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+The Project Gutenberg eBook, Ballads and Lyrics of Old France, by Andrew
+Lang
+
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+
+
+
+Title: Ballads and Lyrics of Old France
+       with Other Poems
+
+
+Author: Andrew Lang
+
+
+
+Release Date: November 3, 2012  [eBook #795]
+[This file was first posted on January 31, 1997]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: UTF-8
+
+
+***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS AND LYRICS OF OLD FRANCE***
+
+
+Transcribed from the 1872 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David
+Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
+
+
+
+
+
+                            BALLADS AND LYRICS
+                              OF OLD FRANCE:
+
+
+                           _WITH OTHER POEMS_.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                    BY
+
+                                 A. LANG.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                 LONDON:
+                         LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
+                                  1872.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                    TO
+
+                                 E. M. S.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS.
+
+
+
+                  _TRANSLATIONS_.
+                                                PAGE
+List of Poets translated                           2
+CHARLES D’ORLEANS:
+       Spring                                      5
+       Rondel                                      6
+FRANÇOIS VILLON:
+       Rondel                                      7
+       Arbor Amoris                                8
+       Ballad of the Gibbet                       11
+DU BELLAY:
+       Hymn to the Winds                          14
+       A Vow to Heavenly Venus                    16
+       To his Friend in Elysium                   17
+       A Sonnet to Heavenly Beauty                18
+REMY BELLEAU:
+       April                                      19
+RONSARD:
+       Roses                                      24
+       The Rose                                   25
+       To the Moon                                27
+       To his Young Mistress                      29
+       Deadly Kisses                              30
+       Of his Lady’s Old Age                      31
+       On his Lady’s Waking                       32
+       His Lady’s Death                           33
+       His Lady’s Tomb                            34
+JACQUES TAHUREAU:
+       Shadows of his Lady                        35
+       Moonlight                                  36
+PASSERAT:
+       Love in May                                37
+VICTOR HUGO:
+       The Grave and the Rose                     40
+       The Genesis of Butterflies                 42
+       More Strong than Time                      44
+GÉRARD DE NERVAL:
+       An Old Tune                                46
+ALFRED DE MUSSET:
+       Juana                                      48
+HENRI MURGER:
+       Spring in the Student’s Quarter            51
+       Old Loves                                  53
+       Musette                                    55
+BALLADS:
+       The Three Captains                         58
+       The Bridge of Death                        63
+       Le Père Sévère                             65
+       The Milk White Doe                         68
+       A Lady of High Degree                      72
+       Lost for a Rose’s Sake                     75
+BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE:
+       The Brigand’s Grave                        77
+       The Sudden Bridal                          79
+GREEK FOLK SONGS:
+       Iannoula                                   85
+       The Tell-Tales                             87
+                       _AVE_.
+Twilight on Tweed                                 91
+One Flower                                        93
+Metempsychosis                                    94
+Lost in Hades                                     95
+A Star in the Night                               96
+A Sunset on Yarrow                                97
+                   _HESPEROTHEN_.
+The Seekers for Phæacia                          101
+A Song of Phæacia                                104
+The Departure from Phæacia                       107
+A Ballad of Departure                            110
+They hear the Sirens for the Second Time         111
+Circe’s Isle revisited                           114
+The Limit of Lands                               116
+               _VERSES ON PICTURES_.
+Colinette                                        121
+A Sunset of Watteau                              124
+A Nativity of Sandro Botticelli                  127
+                _SONGS AND SONNETS_.
+Two Homes                                        131
+Summer’s Ending                                  133
+Nightingale Weather                              134
+Love and Wisdom                                  136
+Good-bye                                         138
+An Old Prayer                                    140
+Love’s Miracle                                   141
+Dreams                                           142
+Fairy Land                                       143
+Two Sonnets of the Sirens                        146
+À la Belle Hélène                                148
+Sylvie et Aurélie                                150
+A Lost Path                                      152
+The Shade of Helen                               154
+                _SONNETS TO POETS_.
+Jacques Tahureau                                 159
+François Villon                                  160
+Pierre Ronsard                                   161
+Gérard de Nerval                                 162
+The Death of Mirandola                           163
+
+
+
+TRANSLATIONS.
+
+
+LIST OF POETS TRANSLATED.
+
+
+I.  CHARLES D’ORLEANS, who has sometimes, for no very obvious reason,
+been styled the father of French lyric poetry, was born in May, 1391.  He
+was the son of Louis D’Orleans, the grandson of Charles V., and the
+father of Louis XII.  Captured at Agincourt, he was kept in England as a
+prisoner from 1415 to 1440, when he returned to France, where he died in
+1465.  His verses, for the most part roundels on two rhymes, are songs of
+love and spring, and retain the allegorical forms of the Roman de la
+Rose.
+
+II.  FRANÇOIS VILLON, 1431–14-?  Nothing is known of Villon’s birth or
+death, and only too much of his life.  In his poems the ancient forms of
+French verse are animated with the keenest sense of personal emotion, of
+love, of melancholy, of mocking despair, and of repentance for a life
+passed in taverns and prisons.
+
+III.  JOACHIM DU BELLAY, 1525–1560.  The exact date of Du Bellay’s birth
+is unknown.  He was certainly a little younger than Ronsard, who was born
+in September, 1524, although an attempt has been made to prove that his
+birth took place in 1525, as a compensation from Nature to France for the
+battle of Pavia.  As a poet Du Bellay had the start, by a few mouths, of
+Ronsard; his _Recueil_ was published in 1549.  The question of priority
+in the new style of poetry caused a quarrel, which did not long separate
+the two singers.  Du Bellay is perhaps the most interesting of the
+Pleiad, that company of Seven, who attempted to reform French verse, by
+inspiring it with the enthusiasm of the Renaissance.  His book
+_L’Illustration de la langue Française_ is a plea for the study of
+ancient models and for the improvement of the vernacular.  In this effort
+Du Bellay and Ronsard are the predecessors of Malherbe, and of André
+Chénier, more successful through their frank eagerness than the former,
+less fortunate in the possession of critical learning and appreciative
+taste than the latter.  There is something in Du Bellay’s life, in the
+artistic nature checked by occupation in affairs—he was the secretary of
+Cardinal Du Bellay—in the regret and affection with which Rome depressed
+and allured him, which reminds the English reader of the thwarted career
+of Clough.
+
+IV.  REMY BELLEAU, 1528–1577.  Du Belleau’s life was spent in the
+household of Charles de Lorraine, Marquis d’Elboeuf, and was marked by
+nothing more eventful than the usual pilgrimage to Italy, the sacred land
+and sepulchre of art.
+
+V.  PIERRE RONSARD, 1524–1585.  Ronsard’s early years gave little sign of
+his vocation.  He was for some time a page of the court, was in the
+service of James V. of Scotland, and had his share of shipwrecks,
+battles, and amorous adventures.  An illness which produced total
+deafness made him a scholar and poet, as in another age and country it
+might have made him a saint and an ascetic.  With all his industry, and
+almost religious zeal for art, he is one of the poets who make
+themselves, rather than are born singers.  His epic, the Franciade, is as
+tedious as other artificial epics, and his odes are almost unreadable.
+We are never allowed to forget that he is the poet who read the Iliad
+through in three days.  He is, as has been said of Le Brun, more
+mythological than Pindar.  His constant allusion to his grey hair, an
+affectation which may be noticed in Shelley, is borrowed from Anacreon.
+Many of the sonnets in which he ‘petrarquizes,’ retain the faded odour of
+the roses he loved; and his songs have fire and melancholy and a sense as
+of perfume from ‘a closet long to quiet vowed, with mothed and dropping
+arras hung.’  Ronsard’s great fame declined when is Malherbe came to
+‘bind the sweet influences of the Pleiad,’ but he has been duly honoured
+by the newest school of French poetry.
+
+VI.  JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.  The amorous poetry of Jacques Tahureau
+has the merit, rare in his, or in any age, of being the real expression
+of passion.  His brief life burned itself away before he had exhausted
+the lyric effusion of his youth.  ‘Le plus beau gentilhomme de son
+siècle, et le plus dextre à toutes sortes de gentillesses,’ died at the
+age of twenty-eight, fulfilling the presentiment which tinges, but
+scarcely saddens his poetry.
+
+VII.  JEAN PASSERAT, 1534–1602.  Better known as a political satirist
+than as a poet.
+
+
+
+POETS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.
+
+
+VICTOR HUGO.
+
+ALFRED DE MUSSET, 1810–1857.
+
+GÉRARD DE NERVAL, 1801–1855.
+
+HENRI MURGER, 1822–1861.
