<br /> +In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally.</p> +<p class="poetry">No wiser we than men of heretofore<br /> + To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast;<br /> +Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore,<br /> + As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast<br /> +His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore<br /> + Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past.</p> +<h3><a name="page94"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 94</span>THE +BURIAL OF MOLIÈRE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER J. TRUFFIER.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Dead—he is dead! The rouge has left +a trace<br /> + On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a +tear,<br /> + Even while the people laughed that held him dear<br +/> +But yesterday. He died,—and not in grace,<br /> +And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace<br /> + To slander him whose <i>Tartuffe</i> made them +fear,<br /> + And gold must win a passage for his bier,<br /> +And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, Molière, for that last time of +all,<br /> + Man’s hatred broke upon thee, and went by,<br +/> +And did but make more fair thy funeral.<br /> + Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily,<br /> +Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall,<br /> + For torch, the stars along the windy sky!</p> +<h3><a name="page95"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +95</span>BION.</h3> +<p class="poetry">The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying<br +/> + The Muses heard, and loved it long ago;<br /> +They heard the hollows of the hills replying,<br /> + They heard the weeping water’s overflow;<br /> +They winged the sacred strain—the song undying,<br /> + The song that all about the world must go,—<br +/> +When poets for a poet dead are sighing,<br /> + The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low.</p> +<p class="poetry">And dirge to dirge that answers, and the +weeping<br /> + For Adonais by the summer sea,<br /> +The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping<br /> + Far from ‘the forest ground called +Thessaly’),<br /> +These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping,<br /> + And are but echoes of the moan for thee.</p> +<h3><a name="page96"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +96</span>SPRING.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER MELEAGER.)</p> +<p class="poetry">Now the bright crocus flames, and now<br /> + The slim narcissus takes the rain,<br /> +And, straying o’er the mountain’s brow,<br /> + The daffodilies bud again.<br /> + The thousand blossoms wax and wane<br /> +On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough,<br /> +But fairer than the flowers art thou,<br /> + Than any growth of hill or plain.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown,<br /> +That my Love’s feet may tread it down,<br /> + Like lilies on the lilies set;<br /> +My Love, whose lips are softer far<br /> +Than drowsy poppy petals are,<br /> + And sweeter than the violet!</p> +<h3><a name="page97"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 97</span>BEFORE +THE SNOW.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.)</p> +<p class="poetry">The winter is upon us, not the snow,<br /> + The hills are etched on the horizon bare,<br /> + The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,<br /> +The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro.<br /> +One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow,<br /> + Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare.<br +/> + Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where<br /> +The black trees seem to shiver as you go.</p> +<p class="poetry">Beyond lie church and steeple, with their +old<br /> + And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer,<br /> +A sharper gust would shake them from their hold,<br /> + Yet up that path, in summer of the year,<br /> +And past that melancholy pile we strolled<br /> + To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer.</p> +<h3><a name="page98"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +98</span>VILLANELLE.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">TO LUCIA.</p> +<p class="poetry">Apollo left the golden Muse<br /> + And shepherded a mortal’s sheep,<br /> +Theocritus of Syracuse!</p> +<p class="poetry">To mock the giant swain that woo’s<br /> + The sea-nymph in the sunny deep,<br /> +Apollo left the golden Muse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Afield he drove his lambs and ewes,<br /> + Where Milon and where Battus reap,<br /> +Theocritus of Syracuse!</p> +<p class="poetry">To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise<br /> + Below the dim Sicilian steep<br /> +Apollo left the golden Muse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye twain did loiter in the dews,<br /> + Ye slept the swain’s unfever’d sleep,<br +/> +Theocritus of Syracuse!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page99"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +99</span>That Time might half with <i>his</i> confuse<br /> + Thy songs,—like his, that laugh and +leap,—<br /> +Theocritus of Syracuse,<br /> + Apollo left the golden Muse!</p> +<h3><a name="page100"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +100</span>NATURAL THEOLOGY.</h3> + +<blockquote><p> ἐπει +καὶ τοῦτον +ὀῖομαι +ἀθανάτοισιν<br +/> + +ἔυχεσθαι·. +Πάντες δὲ +θεῶν +χατέουσ’ +ἄνθρωποι.</p> +<p style="text-align: right"><span class="smcap">Od</span>. <span +class="smcap">iii</span>. 47.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“Once <span class="smcap">Cagn</span> was +like a father, kind and good,<br /> + But He was spoiled by fighting many things;<br /> +He wars upon the lions in the wood,<br /> + And breaks the Thunder-bird’s tremendous +wings;<br /> +But still we cry to Him,—<i>We are thy brood</i>—<br +/> + <i>O Cagn</i>, <i>be merciful</i>! and us He +brings<br /> +To herds of elands, and great store of food,<br /> + And in the desert opens water-springs.”</p> +<p class="poetry">So Qing, King Nqsha’s Bushman hunter, +spoke,<br /> + Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair,<br /> +<a name="page101"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 101</span>When all +were weary, and soft clouds of smoke<br /> + Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air:<br /> +And suddenly in each man’s heart there woke<br /> + A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.</p> +<h3><a name="page102"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 102</span>THE +ODYSSEY.</h3> +<p class="poetry">As one that for a weary space has lain<br /> + Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine<br /> + In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,<br /> +Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,<br /> +And only the low lutes of love complain,<br /> + And only shadows of wan lovers pine,<br /> + As such an one were glad to know the brine<br /> +Salt on his lips, and the large air again,—<br /> +So gladly, from the songs of modern speech<br /> + Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free<br /> + Shrill wind beyond the close of +heavy flowers,<br /> + And through the music of the +languid hours,<br /> +They hear like ocean on a western beach<br /> + The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.</p> +<h3><a name="page103"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +103</span>IDEAL.</h3> +<p><i>Suggested by a female head in wax</i>, <i>of unknown +date</i>, <i>but supposed to be either of the best Greek age</i>, +<i>or a work of Raphael or Leonardo</i>. <i>It is now in +the Lille Museum</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid,<br +/> + Dateless and fatherless, how long ago,<br /> +A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed,<br /> + Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe!<br +/> + Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow,<br /> +While magical his fingers o’er thee strayed,<br /> + Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio<br /> +Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade</p> +<p class="poetry">That hides all fair things lost, and things +unborn,<br /> + Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace,<br +/> + <a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>And that grave tenderness of thine awhile;<br /> +Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face<br /> + Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn,<br /> + And only on thy lips I find her smile.</p> +<h3><a name="page105"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 105</span>THE +FAIRY’S GIFT.</h3> +<blockquote><p style="text-align: center">“Take short +views.”—<span class="smcap">Sydney Smith</span>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">The Fays that to my christ’ning came<br +/> + (For come they did, my nurses taught me),<br /> +They did not bring me wealth or fame,<br /> + ’Tis very little that they brought me.<br /> +But one, the crossest of the crew,<br /> + The ugly old one, uninvited,<br /> +Said, “I shall be avenged on <i>you</i>,<br /> + My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!”<br +/> +With magic juices did she lave<br /> + Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure.<br /> +Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave,<br /> + <i>Hers</i> is the present that I treasure!</p> +<p class="poetry">The bore whom others fear and flee,<br /> + I do not fear, I do not flee him;<br /> +I pass him calm as calm can be;<br /> + I do not cut—I do not see him!<br /> +<a name="page106"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 106</span>And with +my feeble eyes and dim,<br /> + Where <i>you</i> see patchy fields and fences,<br /> +For me the mists of Turner swim—<br /> + <i>My</i> “azure distance” soon +commences!<br /> +Nay, as I blink about the streets<br /> + Of this befogged and miry city,<br /> +Why, almost every girl one meets<br /> + Seems preternaturally pretty!<br /> +“Try spectacles,” one’s friends intone;<br /> + “You’ll see the world correctly through +them.”<br /> +But I have visions of my own,<br /> + And not for worlds would I undo them.</p> +<h3><a name="page107"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +107</span>BENEDETTA RAMUS.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">AFTER ROMNEY.</p> +<p class="poetry">Mysterious Benedetta! who<br /> +That Reynolds or that Romney drew<br /> +Was ever half so fair as you,<br /> + Or is so well forgot?<br /> +These eyes of melancholy brown,<br /> +These woven locks, a shadowy crown,<br /> +Must surely have bewitched the town;<br /> + Yet you’re remembered not.</p> +<p class="poetry">Through all that prattle of your age,<br /> +Through lore of fribble and of sage<br /> +I’ve read, and chiefly Walpole’s page,<br /> + Wherein are beauties famous;<br /> +I’ve haunted ball, and rout, and sale;<br /> +I’ve heard of Devonshire and Thrale,<br /> +And all the Gunnings’ wondrous tale,<br /> + But nothing of Miss Ramus.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page108"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +108</span>And yet on many a lattice pane<br /> +‘Fair Benedetta,’ scrawled in vain<br /> +By lovers’ diamonds, must remain<br /> + To tell us you were cruel. <a +name="citation108"></a><a href="#footnote108" +class="citation">[108]</a><br /> +But who, of all that sighed and swore—<br /> +Wits, poets, courtiers by the score—<br /> +Did win and on his bosom wore<br /> + This hard and lovely jewel?</p> +<p class="poetry">Why, dilettante records say<br /> +An Alderman, who came that way,<br /> +Woo’d you and made you Lady Day;<br /> + You crowned his civic flame.<br /> +It suits a melancholy song<br /> +To think your heart had suffered wrong,<br /> +And that you lived not very long<br /> + To be a City dame!</p> +<p class="poetry">Perchance you were a Mourning Bride,<br /> +And conscious of a heart that died<br /> +<a name="page109"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 109</span>With one +who fell by Rodney’s side<br /> + In blood-stained Spanish bays.<br /> +Perchance ’twas no such thing, and you<br /> +Dwelt happy with your knight and true,<br /> +And, like Aurora, watched a crew<br /> + Of rosy little Days!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, lovely face and innocent!<br /> +Whatever way your fortunes went,<br /> +And if to earth your life was lent<br /> + For little space or long,<br /> +In your kind eyes we seem to see<br /> +What Woman at her best may be,<br /> +And offer to your memory<br /> + An unavailing song!</p> +<h3><a name="page110"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +110</span>PARTANT POUR LA SCRIBIE.</h3> +<p>[Scribie, on the north-east littoral of Bohemia, is the land +of stage conventions. It is named after the discoverer, M. +Scribe.]</p> +<p class="poetry">A pleasant land is Scribie, where<br /> + The light comes mostly from below,<br /> +And seems a sort of symbol rare<br /> + Of things at large, and how they go,<br /> +In rooms where doors are everywhere<br /> + And cupboards shelter friend or foe.</p> +<p class="poetry">This is a realm where people tell<br /> + Each other, when they chance to meet,<br /> +Of things that long ago befell—<br /> + And do most solemnly repeat<br /> +Secrets they both know very well,<br /> + Aloud, and in the public street!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land where lovers go in fours,<br /> + Master and mistress, man and maid;<br /> +<a name="page111"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 111</span>Where +people listen at the doors<br /> + Or ’neath a table’s friendly shade,<br +/> +And comic Irishmen in scores<br /> + Roam o’er the scenes all undismayed:</p> +<p class="poetry">A land where Virtue in distress<br /> + Owes much to uncles in disguise;<br /> +Where British sailors frankly bless<br /> + Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes;<br /> +And where the villain doth confess,<br /> + Conveniently, before he dies!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of lovers false and gay;<br /> + A land where people dread a “curse;”<br +/> +A land of letters gone astray,<br /> + Or intercepted, which is worse;<br /> +Where weddings false fond maids betray,<br /> + And all the babes are changed at nurse.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, happy land, where things come right!<br /> + We of the world where things go ill;<br /> +Where lovers love, but don’t unite;<br /> + Where no one finds the Missing Will—<br /> +Dominion of the heart’s delight,<br /> + Scribie, we’ve loved, and love thee still!</p> +<h3><a name="page112"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 112</span>ST. +ANDREW’S BAY.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">NIGHT.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, listen through the music, from the +shore,<br /> +The “melancholy long-withdrawing roar”;<br /> +Beneath the Minster, and the windy caves,<br /> +The wide North Ocean, marshalling his waves<br /> +Even so forlorn—in worlds beyond our ken—<br /> +May sigh the seas that are not heard of men;<br /> +Even so forlorn, prophetic of man’s fate,<br /> +Sounded the cold sea-wave disconsolate,<br /> +When none but God might hear the boding tone,<br /> +As God shall hear the long lament alone,<br /> +When all is done, when all the tale is told,<br /> +And the gray sea-wave echoes as of old!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">MORNING.</p> +<p class="poetry">This was the burden of the Night,<br /> + The saying of the sea,<br /> +<a name="page113"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 113</span>But lo! +the hours have brought the light,<br /> +The laughter of the waves, the flight<br /> +Of dipping sea-birds, foamy white,<br /> + That are so glad to be!<br /> +“Forget!” the happy creatures cry,<br /> + “Forget Night’s monotone,<br /> +With us be glad in sea and sky,<br /> +The days are thine, the days that fly,<br /> +The days God gives to know him by,<br /> + And not the Night alone!”</p> +<h3><a name="page114"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +114</span>WOMAN AND THE WEED.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">(FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND +MYTH.)</p> +<p class="poetry">In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes +began,<br /> +How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man!<br /> +From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam,<br /> +There was nobody waiting to welcome him home;<br /> +For the Man had been made, but the woman had <i>not</i>,<br /> +And Earth was a highly detestable spot.<br /> +Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled,<br /> +They did not converse but they struggled and howled,<br /> +<a name="page115"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 115</span>For Man +had no tact—he would ne’er take a hint,<br /> +And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Man was alone, and he wished he could see<br +/> +On the Earth some one like him, but fairer than he,<br /> +With locks like the red gold, a smile like the sun,<br /> +To welcome him back when his hunting was done.<br /> +And he sighed for a voice that should answer him still,<br /> +Like the affable Echo he heard on the hill:<br /> +That should answer him softly and always agree,<br /> +<i>And oh</i>, Man reflected, <i>how nice it would be</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">So he prayed to the Gods, and they stooped to +his prayer,<br /> +And they spoke to the Sun on his way through the air,<br /> +And he married the Echo one fortunate morn,<br /> +<a name="page116"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 116</span>And +Woman, their beautiful daughter, was born!<br /> +The daughter of Sunshine and Echo she came<br /> +With a voice like a song, with a face like a flame;<br /> +With a face like a flame, and a voice like a song,<br /> +And happy was Man, but it was not for long!</p> +<p class="poetry">For weather’s a painfully changeable +thing,<br /> +Not always the child of the Echo would sing;<br /> +And the face of the Sun may be hidden with mist,<br /> +And his child can be terribly cross if she list.<br /> +And unfortunate Man had to learn with surprise<br /> +That a frown’s not peculiar to masculine eyes;<br /> +That the sweetest of voices can scold and can sneer,<br /> +And cannot be answered—like men—with a spear.</p> +<p class="poetry">So Man went and called to the Gods in his +woe,<br /> +And they answered him—“Sir, you would needs have it +so:<br /> +<a name="page117"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 117</span>And the +thing must go on as the thing has begun,<br /> +She’s immortal—your child of the Echo and Sun.<br /> +But we’ll send you another, and fairer is she,<br /> +This maiden with locks that are flowing and free.<br /> +This maiden so gentle, so kind, and so fair,<br /> +With a flower like a star in the night of her hair.<br /> +With her eyes like the smoke that is misty and blue,<br /> +With her heart that is heavenly, and tender, and true.<br /> +She will die in the night, but no need you should mourn,<br /> +You shall bury her body and thence shall be born<br /> +A weed that is green, that is fragrant and fair,<br /> +With a flower like the star in the night of her hair.<br /> +And the leaves must ye burn till they offer to you <br /> +<a name="page118"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 118</span>Soft +smoke, like her eyes that are misty and blue.</p> +<p class="poetry">“And the smoke shall ye breathe and no +more shall ye fret,<br /> +But the child of the Echo and Sun shall forget:<br /> +Shall forget all the trouble and torment she brings,<br /> +Shall bethink ye of none but delectable things;<br /> +And the sound of the wars with your brethren shall cease,<br /> +While ye smoke by the camp-fire the great pipe of +peace.”<br /> +So the last state of Man was by no means the worst,<br /> +The second gift softened the sting of the first.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nor the child of the Echo and Sun doth he +heed<br /> +When he dreams with the Maid that was changed to the weed;<br /> +Though the Echo be silent, the Sun in a mist,<br /> +The Maid is the fairest that ever was kissed.<br /> +<a name="page119"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 119</span>And when +tempests are over and ended the rain,<br /> +And the child of the Sunshine is sunny again,<br /> +He comes back, glad at heart, and again is at one<br /> +With the changeable child of the Echo and Sun.</p> +<h2><a name="page121"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +121</span>RHYMES À LA MODE</h2> +<h3><a name="page123"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +123</span>BALLADE DEDICATORY,<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +<i>MRS. ELTON</i><br /> +<span class="GutSmall"><i>OF WHITE STAUNTON</i></span><span +class="GutSmall">.</span></h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>The</i></span><i> +painted Briton built his mound</i>,<br /> +<i>And left his celts and clay</i>,<br /> +<i>On yon fair slope of sunlit ground</i><br /> +<i>That fronts your garden gay</i>;<br /> +<i>The Roman came</i>, <i>he bore the sway</i>,<br /> +<i>He bullied</i>, <i>bought</i>, <i>and sold</i>,<br /> +<i>Your fountain sweeps his works away</i><br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>But still his crumbling urns are +found</i><br /> +<i>Within the window-bay</i>,<br /> +<i>Where once he listened to the sound</i><br /> +<i>That lulls you day by day</i>;—<br /> +<a name="page124"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 124</span><i>The +sound of summer winds at play</i>,<br /> +<i>The noise of waters cold</i><br /> +<i>To Yarty wandering on their way</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>The Roman fell</i>: <i>his firm-set +bound</i><br /> +<i>Became the Saxon’s stay</i>;<br /> +<i>The bells made music all around</i><br /> +<i>For monks in cloisters grey</i>,<br /> +<i>Till fled the monks in disarray</i><br /> +<i>From their warm chantry’s fold</i>,<br /> +<i>Old Abbots slumber as they may</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap"><i>Envoy</i></span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Creeds</i>, <i>empires</i>, <i>peoples</i>, +<i>all decay</i>,<br /> +<i>Down into darkness</i>, <i>rolled</i>;<br /> +<i>May life that’s fleet be sweet</i>, <i>I pray</i>,<br /> +<i>Beside your manor old</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 125</span>THE +FORTUNATE ISLANDS.</h3> +<h4><a name="page127"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 127</span>THE +FORTUNATE ISLANDS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">A DREAM IN JUNE.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">In</span> twilight of the +longest day<br /> + I lingered over Lucian,<br /> +Till ere the dawn a dreamy way<br /> + My spirit found, untrod of man,<br /> +Between the green sky and the grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">Amid the soft dusk suddenly<br /> + More light than air I seemed to sail,<br /> +Afloat upon the ocean sky,<br /> + While through the faint blue, clear and pale,<br /> +I saw the mountain clouds go by:<br /> + My barque had thought for helm and sail,<br /> +And one mist wreath for canopy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page128"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +128</span>Like torches on a marble floor<br /> + Reflected, so the wild stars shone,<br /> +Within the abysmal hyaline,<br /> + Till the day widened more and more,<br /> +And sank to sunset, and was gone,<br /> +And then, as burning beacons shine<br /> + On summits of a mountain isle,<br /> + A light to folk on sea that +fare,<br /> + So the sky’s beacons for a while<br /> + Burned in these islands of the +air.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then from a starry island set<br /> + Where one swift tide of wind there flows,<br /> +Came scent of lily and violet,<br /> + Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose,<br /> +Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine,<br /> +So delicate is the air and fine:<br /> +And forests of all fragrant trees<br /> + Sloped seaward from the central hill,<br /> +And ever clamorous were these<br /> +<a name="page129"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 129</span>With +singing of glad birds; and still<br /> + Such music came as in the woods<br /> +Most lonely, consecrate to Pan,<br /> + The Wind makes, in his many moods,<br /> +Upon the pipes some shepherd Man,<br /> + Hangs up, in thanks for victory!<br /> +On these shall mortals play no more,<br /> + But the Wind doth touch them, over and +o’er,<br /> +And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh.</p> +<p class="poetry">Between the daylight and the dark<br /> + That island lies in silver air,<br /> +And suddenly my magic barque<br /> + Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there;<br /> +And by me stood the sentinel<br /> + Of them who in the island dwell;<br /> + All smiling did he bind my +hands,<br /> + With rushes green and rosy +bands,<br /> +They have no harsher bonds than these<br /> + The people of the pleasant lands<br /> +Within the wash of the airy seas!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page130"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +130</span>Then was I to their city led:<br /> + Now all of ivory and gold<br /> +The great walls were that garlanded<br /> +The temples in their shining fold,<br /> + (Each fane of beryl built, and each<br /> + Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,)<br /> +And all about the town, and through,<br /> +There flowed a River fed with dew,<br /> + As sweet as roses, and as clear<br /> + As mountain crystals pure and +cold,<br /> +And with his waves that water kissed<br /> +The gleaming altars of amethyst<br /> + That smoke with victims all the year,<br /> +And sacred are to the Gods of old.</p> +<p class="poetry">There sat three Judges by the Gate,<br /> + And I was led before the Three,<br /> +And they but looked on me, and straight<br /> + The rosy bonds fell down from me<br /> + Who, being innocent, was free;<br /> +<a name="page131"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 131</span>And I +might wander at my will<br /> +About that City on the hill,<br /> + Among the happy people clad<br /> + In purple weeds of woven air<br /> +Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves<br /> +At shut of languid summer eves<br /> + So light their raiment seemed; and glad<br /> +Was every face I looked on there!</p> +<p class="poetry">There was no heavy heat, no cold,<br /> + The dwellers there wax never old,<br /> + Nor wither with the waning +time,<br /> +But each man keeps that age he had<br /> + When first he won the fairy +clime.<br /> +The Night falls never from on high,<br /> + Nor ever burns the heat of noon.<br /> +But such soft light eternally<br /> + Shines, as in silver dawns of June<br /> +Before the Sun hath climbed the sky!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page132"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +132</span>Within these pleasant streets and wide,<br /> + The souls of Heroes go and come,<br /> +Even they that fell on either side<br /> + Beneath the walls of Ilium;<br /> +And sunlike in that shadowy isle<br /> +The face of Helen and her smile<br /> + Makes glad the souls of them that knew<br /> +Grief for her sake a little while!<br /> +And all true Greeks and wise are there;<br /> +And with his hand upon the hair<br /> + Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates,<br /> +About him many youths and fair,<br /> + Hylas, Narcissus, and with these<br /> +Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew<br /> + By fleet Eurotas, unaware!