+
+
+
+BALLADS.
+
+
+The originals of the French folk-songs here translated are to be found in
+the collections of MM. De Puymaigre and Gerard de Nerval, and in the
+report of M. Ampère.
+
+The verses called a ‘Lady of High Degree’ are imitated from a very early
+_chanson_ in Bartsch’s collection.
+
+The Greek ballads have been translated with the aid of the French
+versions by M. Fauriel.
+
+
+
+SPRING.
+
+
+                      CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465.
+
+The new-liveried year.—_Sir Henry Wotton_.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   THE year has changed his mantle cold
+      Of wind, of rain, of bitter air;
+   And he goes clad in cloth of gold,
+      Of laughing suns and season fair;
+   No bird or beast of wood or wold
+      But doth with cry or song declare
+   The year lays down his mantle cold.
+   All founts, all rivers, seaward rolled,
+      The pleasant summer livery wear,
+      With silver studs on broidered vair;
+   The world puts off its raiment old,
+   The year lays down his mantle cold.
+
+
+
+RONDEL.
+
+
+                      CHARLES D’ORLEANS, 1391–1465.
+
+To his Mistress, to succour his heart that is beleaguered by jealousy.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   STRENGTHEN, my Love, this castle of my heart,
+      And with some store of pleasure give me aid,
+   For Jealousy, with all them of his part,
+      Strong siege about the weary tower has laid.
+      Nay, if to break his bands thou art afraid,
+   Too weak to make his cruel force depart,
+   Strengthen at least this castle of my heart,
+      And with some store of pleasure give me aid.
+   Nay, let not Jealousy, for all his art
+      Be master, and the tower in ruin laid,
+      That still, ah Love! thy gracious rule obeyed.
+   Advance, and give me succour of thy part;
+   Strengthen, my Love, this castle of my heart.
+
+
+
+RONDEL.
+
+
+                          FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460
+
+   GOODBYE! the tears are in my eyes;
+      Farewell, farewell, my prettiest;
+      Farewell, of women born the best;
+   Good-bye! the saddest of good-byes.
+   Farewell! with many vows and sighs
+      My sad heart leaves you to your rest;
+   Farewell! the tears are in my eyes;
+   Farewell! from you my miseries
+      Are more than now may be confessed,
+      And most by thee have I been blessed,
+   Yea, and for thee have wasted sighs;
+   Goodbye! the last of my goodbyes.
+
+
+
+ARBOR AMORIS.
+
+
+                          FRANCOIS VILLON, 1460
+
+   I HAVE a tree, a graft of Love,
+      That in my heart has taken root;
+   Sad are the buds and blooms thereof,
+      And bitter sorrow is its fruit;
+      Yet, since it was a tender shoot,
+   So greatly hath its shadow spread,
+   That underneath all joy is dead,
+      And all my pleasant days are flown,
+   Nor can I slay it, nor instead
+      Plant any tree, save this alone.
+
+   Ah, yet, for long and long enough
+      My tears were rain about its root,
+   And though the fruit be harsh thereof,
+      I scarcely looked for better fruit
+      Than this, that carefully I put
+   In garner, for the bitter bread
+   Whereon my weary life is fed:
+      Ah, better were the soil unsown
+   That bears such growths; but Love instead
+      Will plant no tree, but this alone.
+
+   Ah, would that this new spring, whereof
+      The leaves and flowers flush into shoot,
+   I might have succour and aid of Love,
+      To prune these branches at the root,
+      That long have borne such bitter fruit,
+   And graft a new bough, comforted
+   With happy blossoms white and red;
+      So pleasure should for pain atone,
+   Nor Love slay this tree, nor instead
+      Plant any tree, but this alone.
+
+                                  L’ENVOY.
+
+   Princess, by whom my hope is fed,
+   My heart thee prays in lowlihead
+      To prune the ill boughs overgrown,
+   Nor slay Love’s tree, nor plant instead
+      Another tree, save this alone.
+
+
+
+BALLAD OF THE GIBBET.
+
+
+An epitaph in the form of a ballad that François Villon wrote of himself
+and his company, they expecting shortly to be hanged.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   BROTHERS and men that shall after us be,
+      Let not your hearts be hard to us:
+   For pitying this our misery
+      Ye shall find God the more piteous.
+      Look on us six that are hanging thus,
+   And for the flesh that so much we cherished
+   How it is eaten of birds and perished,
+      And ashes and dust fill our bones’ place,
+   Mock not at us that so feeble be,
+      But pray God pardon us out of His grace.
+
+   Listen, we pray you, and look not in scorn,
+      Though justly, in sooth, we are cast to die;
+   Ye wot no man so wise is born
+      That keeps his wisdom constantly.
+      Be ye then merciful, and cry
+   To Mary’s Son that is piteous,
+   That His mercy take no stain from us,
+      Saving us out of the fiery place.
+   We are but dead, let no soul deny
+      To pray God succour us of His grace.
+
+   The rain out of heaven has washed us clean,
+      The sun has scorched us black and bare,
+   Ravens and rooks have pecked at our eyne,
+      And feathered their nests with our beards and hair.
+      Round are we tossed, and here and there,
+   This way and that, at the wild wind’s will,
+   Never a moment my body is still;
+      Birds they are busy about my face.
+   Live not as we, nor fare as we fare;
+      Pray God pardon us out of His grace.
+
+                                  L’ENVOY.
+
+   Prince Jesus, Master of all, to thee
+   We pray Hell gain no mastery,
+      That we come never anear that place;
+   And ye men, make no mockery,
+      Pray God pardon us out of His grace.
+
+
+
+HYMN TO THE WINDS.
+
+
+                             DU BELLAY, 1550.
+
+The winds are invoked by the winnowers of corn.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   TO you, troop so fleet,
+   That with winged wandering feet,
+      Through the wide world pass,
+   And with soft murmuring
+   Toss the green shades of spring
+      In woods and grass,
+   Lily and violet
+   I give, and blossoms wet,
+      Roses and dew;
+   This branch of blushing roses,
+   Whose fresh bud uncloses,
+      Wind-flowers too.
+   Ah, winnow with sweet breath,
+   Winnow the holt and heath,
+      Round this retreat;
+   Where all the golden morn
+   We fan the gold o’ the corn,
+      In the sun’s heat.
+
+
+
+A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS.
+
+
+                             DU BELLAY, 1500
+
+   WE that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,
+   New wedded in the village by thy fane,
+   Lady of all chaste love, to thee it is
+   We bring these amaranths, these white lilies,
+   A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray,
+   Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;
+   Like these cool lilies may our loves remain,
+   Perfect and pure, and know not any stain;
+   And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,
+   Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
+
+
+
+TO HIS FRIEND IN ELYSIUM.
+
+
+                             DU BELLAY, 1550.
+
+   SO long you wandered on the dusky plain,
+      Where flit the shadows with their endless cry,
+      You reach the shore where all the world goes by,
+   You leave the strife, the slavery, the pain;
+   But we, but we, the mortals that remain
+      In vain stretch hands; for Charon sullenly
+      Drives us afar, we may not come anigh
+   Till that last mystic obolus we gain.
+
+   But you are happy in the quiet place,
+   And with the learned lovers of old days,
+      And with your love, you wander ever-more
+   In the dim woods, and drink forgetfulness
+   Of us your friends, a weary crowd that press
+      About the gate, or labour at the oar.
+
+
+
+A SONNET TO HEAVENLY BEAUTY.
+
+
+                             DU BELLAY, 1550.
+
+   IF this our little life is but a day
+      In the Eternal,—if the years in vain
+      Toil after hours that never come again,—
+   If everything that hath been must decay,
+   Why dreamest thou of joys that pass away,
+      My soul, that my sad body doth restrain?
+      Why of the moment’s pleasure art thou fain?
+   Nay, thou hast wings,—nay, seek another stay.
+
+   There is the joy whereto each soul aspires,
+   And there the rest that all the world desires,
+      And there is love, and peace, and gracious mirth;
+   And there in the most highest heavens shalt thou
+   Behold the Very Beauty, whereof now
+      Thou worshippest the shadow upon earth.
+
+
+
+APRIL.
+
+
+                           REMY BELLEAU, 1560.
+
+   APRIL, pride of woodland ways,
+      Of glad days,
+   April, bringing hope of prime,
+      To the young flowers that beneath
+      Their bud sheath
+   Are guarded in their tender time;
+
+   April, pride of fields that be
+      Green and free,
+   That in fashion glad and gay,
+   Stud with flowers red and blue,
+      Every hue,
+   Their jewelled spring array;
+
+   April, pride of murmuring
+      Winds of spring,
+   That beneath the winnowed air,
+   Trap with subtle nets and sweet
+      Flora’s feet,
+   Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
+
+   April, by thy hand caressed,
+      From her breast
+   Nature scatters everywhere
+   Handfuls of all sweet perfumes,
+      Buds and blooms,
+   Making faint the earth and air.