</p> +<p class="poetry">All these their mirth and pleasure made<br /> + Within the plain Elysian,<br /> + The fairest meadow that may be,<br +/> +<a name="page133"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 133</span>With all +green fragrant trees for shade<br /> + And every scented wind to fan,<br /> + And sweetest flowers to strew the +lea;<br /> +The soft Winds are their servants fleet<br /> + To fetch them every fruit at will<br /> + And water from the river chill;<br /> +And every bird that singeth sweet<br /> + Throstle, and merle, and nightingale<br /> + Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,—<br /> +Lily, and rose, and asphodel—<br /> + With these doth each guest twine his crown<br /> + And wreathe his cup, and lay him down<br /> + Beside some friend he loveth +well.</p> +<p class="poetry">There with the shining Souls I lay<br /> +When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say,<br /> + In far-off haunts of Memory,<br /> +<i>Whoso doth taste the Dead Men’s bread</i>,<br /> +<i>Shall dwell for ever with these Dead</i>,<br /> +<i>Nor ever shall his body lie</i><br /> +<a name="page134"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +134</span><i>Beside his friends</i>, <i>on the grey hill</i><br +/> +<i>Where rains weep</i>, <i>and the curlews shrill</i><br /> +<i>And the brown water wanders by</i>!</p> +<p class="poetry">Then did a new soul in me wake,<br /> +The dead men’s bread I feared to break,<br /> +Their fruit I would not taste indeed<br /> +Were it but a pomegranate seed.<br /> +Nay, not with these I made my choice<br /> +To dwell for ever and rejoice,<br /> +For otherwhere the River rolls<br /> +That girds the home of Christian souls,<br /> +And these my whole heart seeks are found<br /> +On otherwise enchanted ground.</p> +<p class="poetry">Even so I put the cup away,<br /> + The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke,<br /> + And, nowise sorrowing, I woke<br /> +While, grey among the ruins grey<br /> +Chill through the dwellings of the dead,<br /> + The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea,<br /> +<a name="page135"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 135</span>Then, in +a moment, flushed to red,<br /> + Flushed all the broken minster old,<br /> + And turned the shattered stones to gold,<br /> +And wakened half the world with me!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">L’Envoi</span>.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">To E. W. G.</p> +<p>(Who also had rhymed on the <i>Fortunate Islands</i> of +Lucian).</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>Each in the self-same field we glean</i><br +/> +<i>The field of the Samosatene</i>,<br /> +<i>Each something takes and something leaves</i><br /> + <i>And this must choose</i>, <i>and that +forego</i><br /> +<i>In Lucian’s visionary sheaves</i>,<br /> + <i>To twine a modern posy so</i>;<br /> +<i>But all my gleanings</i>, <i>truth to tell</i>,<br /> +<i>Are mixed with mournful asphodel</i>,<br /> +<i>While yours are wreathed with poppies red</i>,<br /> + <i>With flowers that Helen’s feet have +kissed</i>,<br /> +<a name="page136"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 136</span><i>With +leaves of vine that garlanded</i><br /> + <i>The Syrian Pantagruelist</i>,<br /> +<i>The sage who laughed the world away</i>,<br /> + <i>Who mocked at Gods</i>, <i>and men</i>, <i>and +care</i>,<br /> +<i>More sweet of voice than Rabelais</i>,<br /> + <i>And lighter-hearted than Voltaire</i>.</p> +<h3><a name="page137"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +137</span>ALMAE MATRES.</h3> +<h4><a name="page139"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +139</span>ALMAE MATRES.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(ST. ANDREWS, 1862. OXFORD, +1865.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>St</i></span><i>. +Andrews by the Northern sea</i>,<br /> + <i>A haunted town it is to me</i>!<br /> +A little city, worn and grey,<br /> + The grey North Ocean girds it round.<br /> +And o’er the rocks, and up the bay,<br /> + The long sea-rollers surge and sound.<br /> +And still the thin and biting spray<br /> + Drives down the melancholy street,<br /> +And still endure, and still decay,<br /> + Towers that the salt winds vainly beat.<br /> +Ghost-like and shadowy they stand<br /> +Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page140"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +140</span>St. Leonard’s chapel, long ago<br /> + We loitered idly where the tall<br /> +Fresh budded mountain ashes blow<br /> + Within thy desecrated wall:<br /> +The tough roots rent the tomb below,<br /> + The April birds sang clamorous,<br /> +We did not dream, we could not know<br /> + How hardly Fate would deal with us!</p> +<p class="poetry">O, broken minster, looking forth<br /> + Beyond the bay, above the town,<br /> +O, winter of the kindly North,<br /> + O, college of the scarlet gown,<br /> +And shining sands beside the sea,<br /> + And stretch of links beyond the sand,<br /> +Once more I watch you, and to me<br /> + It is as if I touched his hand!</p> +<p class="poetry">And therefore art thou yet more dear,<br /> + O, little city, grey and sere,<br /> +<a name="page141"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 141</span>Though +shrunken from thine ancient pride<br /> + And lonely by thy lonely sea,<br /> +Than these fair halls on Isis’ side,<br /> + Where Youth an hour came back to me!</p> +<p class="poetry">A land of waters green and clear,<br /> + Of willows and of poplars tall,<br /> +And, in the spring time of the year,<br /> + The white may breaking over all,<br /> +And Pleasure quick to come at call.<br /> + And summer rides by marsh and wold,<br /> +And Autumn with her crimson pall<br /> + About the towers of Magdalen rolled;<br /> +And strange enchantments from the past,<br /> + And memories of the friends of old,<br /> +And strong Tradition, binding fast<br /> + The “flying terms” with bands of +gold,—</p> +<p class="poetry">All these hath Oxford: all are dear,<br /> + But dearer far the little town,<br /> +<a name="page142"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 142</span>The +drifting surf, the wintry year,<br /> + The college of the scarlet gown,<br /> + <i>St. Andrews by the Northern +sea</i>,<br /> + <i>That is a haunted town to +me</i>!</p> +<h3><a name="page143"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +143</span>DESIDERIUM.</h3> +<p style="text-align: center">IN MEMORIAM S. F. A.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> call of homing +rooks, the shrill<br /> + Song of some bird that watches late,<br /> +The cries of children break the still<br /> + Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.</p> +<p class="poetry">And o’er your far-off tomb the grey<br /> + Sad twilight broods, and from the trees<br /> +The rooks call on their homeward way,<br /> + And are you heedless quite of these?</p> +<p class="poetry">The clustered rowan berries red<br /> + And Autumn’s may, the clematis,<br /> +They droop above your dreaming head,<br /> + And these, and all things must you miss?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page144"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +144</span>Ah, you that loved the twilight air,<br /> + The dim lit hour of quiet best,<br /> +At last, at last you have your share<br /> + Of what life gave so seldom, rest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep,<br /> + Or labour, nearer the Divine,<br /> +And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep,<br /> + And gentle as thy soul, is thine!</p> +<p class="poetry">So let it be! But could I know<br /> + That thou in this soft autumn eve,<br /> +This hush of earth that pleased thee so,<br /> + Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.</p> +<h3><a name="page145"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +145</span>RHYMES À LA MODE.</h3> +<h4><a name="page147"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +147</span>BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Our</span> youth began with +tears and sighs,<br /> +With seeking what we could not find;<br /> +Our verses all were threnodies,<br /> +In elegiacs still we whined;<br /> +Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,<br /> +We sought and knew not what we sought.<br /> +We marvel, now we look behind:<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!<br /> +Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!<br /> +What? not content with seas and skies,<br /> +With rainy clouds and southern wind,<br /> +<a name="page148"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 148</span>With +common cares and faces kind,<br /> +With pains and joys each morning brought?<br /> +Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though youth “turns spectre-thin and +dies,”<br /> +To mourn for youth we’re not inclined;<br /> +We set our souls on salmon flies,<br /> +We whistle where we once repined.<br /> +Confound the woes of human-kind!<br /> +By Heaven we’re “well deceived,” I wot;<br /> +Who hum, contented or resigned,<br /> +“Life’s more amusing than we thought”!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>O nate mecum</i>, worn and lined<br /> +Our faces show, but that is naught;<br /> +Our hearts are young ’neath wrinkled rind:<br /> +Life’s more amusing than we thought!</p> +<h4><a name="page149"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 149</span>THE +LAST CAST.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">THE ANGLER’S APOLOGY.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Just</span> one cast more! +how many a year<br /> + Beside how many a pool and stream,<br /> +Beneath the falling leaves and sere,<br /> + I’ve sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my +dream!</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreamed of the sport since April first<br /> + Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,<br /> +Adown the pastoral valleys burst<br /> + Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.</p> +<p class="poetry">Dreamed of the singing showers that break,<br +/> + And sting the lochs, or near or far,<br /> +And rouse the trout, and stir “the take”<br /> + From Urigil to Lochinvar.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>Dreamed of the kind propitious sky<br /> + O’er Ari Innes brooding grey;<br /> +The sea trout, rushing at the fly,<br /> + Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">* * * * *</p> +<p class="poetry">Brief are man’s days at best; +perchance<br /> + I waste my own, who have not seen<br /> +The castled palaces of France<br /> + Shine on the Loire in summer green.</p> +<p class="poetry">And clear and fleet Eurotas still,<br /> + You tell me, laves his reedy shore,<br /> +And flows beneath his fabled hill<br /> + Where Dian drave the chase of yore.</p> +<p class="poetry">And “like a horse unbroken” yet<br +/> + The yellow stream with rush and foam,<br /> +’Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,<br /> + Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page151"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +151</span>I may not see them, but I doubt<br /> + If seen I’d find them half so fair<br /> +As ripples of the rising trout<br /> + That feed beneath the elms of Yair.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, Spring I’d meet by Tweed or Ail,<br +/> + And Summer by Loch Assynt’s deep,<br /> +And Autumn in that lonely vale<br /> + Where wedded Avons westward sweep,</p> +<p class="poetry">Or where, amid the empty fields,<br /> + Among the bracken of the glen,<br /> +Her yellow wreath October yields,<br /> + To crown the crystal brows of Ken.</p> +<p class="poetry">Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal,<br /> + Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide,<br /> +You never heard the ringing reel,<br /> + The music of the water side!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page152"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +152</span>Though Gods have walked your woods among,<br /> + Though nymphs have fled your banks along;<br /> +You speak not that familiar tongue<br /> + Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.</p> +<p class="poetry">My cradle song,—nor other hymn<br /> + I’d choose, nor gentler requiem dear<br /> +Than Tweed’s, that through death’s twilight dim,<br +/> + Mourned in the latest Minstrel’s ear!</p> +<h4><a name="page153"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +153</span>TWILIGHT.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">SONNET.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">(AFTER RICHEPIN.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Light</span> has flown!<br +/> + Through the grey<br /> + The wind’s way<br /> +The sea’s moan<br /> +Sound alone!<br /> + For the day<br /> + These repay<br /> +And atone!</p> +<p class="poetry">Scarce I know,<br /> +Listening so<br /> + To the streams<br /> + Of the sea,<br /> + If old dreams<br /> + Sing to me!</p> +<h4><a name="page154"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +154</span>BALLADE OF SUMMER.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">TO C. H. ARKCOLL.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">When</span> strawberry +pottles are common and cheap,<br /> +Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,<br /> +When midnight dances are murdering sleep,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And far from Fleet Street, far from here,<br /> +The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,<br /> +And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">When clamour that doves in the lindens keep<br +/> +Mingles with musical plash of the weir,<br /> +Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And better a crust and a beaker of beer,<br /> +With rose-hung hedges on either hand,<br /> +<a name="page155"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 155</span>Than a +palace in town and a prince’s cheer,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p class="poetry">When big trout late in the twilight leap,<br /> +When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,<br /> +When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,<br /> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer,<br /> +Where kine knee deep in the water stand,<br /> +On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,<br +/> +Then comes in the sweet o’ the year!<br /> +And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand,<br /> +When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!</p> +<h4><a name="page156"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +156</span>BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Between</span> the +moonlight and the fire<br /> +In winter twilights long ago,<br /> +What ghosts we raised for your desire<br /> +To make your merry blood run slow!<br /> +How old, how grave, how wise we grow!<br /> +No Christmas ghost can make us chill,<br /> +Save <i>those</i> that troop in mournful row,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<p class="poetry">The beasts can talk in barn and byre<br /> +On Christmas Eve, old legends know,<br /> +As year by year the years retire,<br /> +We men fall silent then I trow,<br /> +Such sights hath Memory to show,<br /> +Such voices from the silence thrill,<br /> +<a name="page157"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 157</span>Such +shapes return with Christmas snow,—<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will.</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, children of the village choir,<br /> +Your carols on the midnight throw,<br /> +Oh bright across the mist and mire<br /> +Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!<br /> +Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,<br /> +Let’s cheerily descend the hill;<br /> +Be welcome all, to come or go,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, <i>sursum corda</i>, soon or slow<br /> +We part, like guests who’ve joyed their fill;<br /> +Forget them not, nor mourn them so,<br /> +The ghosts we all can raise at will!</p> +<h4><a name="page158"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +158</span>LOVE’S EASTER.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">SONNET.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Love</span> died here<br /> + Long ago;<br /> +O’er his bier,<br /> + Lying low,<br /> + Poppies throw;<br /> + Shed no tear;<br /> + Year by year,<br /> + Roses blow!</p> +<p class="poetry">Year by year,<br /> +Adon—dear<br /> + To Love’s Queen—<br /> + Does not die!<br /> + Wakes when green<br /> + May is nigh!</p> +<h4><a name="page159"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +159</span>BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">She</span> has just +“put her gown on” at Girton,<br /> + She is learned in Latin and Greek,<br /> +But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on<br /> + That the prudish remark with a shriek.<br /> +In her accents, perhaps, she is weak<br /> + (Ladies <i>are</i>, one observes with a sigh),<br /> +But in Algebra—<i>there</i> she’s unique,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p class="poetry">She can talk about putting a “spirt +on”<br /> + (I admit, an unmaidenly freak),<br /> +And she dearly delighteth to flirt on<br /> + A punt in some shadowy creek;<br /> +Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak,<br /> + She can swim as a swallow can fly;<br /> +<a name="page160"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 160</span>She can +fence, she can put with a cleek,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p class="poetry">She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton,<br /> + Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,<br /> +Old tiles with the secular dirt on,<br /> + Old marbles with noses to seek.<br /> +And her Cobet she quotes by the week,<br /> + And she’s written on +<i>κεν</i> and on +<i>καὶ</i>,<br /> +And her service is swift and oblique,<br /> + But her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Princess, like a rose is her cheek,<br /> + And her eyes are as blue as the sky,<br /> +And I’d speak, had I courage to speak,<br /> + But—her forte’s to evaluate π.</p> +<h4><a name="page161"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +161</span>RONSARD’S GRAVE.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ye</span> wells, ye founts +that fall<br /> + From the steep mountain wall,<br /> +That fall, and flash, and fleet<br /> + With silver +feet,</p> +<p class="poetry">Ye woods, ye streams that lave<br /> +The meadows with your wave,<br /> + Ye hills, and valley fair,<br /> + Attend my +prayer!</p> +<p class="poetry">When Heaven and Fate decree<br /> +My latest hour for me,<br /> + When I must pass away<br /> + From pleasant +day,</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page162"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +162</span>I ask that none may break<br /> +The marble for my sake,<br /> + Wishful to make more fair<br /> + My +sepulchre.</p> +<p class="poetry">Only a laurel tree<br /> +Shall shade the grave of me,<br /> + Only Apollo’s bough<br /> + Shall guard me +now!</p> +<p class="poetry">Now shall I be at rest<br /> +Among the spirits blest,<br /> + The happy dead that dwell—<br /> + Where,—who +may tell?</p> +<p class="poetry">The snow and wind and hail<br /> +May never there prevail,<br /> + Nor ever thunder fall<br /> + Nor storm at +all.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page163"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +163</span>But always fadeless there<br /> +The woods are green and fair,<br /> + And faithful ever more<br /> + Spring to that +shore!</p> +<p class="poetry">There shall I ever hear<br /> +Alcaeus’ music clear,<br /> + And sweetest of all things<br /> + There <span +class="smcap">Sappho</span> sings.</p> +<h4><a name="page164"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 164</span>SAN +TERENZO.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(The village in the bay of Spezia, +near which Shelley was living<br /> +before the wreck of the <i>Don Juan</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Mid</span> April seemed +like some November day,<br /> + When through the glassy waters, dull as lead<br /> +Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,<br /> + Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,<br +/> + Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay<br /> +Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,<br /> +The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,—<br /> + His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen<br +/> + Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.<br +/> + Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,<br /> +<a name="page165"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 165</span>When +suddenly the forest glades were stirred<br /> + With waving pinions, and a great sea bird<br /> +Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: right">1880.</p> +<h4><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>ROMANCE.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">My</span> Love dwelt in a +Northern land.<br /> + A grey tower in a forest green<br /> +Was hers, and far on either hand<br /> + The long wash of the waves was seen,<br /> +And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,<br /> + The woven forest boughs between!</p> +<p class="poetry">And through the silver Northern night<br /> + The sunset slowly died away,<br /> +And herds of strange deer, lily-white,<br /> + Stole forth among the branches grey;<br /> +About the coming of the light,<br /> + They fled like ghosts before the day!</p> +<p class="poetry">I know not if the forest green<br /> + Still girdles round that castle grey;<br /> +<a name="page167"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 167</span>I know +not if the boughs between<br /> + The white deer vanish ere the day;<br /> +Above my Love the grass is green,<br /> + My heart is colder than the clay!</p> +<h4><a name="page168"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +168</span>BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY.</h4> +<p class="poetry">I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves<br /> + Among the shining salmon-flies;<br /> +A song for summer-time that grieves<br /> + I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves.<br /> + Between grey sea and golden sheaves,<br /> +Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,<br /> +I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves<br /> + Among the shining salmon-flies.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">TO C. H. ARKCOLL.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> them boast of +Arabia, oppressed<br /> + By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;<br /> +In the isles of the East and the West<br /> + That are sweet with the cinnamon trees<br /> +Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas<br /> + Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,<br /> +<a name="page169"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 169</span>We are +more than content, if you please,<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best<br /> + With the scent of the limes, when the bees<br /> +Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest,<br /> + While the vintagers lay at their ease,<br /> +Had he sung in our northern degrees,<br /> + He’d have sought a securer retreat,<br /> +He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest<br /> + And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,<br /> +And the soul of the Southron might rest,<br /> + And be perfectly happy with these;<br /> +But <i>we</i>, that were nursed on the knees<br /> + Of the hills of the North, we would fleet<br /> +Where our hearts might their longing appease<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page170"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 170</span><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah Constance, the land of our quest<br /> + It is far from the sounds of the street,<br /> +Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest<br /> + With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!</p> +<h4><a name="page171"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +171</span>VILLANELLE.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF +“LES VILLANELLES.”)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Villanelle</span>, why art +thou mute?<br /> + Hath the singer ceased to sing?<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Many a pipe and scrannel flute<br /> + On the breeze their discords fling;<br /> +Villanelle, why art <i>thou</i> mute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Sound of tumult and dispute,<br /> +Noise of war the echoes bring;<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page172"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +172</span>Once he sang of bud and shoot<br /> + In the season of the Spring;<br /> +Villanelle, why art thou mute?</p> +<p class="poetry">Fading leaf and falling fruit<br /> + Say, “The year is on the wing,<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?”</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere the axe lie at the root,<br /> + Ere the winter come as king,<br /> +Villanelle, why art thou mute?<br /> +Hath the Master lost his lute?</p> +<h4><a name="page173"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +173</span>TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.</h4> +<p class="poetry">Αιαῖ ταὶ +μαλάχαι μὲν +ἐπὰν κατὰ +κᾶπον +ὄλωντα<br /> +ὕστερον αὖ +ζώοντι καὶ +εἰς ἔτος +ἄλλο +φύοντι<br /> +ἄμμες δ’ ὁι +μεγάλοι +καὶ +καρτεροί, +οἱ σοφοὶ +ἄνδες<br /> +ὁππότε πρᾶτα +θάνωμες, +ἀνάκοοι ἐν +χθονὶ +κοίλᾳ,<br /> +εὕδομες +εὖ μάλα +μακρὸν +ἀτέρμονα +νήγρετον +ὕπνον.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Alas</span>, for us no +second spring,<br /> + Like mallows in the garden-bed,<br /> +For these the grave has lost his sting,<br /> + Alas, for <i>us</i> no second spring,<br /> + Who sleep without awakening,<br /> +And, dead, for ever more are dead,<br /> + Alas, for us no second spring,<br /> + Like mallows in the +garden-bed!</p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,<br /> + That boast themselves the sons of men!<br /> +<a name="page174"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 174</span>Once +they go down into the grave—<br /> + Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,—<br /> + They perish and have none to save,<br /> + They are sown, and are not raised again;<br /> +Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,<br /> + That boast themselves the sons of men!</p> +<h4><a name="page175"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +175</span>BALLADE OF CRICKET.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">TO T. W. LANG.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> burden of hard +hitting: slog away!<br /> +Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a +“four,”<br /> +And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,<br /> +That thou art in for an uncommon score.<br /> +Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,<br /> +And thou to rival <span class="smcap">Thornton</span> shalt +aspire,<br /> +When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg +before,”—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The burden of much bowling, when the stay<br /> +Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower,<br /> +When “bailers” break not in their wonted way,<br /> +And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore,<br /> +<a name="page176"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 176</span>When +length balls shoot no more, ah never more,<br /> +When all deliveries lose their former fire,<br /> +When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p class="poetry">The burden of long fielding, when the clay<br +/> +Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower’s downpour,<br /> +And running still thou stumblest, or the ray<br /> +Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,<br /> +And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,<br /> +Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer,”<br /> +And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—<br /> +“This is the end of every man’s desire!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy.</span></p> +<p class="poetry">Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither +shore<br /> +Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,<br /> +Than King among the old, who play no more,—<br /> +“<i>This</i> is the end of every man’s +desire!”