+
+   April, joy of the green hours,
+      Clothes with flowers
+   Over all her locks of gold
+   My sweet Lady; and her breast
+      With the blest
+   Birds of summer manifold.
+
+   April, with thy gracious wiles,
+      Like the smiles,
+   Smiles of Venus; and thy breath
+   Like her breath, the Gods’ delight,
+      (From their height
+   They take the happy air beneath;)
+
+   It is thou that, of thy grace,
+      From their place
+   In the far-oft isles dost bring
+   Swallows over earth and sea,
+      Glad to be
+   Messengers of thee, and Spring.
+
+   Daffodil and eglantine,
+      And woodbine,
+   Lily, violet, and rose
+   Plentiful in April fair,
+      To the air,
+   Their pretty petals do unclose.
+
+   Nightingales ye now may hear,
+      Piercing clear,
+   Singing in the deepest shade;
+   Many and many a babbled note
+      Chime and float,
+   Woodland music through the glade.
+
+   April, all to welcome thee,
+      Spring sets free
+   Ancient flames, and with low breath
+   Wakes the ashes grey and old
+      That the cold
+   Chilled within our hearts to death.
+
+   Thou beholdest in the warm
+      Hours, the swarm
+   Of the thievish bees, that flies
+   Evermore from bloom to bloom
+      For perfume,
+   Hid away in tiny thighs.
+
+   Her cool shadows May can boast,
+      Fruits almost
+   Ripe, and gifts of fertile dew,
+   Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,
+      That complete
+   Her flower garland fresh and new.
+
+   Nay, but I will give my praise,
+      To these days,
+   Named with the glad name of Her {23}
+   That from out the foam o’ the sea
+      Came to be
+   Sudden light on earth and air.
+
+
+
+ROSES.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   I SEND you here a wreath of blossoms blown,
+      And woven flowers at sunset gathered,
+      Another dawn had seen them ruined, and shed
+   Loose leaves upon the grass at random strown.
+   By this, their sure example, be it known,
+      That all your beauties, now in perfect flower,
+      Shall fade as these, and wither in an hour,
+   Flowerlike, and brief of days, as the flower sown.
+
+   Ah, time is flying, lady—time is flying;
+      Nay, ’tis not time that flies but we that go,
+   Who in short space shall be in churchyard lying,
+      And of our loving parley none shall know,
+   Nor any man consider what we were;
+   Be therefore kind, my love, whiles thou art fair.
+
+
+
+THE ROSE.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   SEE, Mignonne, hath not the Rose,
+   That this morning did unclose
+      Her purple mantle to the light,
+   Lost, before the day be dead,
+   The glory of her raiment red,
+      Her colour, bright as yours is bright?
+
+   Ah, Mignonne, in how few hours,
+   The petals of her purple flowers
+      All have faded, fallen, died;
+   Sad Nature, mother ruinous,
+   That seest thy fair child perish thus
+      ’Twixt matin song and even tide.
+
+   Hear me, my darling, speaking sooth,
+   Gather the fleet flower of your youth,
+      Take ye your pleasure at the best;
+   Be merry ere your beauty flit,
+   For length of days will tarnish it
+      Like roses that were loveliest.
+
+
+
+TO THE MOON.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   HIDE this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon;
+      So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest
+      Loving and unawakened on thy breast;
+   So shall no foul enchanter importune
+   Thy quiet course; for now the night is boon,
+      And through the friendly night unseen I fare,
+      Who dread the face of foemen unaware,
+   And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.
+      Thou knowest, Moon, the bitter power of Love;
+      ’Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move,
+   For little price, thy heart; and of your grace,
+      Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire,
+      Because on earth ye did not scorn desire,
+   Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.
+
+
+
+TO HIS YOUNG MISTRESS.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   FAIR flower of fifteen springs, that still
+      Art scarcely blossomed from the bud,
+   Yet hast such store of evil will,
+      A heart so full of hardihood,
+         Seeking to hide in friendly wise
+         The mischief of your mocking eyes.
+
+   If you have pity, child, give o’er;
+      Give back the heart you stole from me,
+   Pirate, setting so little store
+      On this your captive from Love’s sea,
+         Holding his misery for gain,
+         And making pleasure of his pain.
+
+   Another, not so fair of face,
+      But far more pitiful than you,
+   Would take my heart, if of his grace,
+      My heart would give her of Love’s due;
+         And she shall have it, since I find
+         That you are cruel and unkind.
+
+   Nay, I would rather that it died,
+      Within your white hands prisoning,
+   Would rather that it still abide
+      In your ungentle comforting.
+         Than change its faith, and seek to her
+         That is more kind, but not so fair.
+
+
+
+DEADLY KISSES.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   ALL take these lips away; no more,
+      No more such kisses give to me.
+      My spirit faints for joy; I see
+   Through mists of death the dreamy shore,
+   And meadows by the water-side,
+      Where all about the Hollow Land
+   Fare the sweet singers that have died,
+      With their lost ladies, hand in hand;
+   Ah, Love, how fireless are their eyes,
+      How pale their lips that kiss and smile!
+      So mine must be in little while
+   If thou wilt kiss me in such wise.
+
+
+
+OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550
+
+   WHEN you are very old, at evening
+      You’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,
+      Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day!
+   When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’
+   None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,
+      Albeit with her weary task foredone,
+      But wakens at my name, and calls you one
+   Blest, to be held in long remembering.
+
+   I shall be low beneath the earth, and laid
+   On sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,
+      While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,
+   My love, your pride, remember and regret;
+   Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,
+      And gather roses, while ’tis called to-day.
+
+
+
+ON HIS LADY’S WAKING.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550
+
+   MY lady woke upon a morning fair,
+      What time Apollo’s chariot takes the skies,
+      And, fain to fill with arrows from her eyes
+   His empty quiver, Love was standing there:
+   I saw two apples that her breast doth bear
+      None such the close of the Hesperides
+      Yields; nor hath Venus any such as these,
+   Nor she that had of nursling Mars the care.
+
+   Even such a bosom, and so fair it was,
+   Pure as the perfect work of Phidias,
+      That sad Andromeda’s discomfiture
+   Left bare, when Perseus passed her on a day,
+   And pale as Death for fear of Death she lay,
+      With breast as marble cold, as marble pure.
+
+
+
+HIS LADY’S DEATH.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   TWAIN that were foes, while Mary lived, are fled;
+      One laurel-crowned abides in heaven, and one
+      Beneath the earth has fared, a fallen sun,
+   A light of love among the loveless dead.
+   The first is Chastity, that vanquished
+      The archer Love, that held joint empery
+      With the sweet beauty that made war on me,
+   When laughter of lips with laughing eyes was wed.
+
+   Their strife the Fates have closed, with stern control,
+   The earth holds her fair body, and her soul
+      An angel with glad angels triumpheth;
+   Love has no more that he can do; desire
+   Is buried, and my heart a faded fire,
+      And for Death’s sake, I am in love with Death.
+
+
+
+HIS LADY’S TOMB.
+
+
+                              RONSARD, 1550.
+
+   AS in the gardens, all through May, the rose,
+      Lovely, and young, and fair apparelled,
+      Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
+   When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
+   Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
+      The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
+      Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
+   The languid flower, and the loose leaves unclose,—
+
+   So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
+   When earth and heaven were vocal of her praise,
+      The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes;
+   And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
+   Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
+      That dead, as living, she may be with roses.
+
+
+
+SHADOWS OF HIS LADY.
+
+
+                       JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.
+
+   WITHIN the sand of what far river lies
+      The gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?
+      What highest circle of the Heavens above
+   Is jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?
+   And where is the rich sea whose coral vies
+      With her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?
+      What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereof
+   The fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise?
+
+   What Parian marble that is loveliest,
+   Can match the whiteness of her brow and breast?
+      When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade?
+   Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,
+   Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that be
+      The far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
+
+
+
+MOONLIGHT.
+
+
+                       JACQUES TAHUREAU, 1527–1555.
+
+   THE high Midnight was garlanding her head
+      With many a shining star in shining skies,
+   And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes,
+      And, after sorrow, quietness was shed.
+   Far in dim fields cicalas jargonéd
+      A thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries;
+      And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise,
+   With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
+
+   Then came my lady to that lonely place,
+   And, from her palfrey stooping, did embrace
+      And hang upon my neck, and kissed me over;
+   Wherefore the day is far less dear than night,
+   And sweeter is the shadow than the light,
+      Since night has made me such a happy lover.
+
+
+
+LOVE IN MAY.
+
+
+                             PASSERAT, 1580.
+
+   OFF with sleep, love, up from bed,
+         This fair morn;
+   See, for our eyes the rosy red
+         New dawn is born;
+   Now that skies are glad and gay
+   In this gracious month of May,
+         Love me, sweet,
+   Fill my joy in brimming measure,
+   In this world he hath no pleasure,
+         That will none of it.
+
+   Come, love, through the woods of spring,
+         Come walk with me;
+   Listen, the sweet birds jargoning
+         From tree to tree.
+   List and listen, over all
+   Nightingale most musical
+         That ceases never;
+   Grief begone, and let us be
+   For a space as glad as he;
+         Time’s flitting ever.
+
+   Old Time, that loves not lovers, wears
+         Wings swift in flight;
+   All our happy life he bears
+         Far in the night.
+   Old and wrinkled on a day,
+   Sad and weary shall you say,
+         ‘Ah, fool was I,
+   That took no pleasure in the grace
+   Of the flower that from my face
+         Time has seen die.’
+
+   Leave then sorrow, teen, and tears
+         Till we be old;
+   Young we are, and of our years
+         Till youth be cold
+   Pluck the flower; while spring is gay
+   In this happy month of May,
+         Love me, love;
+   Fill our joy in brimming measure;
+   In this world he hath no pleasure
+         That will none thereof.
+
+
+
+THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.
+
+
+                               VICTOR HUGO.
+
+   THE Grave said to the Rose,
+      ‘What of the dews of dawn,
+   Love’s flower, what end is theirs?’
+      ‘And what of spirits flown,
+   The souls whereon doth close
+      The tomb’s mouth unawares?’
+   The Rose said to the Grave.
+
+   The Rose said, ‘In the shade
+      From the dawn’s tears is made
+   A perfume faint and strange,
+      Amber and honey sweet.’
+      ‘And all the spirits fleet
+   Do suffer a sky-change,
+      More strangely than the dew,
+      To God’s own angels new,’
+   The Grave said to the Rose.
+
+
+
+THE GENESIS OF BUTTERFLIES.
+
+
+                               VICTOR HUGO.
+
+   THE dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
+   The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
+   That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
+   In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
+   That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
+   With muffled music, murmured far and wide!
+   Ah, Spring time, when we think of all the lays
+   That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
+   Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
+   Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
+   The messages of love that mortals write
+   Filled with intoxication of delight,
+   Written in April, and before the May time
+   Shredded and flown, play things for the wind’s play-time,
+   We dream that all white butterflies above,
+   Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
+   And leave their lady mistress in despair,
+   To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
+   Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
+   Flutter, and float, and change to Butterflies.
+
+
+
+MORE STRONG THAN TIME.
+
+
+                               VICTOR HUGO.
+
+   SINCE I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
+      Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
+   Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it,
+      And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade;
+
+   Since it was given to me to hear one happy while,
+      The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
+   Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
+      Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;
+
+   Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam,
+      A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always,
+   Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime’s stream,
+      Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days;
+
+   I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours,
+      Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old,
+   Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers,
+      One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold.
+
+   Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
+      The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet;
+   My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill,
+      My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.
+
+
+
+AN OLD TUNE.
+
+
+                            GERARD DE NERVAL.
+
+   THERE is an air for which I would disown
+      Mozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,—
+   A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,
+      And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
+
+   Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,
+      Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;
+   The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I behold
+      A green land golden in the dying day.
+
+   An old red castle, strong with stony towers,
+      The windows gay with many coloured glass;
+   Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,
+      That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
+
+   In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,
+      A lady looks forth from her window high;
+   It may be that I knew and found her fair,
+      In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
+
+
+
+JUANA.
+
+
+                            ALFRED DE MUSSET.
+
+   AGAIN I see you, ah my queen,
+   Of all my old loves that have been,
+      The first love, and the tenderest;
+   Do you remember or forget—
+   Ah me, for I remember yet—
+      How the last summer days were blest?
+
+   Ah lady, when we think of this,
+   The foolish hours of youth and bliss,
+      How fleet, how sweet, how hard to hold!
+   How old we are, ere spring be green!
+   You touch the limit of eighteen
+      And I am twenty winters old.
+
+   My rose, that mid the red roses,
+   Was brightest, ah, how pale she is!
+      Yet keeps the beauty of her prime;
+   Child, never Spanish lady’s face
+   Was lovely with so wild a grace;
+      Remember the dead summer time.
+
+   Think of our loves, our feuds of old,
+   And how you gave your chain of gold
+      To me for a peace offering;
+   And how all night I lay awake
+   To touch and kiss it for your sake,—
+      To touch and kiss the lifeless thing.
+
+   Lady, beware, for all we say,
+   This Love shall live another day,
+      Awakened from his deathly sleep;
+   The heart that once has been your shrine
+   For other loves is too divine;
+      A home, my dear, too wide and deep.
+
+   What did I say—why do I dream?
+   Why should I struggle with the stream
+      Whose waves return not any day?
+   Close heart, and eyes, and arms from me;
+   Farewell, farewell! so must it be,
+      So runs, so runs, the world away,
+
+   The season bears upon its wing
+   The swallows and the songs of spring,
+      And days that were, and days that flit;
+   The loved lost hours are far away;
+   And hope and fame are scattered spray
+   For me, that gave you love a day
+      For you that not remember it.
+
+
+
+SPRING IN THE STUDENT’S QUARTER.
+
+
+                              HENRI MURGER.
+
+   WINTER is passing, and the bells
+      For ever with their silver lay
+   Murmur a melody that tells
+      Of April and of Easter day.
+   High in sweet air the light vane sets,
+      The weathercocks all southward twirl;
+   A sou will buy her violets
+      And make Nini a happy girl.
+
+   The winter to the poor was sore,
+      Counting the weary winter days,
+   Watching his little fire-wood store,
+      The bitter snow-flakes fell always;
+   And now his last log dimly gleamed,
+      Lighting the room with feeble glare,
+   Half cinder and half smoke it seemed
+      That the wind wafted into air.
+
+   Pilgrims from ocean and far isles
+      See where the east is reddening,
+   The flocks that fly a thousand miles
+      From sunsetting to sunsetting;
+   Look up, look out, behold the swallows,
+      The throats that twitter, the wings that beat;
+   And on their song the summer follows,
+      And in the summer life is sweet.
+
+                                 * * * * * *
+
+   With the green tender buds that know
+      The shoot and sap of lusty spring
+   My neighbour of a year ago
+      Her casement, see, is opening;
+   Through all the bitter months that were,
+      Forth from her nest she dared not flee,
+   She was a study for Boucher,
+      She now might sit to Gavarni.
+
+
+
+OLD LOVES.
+
+
+                              HENRI MURGER.
+
+   LOUISE, have you forgotten yet
+      The corner of the flowery land,
+   The ancient garden where we met,
+      My hand that trembled in your hand?
+   Our lips found words scarce sweet enough,
+      As low beneath the willow-trees
+   We sat; have you forgotten, love?
+      Do you remember, love Louise?
+
+   Marie, have you forgotten yet
+      The loving barter that we made?
+   The rings we changed, the suns that set,
+      The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?
+   The fountains that were musical
+      By many an ancient trysting tree—
+   Marie, have you forgotten all?
+      Do you remember, love Marie?
+
+   Christine, do you remember yet
+      Your room with scents and roses gay?
+   My garret—near the sky ’twas set—
+      The April hours, the nights of May?
+   The clear calm nights—the stars above
+      That whispered they were fairest seen
+   Through no cloud-veil?  Remember, love!
+      Do you remember, love Christine?
+
+   Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!
+      Marie a sadder path has ta’en;
+   And pale Christine has passed away
+      In southern suns to bloom again.
+   Alas! for one and all of us—
+      Marie, Louise, Christine forget;
+   Our bower of love is ruinous,
+      And I alone remember yet.
+
+
+
+MUSETTE.
+
+
+                           HENRI MURGER.  1850
+
+   YESTERDAY, watching the swallows’ flight
+      That bring the spring and the season fair,
+   A moment I thought of the beauty bright
+      Who loved me, when she had time to spare;
+   And dreamily, dreamily all the day,
+      I mused on the calendar of the year,
+   The year so near and so far away,
+      When you were lief, and when I was dear.
+
+   Your memory has not had time to pass;
+      My youth has days of its lifetime yet;
+   If you only knocked at the door, alas,
+      My heart would open the door, Musette!