</p> +<h4><a name="page177"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 177</span>THE +LAST MAYING.</h4> +<blockquote><p>“It is told of the last Lovers which watched +May-night in the<br /> +forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this +land, that<br /> +they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but the +very<br /> +Venus herself, who bade them ‘make such cheer as they +might,<br /> +for’ said she, ‘I shall live no more in these Woods, +nor shall ye<br /> +endure to see another May time.’”—<span +class="smcap">Edmund Gorliot</span>, “Of Phantasies and +Omens,” p. 149. (1573.)</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">Whence</span> do ye +come, with the dew on your hair?<br /> +From what far land are the boughs ye bear,<br /> + The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses,<br +/> +The light burned white in your faces fair?”</p> +<p class="poetry">“In a falling fane have we built our +house,<br /> +With the dying Gods we have held carouse,<br /> + And our lips are wan from their wild caresses,<br /> +Our hands are filled with their holy boughs.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page178"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +178</span>As we crossed the lawn in the dying day<br /> +No fairy led us to meet the May,<br /> + But the very Goddess loved by lovers,<br /> +In mourning raiment of green and grey.</p> +<p class="poetry">She was not decked as for glee and game,<br /> +She was not veiled with the veil of flame,<br /> + The saffron veil of the Bride that covers<br /> +The face that is flushed with her joy and shame.</p> +<p class="poetry">On the laden branches the scent and dew<br /> +Mingled and met, and as snow to strew<br /> + The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses,<br /> +White flowers fell as the night wind blew.</p> +<p class="poetry">Tears and kisses on lips and eyes<br /> +Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs<br /> + For grief that abides, and joy that passes,<br /> +For pain that tarries and mirth that flies.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page179"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +179</span>It chanced as the dawning grew to grey<br /> +Pale and sad on our homeward way,<br /> + With weary lips, and palled with pleasure<br /> +The Goddess met us, farewell to say.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye have made your choice, and the better +part,<br /> +Ye chose” she said, “and the wiser art;<br /> + In the wild May night drank all the measure,<br /> +The perfect pleasure of heart and heart.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Ye shall walk no more with the +May,” she said,<br /> +“Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead?<br /> + Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen,<br +/> +Sing as of old, and be happy and wed?</p> +<p class="poetry">“Yea, they are glad as of old; but +you,<br /> +Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew,<br /> + Abide no more, for the springs are frozen,<br /> +And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew.</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page180"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +180</span>“Ye shall never know Summer again like this;<br +/> +Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis,<br /> + No more in the nymphs’ and dryads’ +playtime<br /> +Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss.</p> +<p class="poetry">“Though the flowers in your golden hair +be bright,<br /> +Your golden hair shall be waste and white<br /> + On faded brows ere another May time<br /> + Bring the spring, but no more +delight.”</p> +<h4><a name="page181"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +181</span>HOMERIC UNITY.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> sacred keep of +Ilion is rent<br /> + By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow<br /> +Through plains where Simois and Scamander went<br /> + To war with Gods and heroes long ago.<br /> + Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low<br /> +In rich Mycenæ, do the Fates relent:<br /> + The bones of Agamemnon are a show,<br /> +And ruined is his royal monument.</p> +<p class="poetry">The dust and awful treasures of the Dead,<br /> + Hath Learning scattered wide, but vainly thee,<br /> +Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead,<br /> + And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see<br +/> +The crown that burns on thine immortal head<br /> + Of indivisible supremacy!</p> +<h4><a name="page182"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 182</span>IN +TINTAGEL.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Ah</span> lady, lady, leave +the creeping mist,<br /> + And leave the iron castle by the sea!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, from the sea there came a ghost that +kissed<br /> + My lips, and so I cannot come to thee!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah lady, leave the cruel landward wind<br /> + That crusts the blighted flowers with bitter +foam!</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">Nay, for his arms are cold and strong to +bind,<br /> + And I must dwell with him and make my home!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page183"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 183</span>LUI.</p> +<p class="poetry">Come, for the Spring is fair in Joyous Guard<br +/> + And down deep alleys sweet birds sing again.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">ELLE.</p> +<p class="poetry">But I must tarry with the winter hard,<br /> + And with the bitter memory of pain,<br /> +Although the Spring be fair in Joyous Guard,<br /> + And in the gardens glad birds sing again!</p> +<h4><a name="page184"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +184</span>PISIDICÊ.</h4> +<p>The incident is from the Love Stories of Parthenius, who +preserved fragments of a lost epic on the expedition of Achilles +against Lesbos, an island allied with Troy.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">The</span> daughter of the +Lesbian king<br /> + Within her bower she watched the war,<br /> +Far off she heard the arrows ring,<br /> + The smitten harness ring afar;<br /> +And, fighting from the foremost car,<br /> + Saw one that smote where all must flee;<br /> +More fair than the Immortals are<br /> + He seemed to fair Pisidicê!</p> +<p class="poetry">She saw, she loved him, and her heart<br /> + Before Achilles, Peleus’ son,<br /> +<a name="page185"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 185</span>Threw +all its guarded gates apart,<br /> + A maiden fortress lightly won!<br /> +And, ere that day of fight was done,<br /> + No more of land or faith recked she,<br /> +But joyed in her new life begun,—<br /> + Her life of love, Pisidicê!</p> +<p class="poetry">She took a gift into her hand,<br /> + As one that had a boon to crave;<br /> +She stole across the ruined land<br /> + Where lay the dead without a grave,<br /> +And to Achilles’ hand she gave<br /> + Her gift, the secret postern’s key.<br /> +“To-morrow let me be thy slave!”<br /> + Moaned to her love Pisidicê.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ere dawn the Argives’ clarion call<br /> + Rang down Methymna’s burning street;<br /> +They slew the sleeping warriors all,<br /> + They drove the women to the fleet,<br /> +<a name="page186"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 186</span>Save +one, that to Achilles’ feet<br /> + Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he:<br /> +“For her no doom but death is meet,”<br /> + And there men stoned Pisidicê.</p> +<p class="poetry">In havens of that haunted coast,<br /> + Amid the myrtles of the shore,<br /> +The moon sees many a maiden ghost<br /> + Love’s outcast now and evermore.<br /> +The silence hears the shades deplore<br /> + Their hour of dear-bought love; but <i>thee</i><br +/> +The waves lull, ’neath thine olives hoar,<br /> + To dreamless rest, Pisidicê!</p> +<h4><a name="page187"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 187</span>FROM +THE EAST TO THE WEST.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Returning</span> from what +other seas<br /> + Dost thou renew thy murmuring,<br /> +Weak Tide, and hast thou aught of these<br /> + To tell, the shores where float and cling<br /> +My love, my hope, my memories?</p> +<p class="poetry">Say does my lady wake to note<br /> + The gold light into silver die?<br /> +Or do thy waves make lullaby,<br /> + While dreams of hers, like angels, float<br /> +Through star-sown spaces of the sky?</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, would such angels came to me<br /> + That dreams of mine might speak with hers,<br /> +Nor wake the slumber of the sea<br /> + With words as low as winds that be<br /> +Awake among the gossamers!</p> +<h4><a name="page188"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 188</span>LOVE +THE VAMPIRE.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">Ο +ΕΡΩΤΑΣ ’Σ +ΤΟΝ ΤΑΦΟ.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <span +class="smcap">The</span> level sands and grey,<br /> + Stretch leagues and leagues away,<br /> +Down to the border line of sky and foam,<br /> + A spark of sunset burns,<br /> + The grey tide-water turns,<br /> +Back, like a ghost from her forbidden home!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Here, without pyre or +bier,<br /> + Light Love was buried here,<br /> +Alas, his grave was wide and deep enough,<br /> + Thrice, with averted head,<br /> + We cast dust on the dead,<br /> +And left him to his rest. An end of Love.</p> +<p class="poetry"> <a name="page189"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 189</span>“No stone to roll away,<br /> + No seal of snow or clay,<br /> +Only soft dust above his wearied eyes,<br /> + But though the sudden sound<br /> + Of Doom should shake the ground,<br /> +And graves give up their ghosts, he will not rise!”</p> +<p class="poetry"> So each to each we said!<br +/> + Ah, but to either bed<br /> +Set far apart in lands of North and South,<br /> + Love as a Vampire came<br /> + With haggard eyes aflame,<br /> +And kissed us with the kisses of his mouth!</p> +<p class="poetry"> Thenceforth in dreams must +we<br /> + Each other’s shadow see<br /> +Wand’ring unsatisfied in empty lands,<br /> + Still the desirèd face<br /> + Fleets from the vain embrace,<br /> +And still the shape evades the longing hands.</p> +<h4><a name="page190"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +190</span>BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN’S PARADISE</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">There</span> <i>is</i> a +Heaven, or here, or there,—<br /> +A Heaven there is, for me and you,<br /> +Where bargains meet for purses spare,<br /> +Like ours, are not so far and few.<br /> +Thuanus’ bees go humming through<br /> +The learned groves, ’neath rainless skies,<br /> +O’er volumes old and volumes new,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">There treasures bound for Longepierre<br /> +Keep brilliant their morocco blue,<br /> +There Hookes’ <i>Amanda</i> is not rare,<br /> +Nor early tracts upon Peru!<br /> +<a name="page191"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 191</span>Racine +is common as Rotrou,<br /> +No Shakespeare Quarto search defies,<br /> +And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p class="poetry">There’s Eve,—not our first mother +fair,—<br /> +But Clovis Eve, a binder true;<br /> +Thither does Bauzonnet repair,<br /> +Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup!<br /> +But never come the cropping crew<br /> +That dock a volume’s honest size,<br /> +Nor they that “letter” backs askew,<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Friend, do not Heber and De Thou,<br /> +And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise,<br /> +<i>La chasse au bouquin</i> still pursue<br /> +Within that Book-man’s Paradise?</p> +<h4><a name="page192"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +192</span>BALLADE OF A FRIAR.</h4> +<p>(Clement Marot’s <i>Frère Lubin</i>, though +translated by Longfellow and others, has not hitherto been +rendered into the original measure of <i>ballade à double +refrain</i>.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Some</span> ten or twenty +times a day,<br /> +To bustle to the town with speed,<br /> +To dabble in what dirt he may,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +But any sober life to lead<br /> +Upon an exemplary plan,<br /> +Requires a Christian indeed,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p class="poetry">Another’s wealth on his to lay,<br /> +With all the craft of guile and greed,<br /> +To leave you bare of pence or pay,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +<a name="page193"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 193</span>But +watch him with the closest heed,<br /> +And dun him with what force you can,—<br /> +He’ll not refund, howe’er you plead,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p class="poetry">An honest girl to lead astray,<br /> +With subtle saw and promised meed,<br /> +Requires no cunning crone and grey,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +He preaches an ascetic creed,<br /> +But,—try him with the water can—<br /> +A dog will drink, whate’er his breed,—<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">In good to fail, in ill succeed,<br /> +Le Frère Lubin’s the man you need!<br /> +In honest works to lead the van,<br /> +Le Frère Lubin is <i>not</i> the man!