+   Still at your name must my sad heart beat;
+      Ah Muse, ah maiden of faithlessness!
+   Return for a moment, and deign to eat
+      The bread that pleasure was wont to bless.
+
+   The tables and curtains, the chairs and all,
+      Friends of our pleasure that looked on our pain,
+   Are glad with the gladness of festival,
+      Hoping to see you at home again;
+   Come, let the days of their mourning pass,
+      The silent friends that are sad for you yet;
+   The little sofa, the great wine glass—
+      For know you had often my share, Musette.
+
+   Come, you shall wear the raiment white
+      You wore of old, when the world was gay,
+   We will wander in woods of the heart’s delight
+      The whole of the Sunday holiday.
+   Come, we will sit by the wayside inn,
+      Come, and your song will gain force to fly,
+   Dipping its wing in the clear and thin
+      Wine, as of old, ere it scale the sky.
+
+   Musette, who had scarcely forgotten withal
+      One beautiful dawn of the new year’s best,
+   Returned at the end of the carnival,
+      A flown bird, to a forsaken nest.
+   Ah faithless and fair!  I embrace her yet,
+      With no heart-beat, and with never a sigh;
+   And Musette, no longer the old Musette,
+      Declares that I am no longer I.
+
+   Farewell, my dear that was once so dear,
+      Dead with the death of our latest love;
+   Our youth is laid in its sepulchre,
+      The calendar stands for a stone above.
+   ’Tis only in searching the dust of the days,
+      The ashes of all old memories,
+   That we find the key of the woodland ways
+      That lead to the place of our paradise.
+
+
+
+THE THREE CAPTAINS.
+
+
+   ALL beneath the white-rose tree
+   Walks a lady fair to see,
+      She is as white as the snows,
+   She is as fair as the day:
+      From her father’s garden close
+   Three knights have ta’en her away.
+
+   He has ta’en her by the hand,
+      The youngest of the three—
+   ‘Mount and ride, my bonnie bride,
+      On my white horse with me.’
+
+   And ever they rode, and better rode,
+      Till they came to Senlis town,
+   The hostess she looked hard at them
+      As they were lighting down.
+
+   ‘And are ye here by force,’ she said,
+      ‘Or are ye here for play?
+   From out my father’s garden close
+      Three knights me stole away.
+
+   ‘And fain would I win back,’ she said,
+      ‘The weary way I come;
+   And fain would see my father dear,
+      And fain go maiden home.’
+
+   ‘Oh, weep not, lady fair,’ said she,
+      ‘You shall win back,’ she said,
+   ‘For you shall take this draught from me
+      Will make you lie for dead.’
+
+   ‘Come in and sup, fair lady,’ they said,
+      ‘Come busk ye and be bright;
+   It is with three bold captains
+      That ye must be this night.’
+
+   When they had eaten well and drunk,
+      She fell down like one slain:
+   ‘Now, out and alas! for my bonny may
+      Shall live no more again.’
+
+   ‘Within her father’s garden stead
+      There are three white lilies;
+   With her body to the lily bed,
+      With her soul to Paradise.’
+
+   They bore her to her father’s house,
+      They bore her all the three,
+   They laid her in her father’s close,
+      Beneath the white-rose tree.
+
+   She had not lain a day, a day,
+      A day but barely three,
+   When the may awakes, ‘Oh, open, father,
+      Oh, open the door for me.
+
+   ‘’Tis I have lain for dead, father,
+      Have lain the long days three,
+   That I might maiden come again
+      To my mother and to thee.’
+
+
+
+THE BRIDGE OF DEATH.
+
+
+   ‘THE dance is on the Bridge of Death
+      And who will dance with me?’
+   ‘There’s never a man of living men
+      Will dare to dance with thee.’
+
+   Now Margaret’s gone within her bower
+      Put ashes in her hair,
+   And sackcloth on her bonny breast,
+      And on her shoulders bare.
+
+   There came a knock to her bower door,
+      And blithe she let him in;
+   It was her brother from the wars,
+      The dearest of her kin.
+
+   ‘Set gold within your hair, Margaret,
+      Set gold within your hair,
+   And gold upon your girdle band,
+      And on your breast so fair.
+
+   ‘For we are bidden to dance to-night,
+      We may not bide away;
+   This one good night, this one fair night,
+      Before the red new day.’
+
+   ‘Nay, no gold for my head brother,
+      Nay, no gold for my hair;
+   It is the ashes and dust of earth
+      That you and I must wear.
+
+   ‘No gold work for my girdle band,
+      No gold work on my feet;
+   But ashes of the fire, my love,
+      But dust that the serpents eat.’
+
+                                 * * * * * *
+
+   They danced across the bridge of Death,
+      Above the black water,
+   And the marriage-bell was tolled in hell
+      For the souls of him and her.
+
+
+
+LE PÈRE SÉVÈRE.
+
+
+                          KING LOUIS’ DAUGHTER.
+
+                      BALLAD OF THE ISLE OF FRANCE.
+
+   KING LOUIS on his bridge is he,
+   He holds his daughter on his knee.
+
+   She asks a husband at his hand
+   That is not worth a rood of land.
+
+   ‘Give up your lover speedily,
+   Or you within the tower must lie.’
+
+   ‘Although I must the prison dree,
+   I will not change my love for thee.
+
+   ‘I will not change my lover fair
+   Not for the mother that me bare.
+
+   ‘I will not change my true lover
+   For friends, or for my father dear.’
+
+   ‘Now where are all my pages keen,
+   And where are all my serving men?
+
+   ‘My daughter must lie in the tower alway,
+   Where she shall never see the day.’
+
+                                 * * * * * *
+
+   Seven long years are past and gone
+   And there has seen her never one.
+
+   At ending of the seventh year
+   Her father goes to visit her.
+
+   ‘My child, my child, how may you be?’
+   ‘O father, it fares ill with me.
+
+   ‘My feet are wasted in the mould,
+   The worms they gnaw my side so cold.’
+
+   ‘My child, change your love speedily
+   Or you must still in prison lie.’
+
+   ‘’Tis better far the cold to dree
+   Than give my true love up for thee.’
+
+
+
+THE MILK WHITE DOE.
+
+
+   IT was a mother and a maid
+      That walked the woods among,
+   And still the maid went slow and sad,
+      And still the mother sung.
+
+   ‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?
+      Why go you pale and wan?
+   Is it for a cast of bitter love,
+      Or for a false leman?’
+
+   ‘It is not for a false lover
+      That I go sad to see;
+   But it is for a weary life
+      Beneath the greenwood tree.
+
+   ‘For ever in the good daylight
+      A maiden may I go,
+   But always on the ninth midnight
+      I change to a milk white doe.
+
+   ‘They hunt me through the green forest
+      With hounds and hunting men;
+   And ever it is my fair brother
+      That is so fierce and keen.’
+
+                                  * * * * *
+
+   ‘Good-morrow, mother.’  ‘Good-morrow, son;
+      Where are your hounds so good?’
+   Oh, they are hunting a white doe
+      Within the glad greenwood.
+
+   ‘And three times have they hunted her,
+      And thrice she’s won away;
+   The fourth time that they follow her
+      That white doe they shall slay.’
+
+                                 * * * * * *
+
+   Then out and spoke the forester,
+      As he came from the wood,
+   ‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hair
+      Among the wild deer’s blood.
+
+   ‘And I have hunted the wild deer
+      In east lands and in west;
+   And never saw I white doe yet
+      That had a maiden’s breast.’
+
+   Then up and spake her fair brother,
+      Between the wine and bread,
+   ‘Behold, I had but one sister,
+      And I have been her dead.’
+
+   ‘But ye must bury my sweet sister
+      With a stone at her foot and her head,
+   And ye must cover her fair body
+      With the white roses and red.’
+
+   And I must out to the greenwood,
+      The roof shall never shelter me;
+   And I shall lie for seven long years
+      On the grass below the hawthorn tree.
+
+
+
+A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE.
+
+
+    I be pareld most of prise,
+    I ride after the wild fee.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   WILL ye that I should sing
+   Of the love of a goodly thing,
+      Was no vilein’s may?
+   ’Tis sung of a knight so free,
+   Under the olive tree,
+      Singing this lay.
+
+   Her weed was of samite fine,
+   Her mantle of white ermine,
+      Green silk her hose;
+   Her shoon with silver gay,
+   Her sandals flowers of May,
+      Laced small and close.
+
+   Her belt was of fresh spring buds,
+   Set with gold clasps and studs,
+      Fine linen her shift;
+   Her purse it was of love,
+   Her chain was the flower thereof,
+      And Love’s gift.