</p> +<h4><a name="page194"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +194</span>BALLADE OF NEGLECTED MERIT. <a +name="citation194"></a><a href="#footnote194" +class="citation">[194]</a></h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">have</span> scribbled in +verse and in prose,<br /> +I have painted “arrangements in greens,”<br /> +And my name is familiar to those<br /> +Who take in the high class magazines;<br /> +I compose; I’ve invented machines;<br /> +I have written an “Essay on Rhyme”;<br /> +For my county I played, in my teens,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I have lived, as a chief, with the Crows;<br /> +I have “interviewed” Princes and Queens;<br /> +I have climbed the Caucasian snows;<br /> +I abstain, like the ancients, from beans,—<br /> +<a name="page195"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +195</span>I’ve a guess what Pythagoras means<br /> +When he says that to eat them’s a crime,—<br /> +I have lectured upon the Essenes,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p class="poetry">I’ve a fancy as morbid as Poe’s,<br +/> +I can tell what is meant by “Shebeens,”<br /> +I have breasted the river that flows<br /> +Through the land of the wild Gadarenes;<br /> +I can gossip with Burton on <i>skenes</i>,<br /> +I can imitate Irving (the Mime),<br /> +And my sketches are quainter than Keene’s,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">So the tower of mine eminence leans<br /> +Like the Pisan, and mud is its lime;<br /> +I’m acquainted with Dukes and with Deans,<br /> +But—I am not in “Men of the Time!”</p> +<h4><a name="page196"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +196</span>BALLADE OF RAILWAY NOVELS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Let</span> others praise +analysis<br /> + And revel in a “cultured” style,<br /> +And follow the subjective Miss <a name="citation196"></a><a +href="#footnote196" class="citation">[196]</a><br /> + From Boston to the banks of Nile,<br /> +Rejoice in anti-British bile,<br /> + And weep for fickle hero’s woe,<br /> +These twain have shortened many a mile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.</p> +<p class="poetry">These damsels of +“Democracy’s,”<br /> + How long they stop at every stile!<br /> +<a name="page197"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 197</span>They +smile, and we are told, I wis,<br /> + Ten subtle reasons <i>why</i> they smile.<br /> +Give <i>me</i> your villains deeply vile,<br /> + Give me Lecoq, Jottrat, and Co.,<br /> +Great artists of the ruse and wile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!</p> +<p class="poetry">Oh, novel readers, tell me this,<br /> + Can prose that’s polished by the file,<br /> +Like great Boisgobey’s mysteries,<br /> + Wet days and weary ways beguile,<br /> +And man to living reconcile,<br /> + Like these whose every trick we know?<br /> +The agony how high they pile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, friend, how many and many a while<br /> + They’ve made the slow time fleetly flow,<br /> +And solaced pain and charmed exile,<br /> + Miss Braddon and Gaboriau.</p> +<h4><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 198</span>THE +CLOUD CHORUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(FROM ARISTOPHANES.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Socrates speaks</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Hither</span>, come hither, +ye Clouds renowned, and unveil yourselves here;<br /> +Come, though ye dwell on the sacred crests of Olympian snow,<br +/> +Or whether ye dance with the Nereid choir in the gardens +clear,<br /> +Or whether your golden urns are dipped in Nile’s +overflow,<br /> +Or whether you dwell by Mæotis mere<br /> +Or the snows of Mimas, arise! appear!<br /> +And hearken to us, and accept our gifts ere ye rise and go.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Clouds sing</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Immortal Clouds from the echoing shore<br /> +<a name="page199"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 199</span>Of the +father of streams, from the sounding sea,<br /> +Dewy and fleet, let us rise and soar.<br /> +Dewy and gleaming, and fleet are we!<br /> +Let us look on the tree-clad mountain crest,<br /> + On the sacred earth where the fruits rejoice,<br /> +On the waters that murmur east and west<br /> + On the tumbling sea with his moaning voice,<br /> +For unwearied glitters the Eye of the Air,<br /> + And the bright rays gleam;<br /> +Then cast we our shadows of mist, and fare<br /> +In our deathless shapes to glance everywhere<br /> + From the height of the heaven, on the land and +air,<br /> + And the Ocean stream.</p> +<p class="poetry">Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain,<br +/> + Let us gaze on Pallas’ citadel,<br /> + In the country of Cecrops, fair +and dear<br /> + The mystic land of the holy +cell,<br /> + Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell,<br /> + And the gifts of the Gods that +know not stain<br /> +<a name="page200"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 200</span>And a +people of mortals that know not fear.<br /> +For the temples tall, and the statues fair,<br /> +And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there,<br /> +The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers<br /> + And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring,<br /> +And the musical voices that fill the hours,<br /> + And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing!</p> +<h4><a name="page201"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +201</span>BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">“All these for +Fourpence.”</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Oh</span>, where are the +endless Romances<br /> +Our grandmothers used to adore?<br /> +The Knights with their helms and their lances,<br /> +Their shields and the favours they wore?<br /> +And the Monks with their magical lore?<br /> +They have passed to Oblivion and <i>Nox</i>,<br /> +They have fled to the shadowy shore,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p class="poetry">And where the poetical fancies<br /> +Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?<br /> +The lyric’s melodious expanses,<br /> +The Epics in cantos a score?<br /> +<a name="page202"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 202</span>They +have been and are not: no more<br /> +Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,<br /> +Nor the ladies their languors deplore,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p class="poetry">And the Music! The songs and the +dances?<br /> +The tunes that Time may not restore?<br /> +And the tomes where Divinity prances?<br /> +And the pamphlets where Heretics roar?<br /> +They have ceased to be even a bore,—<br /> +The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,—<br /> +They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to +the core,—<br /> +They are all in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,<br /> +On the chest without cover or locks,<br /> +Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,—<br /> +They are <i>all</i> in the Fourpenny Box!</p> +<h4><a name="page203"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +203</span>Νήνεμος +Αἰών.</h4> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">would</span> my days had +been in other times,<br /> +A moment in the long unnumbered years<br /> +That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk,<br /> +In peaceful lands that border on the Nile.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn<br /> +Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade<br /> +And shelter of the cool Himâlayan hills.</p> +<p class="poetry">I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +That I in some old abbey of Touraine<br /> +Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life,<br /> +Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!</p> +<p class="poetry"><a name="page204"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +204</span>I would my days had been in other times,<br /> +When quiet life to death not terrible<br /> +Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead<br /> +Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!</p> +<h3><a name="page205"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +205</span>SCIENCE.</h3> +<h4><a name="page207"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 207</span>THE +BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS: A SAVAGE PARABASIS.</h4> +<p>In the <i>Aves</i> of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare +that they are older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of +men. This idea recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and +I have made the savage Bird-gods state their own case.</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>The Birds sing</i>:</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">We</span> would have you to +wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked on the spit, and +are baked in the pan,<br /> +Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and +made war ere the making of Man!<br /> +For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the +world like a barque without rudder or sail<br /> +Floated on through the night, ’twas a Bird struck a light, +’twas a flash from the bright feather’d +Tonatiu’s <a name="citation207"></a><a href="#footnote207" +class="citation">[207]</a> tail!<br /> +<a name="page208"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 208</span>Then the +Hawk <a name="citation208a"></a><a href="#footnote208a" +class="citation">[208a]</a> with some dry wood flew up in the +sky, and afar, safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon,<br /> +And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they +recked not of care that should come on them soon.<br /> +For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, <a +name="citation208b"></a><a href="#footnote208b" +class="citation">[208b]</a> and a-musing he fell at the close of +the day;<br /> +Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some +bark of the best, and a clawful of clay. <a +name="citation208c"></a><a href="#footnote208c" +class="citation">[208c]</a><br /> +And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without +feathers (his game was a puzzle to all);<br /> +Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, +lastly, he uttered a magical call:<br /> +Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped +up, who but they, and embracing they fell,<br /> +<a name="page209"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 209</span>And +<i>this</i> was the baking of Man, and his making; but now +he’s forsaking his Father, Pundjel!<br /> +Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to +crown their desire who was found but the Wren?<br /> +To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for +this has a name in the memory of men! <a +name="citation209a"></a><a href="#footnote209a" +class="citation">[209a]</a><br /> +And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it +through without falter or fail?<br /> +Why the Hawk ’twas again, and great Indra to men would +appear, now and then, in the shape of a Quail,<br /> +While the Thlinkeet’s delight is the Bird of the Night, the +beak and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl. <a +name="citation209b"></a><a href="#footnote209b" +class="citation">[209b]</a><br /> +And who for man’s need brought the famed Suttung’s +mead? why ’tis told in the creed of the Sagamen strong,<br +/> +<a name="page210"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +210</span>’Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from +the blue, and gave mortals the brew that’s the fountain of +song. <a name="citation210a"></a><a href="#footnote210a" +class="citation">[210a]</a><br /> +Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young +brave overawes when in need of a squaw,<br /> +Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct +you blame if he thus breaks the law?<br /> +For you still hold it wrong if a <i>lubra</i> <a +name="citation210b"></a><a href="#footnote210b" +class="citation">[210b]</a> belong to the self-same <i>kobong</i> +<a name="citation210c"></a><a href="#footnote210c" +class="citation">[210c]</a> that is Father of you,<br /> +To take <i>her</i> as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give +her a wide berth; quite right of you, too.<br /> +For <i>her</i> father, you know, is <i>your</i> father, the Crow, +and no blessing but woe from the wedding would spring.<br /> +Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and +were strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. <a +name="citation210d"></a><a href="#footnote210d" +class="citation">[210d]</a><br /> +<a name="page211"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 211</span>Thus on +Earth’s little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your +gratitude’s small for the favours they’ve done,<br /> +And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you +plunder and kill the bright birds one by one;<br /> +There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and +the Moa has fled from the sight of the sun!</p> +<h4><a name="page212"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 212</span>MAN +AND THE ASCIDIAN.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">A MORALITY.</p> +<p class="poetry">“<span class="smcap">The</span> Ancestor +remote of Man,”<br /> +Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,”<br /> +A scanty sort of water-beast<br /> +That, ninety million years at least<br /> +Before Gorillas came to be,<br /> +Went swimming up and down the sea.</p> +<p class="poetry">Their ancestors the pious praise,<br /> +And like to imitate their ways;<br /> +How, then, does our first parent live,<br /> +What lesson has his life to give?</p> +<p class="poetry">Th’ Ascidian tadpole, young and gay,<br +/> +Doth Life with one bright eye survey,<br /> +<a name="page213"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 213</span>His +consciousness has easy play.<br /> +He’s sensitive to grief and pain,<br /> +Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain,<br /> +And everything that fits the state<br /> +Of creatures we call vertebrate.<br /> +But age comes on; with sudden shock<br /> +He sticks his head against a rock!<br /> +His tail drops off, his eye drops in,<br /> +His brain’s absorbed into his skin;<br /> +He does not move, nor feel, nor know<br /> +The tidal water’s ebb and flow,<br /> +But still abides, unstirred, alone,<br /> +A sucker sticking to a stone.