+
+   Upon a mule she rode,
+   The selle was of brent gold,
+      The bits of silver made;
+   Three red rose trees there were
+   That overshadowed her,
+      For a sun shade.
+
+   She riding on a day,
+   Knights met her by the way,
+      They did her grace;
+   ‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’
+   ‘France it is my countrie,
+      I come of a high race.
+
+   ‘My sire is the nightingale,
+   That sings, making his wail,
+      In the wild wood, clear;
+   The mermaid is mother to me,
+   That sings in the salt sea,
+      In the ocean mere.’
+
+   ‘Ye come of a right good race,
+   And are born of a high place,
+      And of high degree;
+   Would to God that ye were
+   Given unto me, being fair,
+      My lady and love to be.’
+
+
+
+LOST FOR A ROSE’S SAKE.
+
+
+   I LAVED my hands,
+      By the water side;
+   With the willow leaves
+      My hands I dried.
+
+   The nightingale sung
+      On the bough of the tree;
+   Sing, sweet nightingale,
+      It is well with thee.
+
+   Thou hast heart’s delight,
+      I have sad heart’s sorrow
+   For a false false maid
+      That will wed to-morrow.
+
+   ’Tis all for a rose,
+      That I gave her not,
+   And I would that it grew
+      In the garden plot.
+
+   And I would the rose-tree
+      Were still to set,
+   That my love Marie
+      Might love me yet.
+
+
+
+
+BALLADS OF MODERN GREECE.
+
+
+THE BRIGAND’S GRAVE.
+
+
+   THE moon came up above the hill,
+      The sun went down the sea;
+   Go, maids, and fetch the well-water,
+      But, lad, come here to me.
+
+   Gird on my jack and my old sword,
+      For I have never a son;
+   And you must be the chief of all
+      When I am dead and gone.
+
+   But you must take my old broad sword,
+      And cut the green bough of the tree,
+   And strew the green boughs on the ground
+      To make a soft death bed for me.
+
+   And you must bring the holy priest
+      That I may sained be;
+   For I have lived a roving life
+      Fifty years under the greenwood tree.
+
+   And you shall make a grave for me,
+      And make it deep and wide;
+   That I may turn about and dream
+      With my old gun by my side.
+
+   And leave a window to the east,
+      And the swallows will bring the spring;
+   And all the merry month of May
+      The nightingales will sing.
+
+
+
+THE SUDDEN BRIDAL.
+
+
+   IT was a maid lay sick of love,
+      All for a leman fair;
+   And it was three of her bower-maidens
+      That came to comfort her.
+
+   The first she bore a blossomed branch,
+      The second an apple brown,
+   The third she had a silk kerchief,
+      And still her tears ran down.
+
+   The first she mocked, the second she laughed—
+      ‘We have loved lemans fair,
+   We made our hearts like the iron stone
+      Had little teen or care.’
+
+   ‘If ye have loved ’twas a false false love,
+      And an ill leman was he;
+   But her true love had angel’s eyes,
+      And as fair was his sweet body.
+
+   And I will gird my green kirtle,
+      And braid my yellow hair,
+   And I will over the high hills
+      And bring her love to her.’
+
+   ‘Nay, if you braid your yellow hair,
+      You’ll twine my love from me.’
+   ‘Now nay, now nay, my lady good,
+      That ever this should be!’
+
+   ‘When you have crossed the western hills
+      My true love you shall meet,
+   With a green flag blowing over him,
+      And green grass at his feet.’
+
+   She has crossed over the high hills,
+      And the low hills between,
+   And she has found the may’s leman
+      Beneath a flag of green.
+
+   ’Twas four and twenty ladies fair
+      Were sitting on the grass;
+   But he has turned and looked on her,
+      And will not let her pass.
+
+   ‘You’ve maidens here, and maidens there,
+      And loves through all the land;
+   But what have you made of the lady fair
+      You gave the rose-garland?’
+
+   She was so harsh and cold of love,
+      To me gave little grace;
+   She wept if I but touched her hand,
+      Or kissed her bonny face.
+
+   ‘Yea, crows shall build in the eagle’s nest,
+      The hawk the dove shall wed,
+   Before my old true love and I
+      Meet in one wedding bed.’
+
+   When she had heard his bitter rede
+      That was his old true love,
+   She sat and wept within her bower,
+      And moaned even as a dove.
+
+   She rose up from her window seat,
+      And she looked out to see;
+   Her love came riding up the street
+      With a goodly company.
+
+   He was clad on with Venice gold,
+      Wrought upon cramoisie,
+   His yellow hair shone like the sun
+      About his fair body.
+
+   ‘Now shall I call him blossomed branch
+      That has ill knots therein?
+   Or shall I call him basil plant,
+      That comes of an evil kin?
+
+   ‘Oh, I shall give him goodly names,
+      My sword of damask fine;
+   My silver flower, my bright-winged bird,
+      Where go you, lover mine?’
+
+   ‘I go to marry my new bride,
+      That I bring o’er the down;
+   And you shall be her bridal maid,
+      And hold her bridal crown.’
+
+   ‘When you come to the bride chamber
+      Where your fair maiden is,
+   You’ll tell her I was fair of face,
+      But never tell her this,
+
+   ‘That still my lips were lips of love,
+      My kiss love’s spring-water,
+   That my love was a running spring,
+      My breast a garden fair.
+
+   ‘And you have kissed the lips of love
+      And drained the well-water,
+   And you have spoiled the running spring,
+      And robbed the fruits so fair.’
+
+                                 * * * * * *
+
+   ‘Now he that will may scatter nuts,
+      And he may wed that will;
+   But she that was my old true love
+      Shall be my true love still.’
+
+
+
+
+GREEK FOLK SONGS.
+
+
+IANNOULA.
+
+
+   ALL the maidens were merry and wed
+      All to lovers so fair to see;
+   The lover I took to my bridal bed
+      He is not long for love and me.
+
+   I spoke to him and he noting said,
+      I gave him bread of the wheat so fine,
+   He did not eat of the bridal bread,
+      He did not drink of the bridal wine.
+
+   I made him a bed was soft and deep,
+      I made him a bed to sleep with me;
+   ‘Look on me once before you sleep,
+      And look on the flower of my fair body.
+
+   ‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,
+      Dew of April and buds of May;
+   Two white blossoms that bud for you,
+      Buds that blossom before the day.’
+
+
+
+THE TELL-TALES.
+
+
+   ALL in the mirk midnight when I was beside you,
+      Who has seen, who has heard, what was said, what was done?
+   ’Twas the night and the light of the stars that espied you,
+      The fall of the moon, and the dawning begun.
+
+   ’Tis a swift star has fallen, a star that discovers
+      To the sea what the green sea has told to the oars,
+   And the oars to the sailors, and they of us lovers
+      Go singing this song at their mistress’s doors.
+
+
+
+
+AVE.
+
+
+TWILIGHT ON TWEED.
+
+
+   THREE crests against the saffron sky,
+      Beyond the purple plain,
+   The dear remembered melody
+      Of Tweed once more again.
+
+   Wan water from the border hills,
+      Dear voice from the old years,
+   Thy distant music lulls and stills,
+      And moves to quiet tears.
+
+   Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood
+      Fleets through the dusky land;
+   Where Scott, come home to die, has stood,
+      My feet returning stand.
+
+   A mist of memory broods and floats,
+      The border waters flow;
+   The air is full of ballad notes,
+      Borne out of long ago.
+
+   Old songs that sung themselves to me,
+      Sweet through a boy’s day dream,
+   While trout below the blossom’d tree
+      Plashed in the golden stream.
+
+                                 * * * * * *
+
+   Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill,
+      Fair and thrice fair you be;
+   You tell me that the voice is still
+      That should have welcomed me.
+
+
+
+ONE FLOWER.
+
+
+    “Up there shot a lily red,
+    With a patch of earth from the land of the dead,
+    For she was strong in the land of the dead.”
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   WHEN autumn suns are soft, and sea winds moan,
+      And golden fruits make sweet the golden air,
+      In gardens where the apple blossoms were,
+   In these old springs before I walked alone;
+   I pass among the pathways overgrown,
+      Of all the former flowers that kissed your feet
+      Remains a poppy, pallid from the heat,
+   A wild poppy that the wild winds have sown.
+   Alas! the rose forgets your hands of rose;
+      The lilies slumber in the lily bed;
+   ’Tis only poppies in the dreamy close,
+      The changeless, windless garden of the dead,
+   You tend, with buds soft as your kiss that lies
+   In over happy dreams, upon mine eyes.
+
+
+
+METEMPSYCHOSIS.
+
+
+   I SHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall know
+      Perchance, thy grey eyes in another’s eyes,
+   Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow
+      On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise
+      Shall follow, and track, and find thee in disguise
+   Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow,
+   When through the scent of heather, faint and low,
+      The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.
+
+   From all sweet art, and out of all ‘old rhyme,’
+      Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;
+   The shadows of the beauty of all time,
+      Carven and sung, are only shapes of thee;
+   Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear
+   Shall life or death bring all thy being near?
+
+
+
+LOST IN HADES.
+
+
+   I DREAMED that somewhere in the shadowy place,
+      Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot
+      In welcome, and regret remembered not;
+   And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise
+   On lips that had been songless many days;
+      Hope had no more to hope for, and desire
+      And dread were overpast, in white attire
+   New born we walked among the new world’s ways.
+
+   Then from the press of shades a spirit threw
+      Towards me such apples as these gardens bear;
+   And turning, I was ‘ware of her, and knew
+      And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,—
+   Followed, and found her not, and seeking you
+      I found you never, dearest, anywhere.
+
+
+
+A STAR IN THE NIGHT.
+
+
+   THE perfect piteous beauty of thy face,
+      Is like a star the dawning drives away;
+      Mine eyes may never see in the bright day
+   Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace:
+   But in the night from forth the silent place
+      Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray
+      Star of the starry flock that in the grey
+   Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment’s space.
+
+   And as the earth at night turns to a star,
+      Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun,
+   So in the spiritual place afar,
+      At night our souls are mingled and made one,
+   And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise,
+   That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.
+
+
+
+A SUNSET ON YARROW.
+
+
+   THE wind and the day had lived together,
+      They died together, and far away
+   Spoke farewell in the sultry weather,
+   Out of the sunset, over the heather,
+      The dying wind and the dying day.
+
+   Far in the south, the summer levin
+      Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air:
+   We seemed to look on the hills of heaven;
+   You saw within, but to me ’twas given
+      To see your face, as an angel’s, there.
+
+   Never again, ah surely never
+      Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood,
+   The low good-night of the hill and the river,
+   The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver,
+      Twain grown one in the solitude.
+
+
+
+
+HESPEROTHEN.
+
+
+BY the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned
+from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods,
+seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair
+Phæacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end
+miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the _Vanity of
+Melancholy_.  And by the land of Phæacia is to be understood the place of
+Art and of fair Pleasures; and by Circe’s Isle, the places of bodily
+delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness
+of that age.  Which thing Master Françoys Rabelais feigned, under the
+similitude of the Isle of the Macræones.
+
+
+
+THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA.
+
+
+      THERE is a land in the remotest day,
+         Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies;
+      The eastern shores see faint tides fade away,
+         That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs,
+   Make life,—the lands beneath the blue of common skies.
+
+      But in the west is a mysterious sea,
+         (What sails have seen it, or what shipmen known?)
+      With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be,
+         With islands where a Goddess walks alone,
+   And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan
+
+      Eastward the human cares of house and home,
+         Cities, and ships, and unknown Gods, and loves;
+      Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam,
+         And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves,
+   Wherein a God may dwell, and where the Dryad roves.
+
+      The Gods are careless of the days and death
+         Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas;
+      The Gods are heedless of their painful breath,
+         And love them not, for they are not as these;
+   But in the golden west they live and lie at ease.
+
+      Yet the Phæacians well they love, who live
+         At the light’s limit, passing careless hours,
+      Most like the Gods; and they have gifts to give,
+         Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers,
+   And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers.
+
+      It is a quiet midland; in the cool
+         Of twilight comes the God, though no man prayed,
+      To watch the maids and young men beautiful
+         Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid,
+   For they are near of kin to Gods, and undismayed.
+
+      Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh
+         The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep!
+      But with a mist they hide them wondrously,
+         And far the path and dim to where they sleep,—
+   The loved, the shadowy lands along the shadowy deep.
+
+
+
+A SONG OF PHÆACIA.
+
+
+   THE languid sunset, mother of roses,
+      Lingers, a light on the magic seas,
+   The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses,
+      Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze.
+
+   The red rose clouds, without law or leader,
+      Gather and float in the airy plain;
+   The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar,
+      The cedar scatters his scent to the main.
+
+   The strange flowers’ perfume turns to singing,
+      Heard afar over moonlit seas;
+   The Siren’s song, grown faint in winging,
+      Falls in scent on the cedar trees.
+
+   As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying,
+      Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birds
+   Brighten the air with their wings; their crying
+      Wakens a moment the weary herds.
+
+   Butterflies flit from the fairy garden,
+      Living blossoms of flying flowers;
+   Never the nights with winter harden,
+      Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours.
+
+   Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden,
+      Gleam in the green, and droop and fall;
+   Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden,
+      Swing, and cling to the garden wall.
+
+   Deep in the woods as twilight darkens,
+      Glades are red with the scented fire;
+   Far in the dells the white maid hearkens,
+      Song and sigh of the heart’s desire.
+
+   Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning,
+      Maiden’s song in the matin grey,
+   Faints as the first bird’s note, a warning,
+      Wakes and wails to the new-born day.
+
+   The waking song and the dying measure
+      Meet, and the waxing and waning light
+   Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure,
+      The rose of the sea and the sky is white.
+
+
+
+THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA.
+
+
+                               THE PHÆACIANS.
+
+   WHY from the dreamy meadows,
+      More fair than any dream,
+   Why will you seek the shadows
+      Beyond the ocean stream?
+
+   Through straits of storm and peril,
+      Through firths unsailed before,
+   Why make you for the sterile,
+      The dark Kimmerian shore?
+
+   There no bright streams are flowing,
+      There day and night are one,
+   No harvest time, no sowing,
+      No sight of any sun;
+
+   No sound of song or tabor,
+      No dance shall greet you there;
+   No noise of mortal labour,
+      Breaks on the blind chill air.
+
+   Are ours not happy places,
+      Where Gods with mortals trod?
+   Saw not our sires the faces
+      Of many a present God?
+
+                                THE SEEKERS.
+
+   Nay, now no God comes hither,
+      In shape that men may see;
+   They fare we know not whither,
+      We know not what they be.
+
+   Yea, though the sunset lingers
+      Far in your fairy glades,
+   Though yours the sweetest singers,
+      Though yours the kindest maids,
+
+   Yet here be the true shadows,
+      Here in the doubtful light;
+   Amid the dreamy meadows
+      No shadow haunts the night.
+
+   We seek a city splendid,
+      With light beyond the sun;
+   Or lands where dreams are ended,
+      And works and days are done.
+
+
+
+A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE. {110}
+
+
+   FAIR white bird, what song art thou singing
+      In wintry weather of lands o’er sea?
+   Dear white bird, what way art thou winging,
+      Where no grass grows, and no green tree?
+
+   I looked at the far off fields and grey,
+      There grew no tree but the cypress tree,
+   That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May,
+      And whoso looks on it, woe is he.
+
+   And whoso eats of the fruit thereof
+      Has no more sorrow, and no more love;
+   And who sets the same in his garden stead,
+      In a little space he is waste and dead.
+
+
+
+THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME.
+
+
+   THE weary sails a moment slept,
+      The oars were silent for a space,
+   As past Hesperian shores we swept,
+      That were as a remembered face
+   Seen after lapse of hopeless years,
+      In Hades, when the shadows meet,
+   Dim through the mist of many tears,
+      And strange, and though a shadow, sweet.
+
+   So seemed the half-remembered shore,
+      That slumbered, mirrored in the blue,
+   With havens where we touched of yore,
+      And ports that over well we knew.
+   Then broke the calm before a breeze
+      That sought the secret of the west;
+   And listless all we swept the seas
+      Towards the Islands of the Blest.
+
+   Beside a golden sanded bay
+      We saw the Sirens, very fair
+   The flowery hill whereon they lay,
+      The flowers set upon their hair.
+   Their old sweet song came down the wind,
+      Remembered music waxing strong,
+   Ah now no need of cords to bind,
+      No need had we of Orphic song.
+
+   It once had seemed a little thing,
+      To lay our lives down at their feet,
+   That dying we might hear them sing,
+      And dying see their faces sweet;
+   But now, we glanced, and passing by,
+      No care had we to tarry long;
+   Faint hope, and rest, and memory
+      Were more than any Siren’s song.
+
+
+
+CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED.
+
+
+   AH, Circe, Circe! in the wood we cried;
+   Ah, Circe, Circe! but no voice replied;
+      No voice from bowers o’ergrown and ruinous
+   As fallen rocks upon the mountain side.