</p> +<p class="poetry">And we, his children, truly we<br /> +In youth are, like the Tadpole, free.<br /> +And where we would we blithely go,<br /> +Have brains and hearts, and feel and know.<br /> +Then Age comes on! To Habit we<br /> +Affix ourselves and are not free;<br /> +<a name="page214"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +214</span>Th’ Ascidian’s rooted to a rock,<br /> +And we are bond-slaves of the clock;<br /> +Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law,<br /> +From these our heads we cannot draw:<br /> +Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in,<br /> +And daily thicker grows our skin.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know<br /> +The wide world’s moving ebb and flow,<br /> +The clanging currents ring and shock,<br /> +But we are rooted to the rock.<br /> +And thus at ending of his span,<br /> +Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man<br /> +Revert to the Ascidian.</p> +<h4><a name="page215"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +215</span>BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST.</h4> +<blockquote><p>“What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at +before the tall blonde<br /> +Aryan drove him into the corners of +Europe?”—<i>Brander Matthews</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry">I <span class="smcap">am</span> an ancient +Jest!<br /> +Palæolithic man<br /> +In his arboreal nest<br /> +The sparks of fun would fan;<br /> +My outline did he plan,<br /> +And laughed like one possessed,<br /> +’Twas thus my course began,<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am an early Jest!<br /> +Man delved, and built, and span;<br /> +Then wandered South and West<br /> +The peoples Aryan,<br /> +<a name="page216"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 216</span><i>I</i> +journeyed in their van;<br /> +The Semites, too, confessed,—<br /> +From Beersheba to Dan,—<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p class="poetry">I am an ancient Jest,<br /> +Through all the human clan,<br /> +Red, black, white, free, oppressed,<br /> +Hilarious I ran!<br /> +I’m found in Lucian,<br /> +In Poggio, and the rest,<br /> +I’m dear to Moll and Nan!<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="smcap">Envoy</span>.</p> +<p class="poetry">Prince, you may storm and ban—<br /> +Joe Millers <i>are</i> a pest,<br /> +Suppress me if you can!<br /> +I am a Merry Jest!</p> +<h3><a name="page217"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +217</span>CAMEOS.<br /> +<i>SONNETS FROM THE ANTIQUE</i>.</h3> +<p>These versions from classical passages are pretty close to the +original, except where compression was needed, as in the sonnets +from Pausanias and Apuleius, or where, as in the case of +fragments of Æschylus and Sophocles, a little expansion was +required.</p> +<h4><a name="page219"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +219</span>CAMEOS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>The</i></span><i> graver +by Apollo’s shrine</i>,<br /> + <i>Before the Gods had fled</i>, <i>would +stand</i>,<br /> + <i>A shell or onyx in his hand</i>,<br /> +<i>To copy there the face divine</i>,<br /> +<i>Till earnest touches</i>, <i>line by line</i>,<br /> + <i>Had wrought the wonder of the land</i><br /> + <i>Within a beryl’s golden band</i>,<br /> +<i>Or on some fiery opal fine</i>.<br /> +<i>Ah</i>! <i>would that as some ancient ring</i><br /> +<i>To us</i>, <i>on shell or stone</i>, <i>doth bring</i>,<br /> + <i>Art’s marvels perished long ago</i>,<br /> +<i>So I</i>, <i>within the sonnet’s space</i>,<br /> + <i>The large Hellenic lines might trace</i>,<br /> + <i>The statue in the +cameo</i>!</p> +<h4><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>HELEN ON THE WALLS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Iliad</i>, iii. 146.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Helen to the +Scæan portals came,<br /> +Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus,<br /> +Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus,<br /> +And many another of a noble name,<br /> +Famed warriors, now in council more of fame.<br /> +Always above the gates, in converse thus<br /> +They chattered like cicalas garrulous;<br /> +Who marking Helen, swore “it is no shame<br /> +That armed Achæan knights, and Ilian men<br /> +For such a woman’s sake should suffer long.<br /> +Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she.<br /> +Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again<br /> +Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong<br /> +To us, and children’s children yet to be.”</p> +<h4><a name="page221"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 221</span>THE +ISLES OF THE BLESSED.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>Pindar</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 106, 107 +(95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Now</span> the light of the +sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls of the True<br /> + Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where +reigneth the rose;<br /> +And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits +o’er them and through<br /> + Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where +the frankincense blows:<br /> +Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it +glows,<br /> + And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the +pleasures on Earth that they knew,<br /> +<a name="page222"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 222</span>And in +chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy +those,<br /> + And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and +rises anew.</p> +<p class="poetry">But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from +ancient pollution and stain,<br /> + These at the end of the age, be they prince, be they +singer, or seer;<br /> +These to the world shall be born as of old, shall be sages +again;<br /> + These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and +shall die, and shall hear<br /> +Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them +amain,<br /> + And their glory shall dwell in the land where they +dwelt, while year calls unto year!</p> +<h4><a name="page223"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +223</span>DEATH.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Æsch.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, +156.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Of</span> all Gods Death +alone<br /> + Disdaineth sacrifice:<br /> +No man hath found or shown<br /> + The gift that Death would prize.<br /> + In vain are songs or sighs,<br /> +Pæan, or praise, or moan,<br /> + Alone beneath the skies<br /> +Hath Death no altar-stone!</p> +<p class="poetry">There is no head so dear<br /> + That men would grudge to Death;<br /> +Let Death but ask, we give<br /> +All gifts that we may live;<br /> +But though Death dwells so near,<br /> + We know not what he saith.</p> +<h4><a name="page224"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +224</span>NYSA.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Soph.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 235; +<i>Æsch.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, 56.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">On</span> these +Nysæan shores divine<br /> + The clusters ripen in a day.<br /> + At dawn the blossom shreds away;<br /> +The berried grapes are green and fine<br /> +And full by noon; in day’s decline<br /> + They’re purple with a bloom of grey,<br /> + And e’er the twilight plucked are they,<br /> +And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.</p> +<p class="poetry">But through the night with torch in hand<br /> + Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare;<br /> + The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare,<br /> +The muffled timbrels swell and sound,<br /> + And drown the clamour of the band<br /> +Like thunder moaning underground.</p> +<h4><a name="page225"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +225</span>COLONUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Œd. Col.</i>, +667–705.)</p> +<p style="text-align: center">I.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Here</span> be the fairest +homes the land can show,<br /> + The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here<br /> +The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear,<br /> +For well the deep green gardens doth she know.<br /> +Groves of the God, where winds may never blow,<br /> + Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer<br /> + Among the myriad-berried ivy dear,<br /> +Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.</p> +<p class="poetry">For here he loves to dwell, and here resort<br +/> +These Nymphs that are his nurses and his court,<br /> +And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs<br /> + The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair<br /> + Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair,<br +/> +Demeter, and to wreathe the Maiden’s brows!</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="page226"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 226</span>II.</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Yea</span>, here the dew of +Heaven upon the grain<br /> + Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring,<br /> + Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering,<br /> +That day by day revisiteth the plain.<br /> +Nor do the Goddesses the grove disdain,<br /> + But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing,<br /> + And here they love to weave their dancing ring,<br +/> +With Aphrodite of the golden rein.</p> +<p class="poetry">And here there springs a plant that knoweth +not<br /> + The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle,<br /> +Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot<br /> + It dwells, the grey-leaved olive; ne’er shall +guile<br /> +Nor force of foemen root it from the spot:<br /> + Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!</p> +<h4><a name="page227"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 227</span>THE +PASSING OF ŒDIPOUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Œd. Col.</i>, +1655–1666.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">How</span> Œdipous +departed, who may tell<br /> + Save Theseus only? for there neither came<br /> + The burning bolt of thunder, and the flame<br /> +To blast him into nothing, nor the swell<br /> +Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell.<br /> + But some diviner herald none may name<br /> + Called him, or inmost Earth’s abyss became<br +/> +The painless place where such a soul might dwell.</p> +<p class="poetry">Howe’er it chanced, untouched of +malady,<br /> + Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament,<br /> +With comfort on the twilight way he went,<br /> + Passing, if ever man did, wondrously;<br /> +From this world’s death to life divinely rent,<br /> + Unschooled in Time’s last lesson, how we +die.</p> +<h4><a name="page228"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 228</span>THE +TAMING OF TYRO.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Soph.</i>, <i>Fr.</i>, +587.)</p> +<p>(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus, +cruelly entreated her in all things, and chiefly in this, that +she let sheer her beautiful hair.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">At</span> fierce +Sidero’s word the thralls drew near,<br /> + And shore the locks of Tyro,—like ripe corn<br +/> + They fell in golden harvest,—but forlorn<br /> +The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear,<br /> + Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn<br /> +Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer,<br /> +And drive her where, within the waters clear,<br /> + She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.</p> +<p class="poetry">Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart<br /> + Who marking that wild thing made weak and tame,<br +/> + Broken, and grieving for her glory +gone,<br /> +Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart<br /> + Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came<br /> +And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!</p> +<h4><a name="page229"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 229</span>TO +ARTEMIS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hippol.</i>, <i>Eurip.</i>, +73–87.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">For</span> thee soft crowns +in thine untrampled mead<br /> + I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear;<br /> +Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed,<br /> + Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there;<br /> + Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair<br +/> +The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed<br /> +Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead<br /> + About the grassy close that is her care!</p> +<p class="poetry">Souls only that are gracious and serene<br /> + By gift of God, in human lore unread,<br /> +May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green<br /> + That now I wreathe for thine immortal head,<br /> +I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen,<br /> + And by thy whispered voice am comforted.</p> +<h4><a name="page230"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +230</span>CRITICISM OF LIFE.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Hippol.</i>, <i>Eurip.</i>, +252–266.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Long</span> life hath +taught me many things, and shown<br /> + That lukewarm loves for men who die are best,<br /> + Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,<br /> +Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast;<br /> +Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,<br /> + Now cherished, now away at random thrown!<br /> + Grievous it is for other’s grief to moan,<br +/> +Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!</p> +<p class="poetry">Wise ruling this of life: but yet again<br /> + Perchance too rigid diet is not well;<br /> +He lives not best who dreads the coming pain<br /> + And shunneth each delight desirable:<br /> +<i>Flee thou extremes</i>, this word alone is plain,<br /> + Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!</p> +<h4><a name="page231"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +231</span>AMARYLLIS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(Theocritus, Idyll, iii.)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Fair</span> Amaryllis, wilt +thou never peep<br /> + From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine?<br /> +Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep,<br /> + These didst thou long for, and all these are +thine.<br /> +Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep<br /> + Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine;<br /> +To watch thee waken, Love, and watch thee sleep,<br /> + Within thy grot below the shadowy pine.<br /> +Now know I Love, a cruel god is he,<br /> + The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear;<br +/> +And truly to the bone he burneth me.<br /> + But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne’er a tear,<br +/> +Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee;<br /> + Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.</p> +<h4><a name="page232"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 232</span>THE +CANNIBAL ZEUS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">A.D. 160.</p> +<blockquote><p>Καὶ +ἔθυσε τὸ +βρέφος, καὶ +ἔσπεισεν +ἐπὶ τοῦ +βωμοῦ τὸ +αἶμα—έπὶ +τούτου +βωμοῦ τῷ Δὺ +θύoυσιν ἐv +ἀπoῤῥήτῳ.—<i>Paus.</i> +viii. 38.</p> +</blockquote> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">None</span> elder city doth +the Sun behold<br /> + Than ancient Lycosura; ’twas begun<br /> + Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun,<br /> +And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold<br /> +The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: ’tis told<br /> + That whoso fares within that forest dun<br /> + Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the Sun,<br /> +Ay, and within the year his life is cold!</p> +<p class="poetry">Hard by dwelt he <a name="citation232"></a><a +href="#footnote232" class="citation">[232]</a> who, while the +Gods deigned eat<br /> +At good men’s tables, gave them dreadful meat,<br /> + A child he slew:—his mountain altar green<br +/> +<a name="page233"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 233</span>Here +still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me,<br /> +Piteous, but as they are let these things be,<br /> + And as from the beginning they have been!</p> +<h4><a name="page234"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +234</span>INVOCATION OF ISIS.</h4> +<p style="text-align: center">(<i>Apuleius</i>, <i>Metamorph. +XI.</i>)</p> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">Thou</span> that art +sandalled on immortal feet<br /> + With leaves of palm, the prize of Victory;<br /> +Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet,<br /> + Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky,<br /> + I pray thee by all names men name thee by!<br /> +Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat!<br /> + Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh!<br /> +Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet!</p> +<p class="poetry">Or, yet more dread, divine Persephone<br /> + From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near;<br +/> +Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea;<br /> + Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer:<br /> +By all thy names and rites I summon thee;<br /> + By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear!</p> +<h4><a name="page235"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 235</span>THE +COMING OF ISIS.</h4> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap">So</span> Lucius prayed, +and sudden, from afar,<br /> + Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright<br /> +Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star;<br /> + She came in deep blue raiment of the night,<br /> + Above her robes that now were snowy white,<br /> +Now golden as the moons of harvest are,<br /> +Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bar,<br /> + Now stained with all the lustre of the light.</p> +<p class="poetry">Then he who saw her knew her, and he knew<br /> + The awful symbols borne in either hand;<br /> +The golden urn that laves Demeter’s dew,<br /> + The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand;<br +/> +The shaken seistron’s music, tinkling through<br /> + The temples of that old Osirian land.</p> +<h3><a name="page236"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 236</span>THE +SPINET.</h3> +<p class="poetry"><span class="smcap"><i>My</i></span><i> +heart’s an old Spinet with strings</i><br /> + <i>To laughter chiefly tuned</i>, <i>but some</i><br +/> + <i>That Fate has practised hard on</i>, +<i>dumb</i>,<br /> +<i>They answer not whoever sings</i>.<br /> +<i>The ghosts of half-forgotten things</i><br /> + <i>Will touch the keys with fingers numb</i>,<br /> + <i>The little mocking spirits come</i><br /> +<i>And thrill it with their fairy wings</i>.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>A jingling harmony it makes</i><br /> + <i>My heart</i>, <i>my lyre</i>, <i>my old +Spinet</i>,<br /> +<i>And now a memory it wakes</i>,<br /> + <i>And now the music means</i> +“<i>forget</i>,”<br /> +<i>And little heed the player takes</i><br /> + <i>Howe’er the thoughtful critic fret</i>.</p> +<h2><a name="page237"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +237</span>NOTES.</h2> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page127">127</a></span>. <i>The Fortunate +Islands</i>. This piece is a rhymed loose version of a +passage in the <i>Vera Historia</i> of Lucian. The humorist +was unable to resist the temptation to introduce passages of +mockery, which are here omitted. Part of his description of +the Isles of the Blest has a close and singular resemblance to +the New Jerusalem of the Apocalypse. The clear River of +Life and the prodigality of gold and of precious stones may +especially be noticed.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page133">133</a></span>. <i>Whoso doth taste the +Dead Men’s bread</i>, <i>&c.</i> This belief that +the living may visit, on occasion, the dwellings of the dead, but +can never return to earth if they taste the food of the departed, +is expressed in myths of worldwide distribution. Because +she ate the pomegranate seed, Persephone became subject to the +spell of Hades. In Apuleius, Psyche, when she visits the +place of souls, is advised to abstain from food. Kohl found +the myth among the Ojibbeways, Mr. Codrington among the Solomon +Islanders; it occurs in Samoa, in the Finnish Kalewala (where +Wainamoinen, in Pohjola, refrains from touching meat or drink), +and the belief has left its mark on the mediæval ballad of +Thomas of Ercildoune. When <a name="page240"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. 240</span>he is in Fairy Land, the Fairy Queen +supplies him with the bread and wine of earth, and will not +suffer him to touch the fruits which grow “in this +countrie.” See also “Wandering Willie” in +<i>Redgauntlet</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page152">152</a></span>. <i>The latest +minstrel</i>. “The sound of all others dearest to his +ear, the gentle ripple of Tweed over its pebbles, was distinctly +audible as we knelt around the bed and his eldest son kissed and +closed his eyes.”—Lockhart’s <i>Life of +Scott</i>, vii., 394.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page161">161</a></span>. <i>Ronsard’s +Grave</i>. This version ventures to condense the original +which, like most of the works of the Pleiad, is unnecessarily +long.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page162">162</a></span>. <i>The snow</i>, <i>and +wind</i>, <i>and hail</i>. Ronsard’s rendering of the +famous passage in Odyssey, vi., about the dwellings of the +Olympians. The vision of a Paradise of learned lovers and +poets constantly recurs in the poetry of Joachim du Bellay, and +of Ronsard.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span>. <i>Romance</i>. +Suggested by a passage in <i>La Faustin</i>, by M. E. de +Goncourt, a curious moment of poetry in a repulsive piece of +<i>naturalisme</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page171">171</a></span>. <i>M. Boulmier</i>, author +of <i>Les Villanelles</i>, died shortly after this +<i>villanelle</i> was written; he had not published a larger +collection on which he had been at work.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page177">177</a></span>. <i>Edmund +Gorliot</i>. The bibliophile will not easily procure +Gorliot’s book, which is not in the catalogues. +Throughout <i>The Last Maying</i> there is reference to the +<i>Pervigilium Veneris</i>.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page207">207</a></span>. <i>Bird-Gods</i>. +Apparently Aristophanes preserved, in a burlesque form, the +remnants of a genuine myth. Almost all savage religions +have their bird-gods, and it is probable that Aristophanes did +not invent, but <a name="page241"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +241</span>only used a surviving myth of which there are scarcely +any other traces in Greek literature.</p> +<p>Page <span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page236">236</a></span>. <i>Spinet</i>. The +accent is on the last foot, even when the word is written +<i>spinnet</i>. Compare the remarkable Liberty which Pamela +took with the 137th Psalm.</p> +<p class="poetry"><i>My Joys and Hopes all overthrown</i>,<br /> + <i>My Heartstrings almost broke</i>,<br /> +<i>Unfit my Mind for Melody</i>,<br /> + <i>Much more to bear a Joke</i>.<br /> +<i>But yet</i>, <i>if from my Innocence</i><br /> +<i>I</i>, <i>even in Thought</i>, <i>should slide</i>,<br /> +<i>Then</i>, <i>let my fingers quite forget</i><br /> + <i>The sweet Spinnet to guide</i>!</p> +<p style="text-align: right" class="poetry"><i>Pamela</i>, <i>or +Virtue Rewarded</i>, vol. i.,<br /> +p. 184., 1785.</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Printed by <span +class="smcap">Ballantyne, Hanson</span> & Co.</p> +<p style="text-align: center">Edinburgh London</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<h2>FOOTNOTES.</h2> +<p><a name="footnote35"></a><a href="#citation35" +class="footnote">[35]</a> Cf. “Suggestions for +Academic Reorganization.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote46"></a><a href="#citation46" +class="footnote">[46]</a> The last three stanzas are by an +eminent Anthropologist.</p> +<p><a name="footnote48"></a><a href="#citation48" +class="footnote">[48]</a> Thomas of Ercildoune.</p> +<p><a name="footnote66"></a><a href="#citation66" +class="footnote">[66]</a> A knavish publisher.</p> +<blockquote><p><a name="footnote88"></a><a href="#citation88" +class="footnote">[88]</a> Vous y verrez, belle Julie,<br /> +Que ce chapeau tout maltraité<br /> +Fut, dans un instant de folie,<br /> +Par les Grâces même inventé.</p> +<p>‘À Julie.’ <i>Essais en Prose et en +Vers</i>, par Joseph Lisle; Paris. An. V. de la +République.</p> +</blockquote> +<p><a name="footnote108"></a><a href="#citation108" +class="footnote">[108]</a> “I have broken many a pane +of glass marked Cruel Parthenissa,” says the aunt of Sophia +Western in <i>Tom Jones</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote194"></a><a href="#citation194" +class="footnote">[194]</a> N.B. There is only one +veracious statement in this ballade, which must not be accepted +as autobiographical.</p> +<p><a name="footnote196"></a><a href="#citation196" +class="footnote">[196]</a> These lines do <i>not</i> apply +to Miss Annie P. (or Daisy) Miller, and her delightful sisters, +<i>Gades adituræ mecum</i>, in the pocket edition of Mr. +James’s novels, if ever I go to Gades.</p> +<p><a name="footnote207"></a><a href="#citation207" +class="footnote">[207]</a> Tonatiu, the Thunder Bird; well +known to the Dacotahs and Zulus.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208a"></a><a href="#citation208a" +class="footnote">[208a]</a> The Hawk, in the myth of the +Galinameros of Central California, lit up the Sun.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208b"></a><a href="#citation208b" +class="footnote">[208b]</a> Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, is the +demiurge and “culture-hero” of several Australian +tribes.</p> +<p><a name="footnote208c"></a><a href="#citation208c" +class="footnote">[208c]</a> The Creation of Man is thus +described by the Australians.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209a"></a><a href="#citation209a" +class="footnote">[209a]</a> In Andaman, Thlinkeet, +Melanesian, and other myths, a Bird is the Prometheus Purphoros; +in Normandy this part is played by the Wren.</p> +<p><a name="footnote209b"></a><a href="#citation209b" +class="footnote">[209b]</a> Yehl: the Raven God of the +Thlinkeets.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210a"></a><a href="#citation210a" +class="footnote">[210a]</a> Indra stole Soma as a Hawk and as a +Quail. For Odin’s feat as a Bird, see +<i>Bragi’s Telling</i> in the Younger Edda.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210b"></a><a href="#citation210b" +class="footnote">[210b]</a> Pundjel, the Eagle Hawk, gave +Australians their marriage laws.</p> +<p><a name="footnote210c"></a><a href="#citation210c" +class="footnote">[210c]</a> <i>Lubra</i>, a woman; kobong, +“totem;” or, to please Mr. Max Müller, +“otem.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote210d"></a><a href="#citation210d" +class="footnote">[210d]</a> The Crow was the Hawk’s +rival.</p> +<p><a name="footnote232"></a><a href="#citation232" +class="footnote">[232]</a> Lycaon, the first werewolf.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADES & RHYMES***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 3138-h.htm or 3138-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/3/1/3/3138 + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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