+
+   There was no sound of singing in the air;
+   Failed or fled the maidens that were fair,
+      No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us,
+   No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair.
+
+   The perfume, and the music, and the flame
+   Had passed away; the memory of shame
+      Alone abode, and stings of faint desire,
+   And pulses of vague quiet went and came.
+
+   Ah, Circe! in thy sad changed fairy place,
+   Our dead Youth came and looked on us a space,
+      With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire,
+   And wasted hair about a weary face.
+
+   Why had we ever sought the magic isle
+   That seemed so happy in the days erewhile?
+      Why did we ever leave it, where we met
+   A world of happy wonders in one smile?
+
+   Back to the westward and the waning light
+   We turned, we fled; the solitude of night
+      Was better than the infinite regret,
+   In fallen places of our dead delight.
+
+
+
+THE LIMIT OF LANDS.
+
+
+   BETWEEN the circling ocean sea
+   And the poplars of Persephone
+      There lies a strip of barren sand,
+   Flecked with the sea’s last spray, and strown
+   With waste leaves of the poplars, blown
+      From gardens of the shadow land.
+
+   With altars of old sacrifice
+   The shore is set, in mournful wise
+      The mists upon the ocean brood;
+   Between the water and the air
+   The clouds are born that float and fare
+      Between the water and the wood.
+
+   Upon the grey sea never sail
+   Of mortals passed within our hail,
+      Where the last weak waves faint and flow;
+   We heard within the poplar pale
+   The murmur of a doubtful wail
+      Of voices loved so long ago.
+
+   We scarce had care to die or live,
+   We had no honey cake to give,
+      No wine of sacrifice to shed;
+   There lies no new path over sea,
+   And now we know how faint they be,
+      The feasts and voices of the Dead.
+
+   Ah, flowers and dance! ah, sun and snow!
+   Glad life, sad life we did forego
+      To dream of quietness and rest;
+   Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here
+   Poured light and perfume through the drear
+      Pale year, and wan land of the west.
+
+   Sad youth, that let the spring go by
+   Because the spring is swift to fly,
+      Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love,
+   Behold how sadder far is this,
+   To know that rest is nowise bliss,
+      And darkness is the end thereof.
+
+
+
+
+VERSES ON PICTURES.
+
+
+COLINETTE.
+
+
+For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, A.R.A.
+
+   FRANCE your country, as we know;
+      Room enough for guessing yet,
+   What lips now or long ago,
+      Kissed and named you—Colinette.
+   In what fields from sea to sea,
+      By what stream your home was set,
+   Loire or Seine was glad of thee,
+      Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
+
+   Did you stand with ‘maidens ten,
+      Fairer maids were never seen,’
+   When the young king and his men
+      Passed among the orchards green?
+   Nay, old ballads have a note
+      Mournful, we would fain forget;
+   No such sad old air should float
+      Round your young brows, Colinette.
+
+   Say, did Ronsard sing to you,
+      Shepherdess, to lull his pain,
+   When the court went wandering through
+      Rose pleasances of Touraine?
+   Ronsard and his famous Rose
+      Long are dust the breezes fret;
+   You, within the garden close,
+      You are blooming, Colinette.
+
+   Have I seen you proud and gay,
+      With a patched and perfumed beau,
+   Dancing through the summer day,
+      Misty summer of Watteau?
+   Nay, so sweet a maid as you
+      Never walked a minuet
+   With the splendid courtly crew;
+      Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
+
+   Not from Greuze’s canvasses
+      Do you cast a glance, a smile;
+   You are not as one of these,
+      Yours is beauty without guile.
+   Round your maiden brows and hair
+      Maidenhood and Childhood met
+   Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair,
+      New art’s blossom, Colinette.
+
+
+
+A SUNSET OF WATTEAU.
+
+
+                                    LUI.
+
+   THE silk sail fills, the soft winds wake,
+      Arise and tempt the seas;
+   Our ocean is the Palace lake,
+   Our waves the ripples that we make
+      Among the mirrored trees.
+
+                                    ELLE.
+
+   Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song,
+      And dear the languid dream;
+   The music mingled all day long
+   With paces of the dancing throng,
+      And murmur of the stream.
+
+   An hour ago, an hour ago,
+      We rested in the shade;
+   And now, why should we seek to know
+   What way the wilful waters flow?
+      There is no fairer glade.
+
+                                    LUI.
+
+   Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,
+      And seek him everywhere;
+   Perchance in sunset’s golden pale
+   He listens to the nightingale,
+      Amid the perfumed air.
+
+   Come, he has fled; you are not you,
+      And I no more am I;
+   Delight is changeful as the hue
+   Of heaven, that is no longer blue
+      In yonder sunset sky.
+
+                                    ELLE.
+
+   Nay, if we seek we shall not find,
+      If we knock none openeth;
+   Nay, see, the sunset fades behind
+   The mountains, and the cold night wind
+      Blows from the house of Death.
+
+
+
+A NATIVITY OF SANDRO BOTTICELLI.
+
+
+   ‘WROUGHT in the troublous times of Italy
+      By Sandro Botticelli,’ when for fear
+      Of that last judgment, and last day drawn near
+   To end all labour and all revelry,
+   He worked and prayed in silence; this is she
+      That by the holy cradle sees the bier,
+      And in spice gifts the hyssop on the spear,
+   And out of Bethlehem, Gethsemane.
+
+   Between the gold sky and the green o’er head,
+   The twelve great shining angels, garlanded,
+      Marvel upon this face, wherein combine
+   The mother’s love that shone on all of us,
+   And maiden rapture that makes luminous
+      The brows of Margaret and Catherine.
+
+
+
+
+SONGS AND SONNETS
+
+
+TWO HOMES.
+
+
+To a young English lady in the Hospital of the Wounded at Carlsruhe.
+Sept. 1870.
+
+   WHAT does the dim gaze of the dying find
+      To waken dream or memory, seeing you?
+      In your sweet eyes what other eyes are blue,
+   And in your hair what gold hair on the wind
+   Floats of the days gone almost out of mind?
+   In deep green valleys of the Fatherland
+      He may remember girls with locks like thine;
+   May dream how, where the waiting angels stand,
+      Some lost love’s eyes are dim before they shine
+      With welcome:—so past homes, or homes to be,
+   He sees a moment, ere, a moment blind,
+      He crosses Death’s inhospitable sea,
+   And with brief passage of those barren lands
+   Comes to the home that is not made with hands.
+
+
+
+SUMMER’S ENDING.
+
+
+   THE flags below the shadowy fern
+      Shine like spears between sun and sea,
+   The tide and the summer begin to turn,
+   And ah, for hearts, for hearts that yearn,
+   For fires of autumn that catch and burn,
+      For love gone out between thee and me.
+
+   The wind is up, and the weather broken,
+      Blue seas, blue eyes, are grieved and grey,
+   Listen, the word that the wind has spoken,
+   Listen, the sound of the sea,—a token
+   That summer’s over, and troths are broken,—
+      That loves depart as the hours decay.
+
+   A love has passed to the loves passed over,
+      A month has fled to the months gone by;
+   And none may follow, and none recover
+   July and June, and never a lover
+   May stay the wings of the Loves that hover,
+      As fleet as the light in a sunset sky.
+
+
+
+NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.
+
+
+    ‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?
+    Serai-je nonnette? je crois que non.
+    Derrière chez mon père
+    Il est un bois taillis,
+    Le rossignol y chante
+    Et le jour et le nuit.
+    Il chaste pour les filles
+    Qui n’ont pas d’ami;
+    Il ne chante pas pour moi,
+    J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—OLD FRENCH.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   I’LL never be a nun, I trow,
+   While apple bloom is white as snow,
+      But far more fair to see;
+   I’ll never wear nun’s black and white
+   While nightingales make sweet the night
+      Within the apple tree.
+
+   Ah, listen! ’tis the nightingale,
+   And in the wood he makes his wail,
+      Within the apple tree;
+   He singeth of the sore distress
+   Of many ladies loverless;
+      Thank God, no song for me.
+
+   For when the broad May moon is low,
+   A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow
+      In the boughs of the apple tree,
+   A step I know is at the gate;
+   Ah love, but it is long to wait
+      Until night’s noon bring thee!
+
+   Between lark’s song and nightingale’s
+   A silent space, while dawning pales,
+      The birds leave still and free
+   For words and kisses musical,
+   For silence and for sighs that fall
+      In the dawn, ’twixt him and me.
+
+
+
+LOVE AND WISDOM.
+
+
+   ‘When last we gathered roses in the garden
+   I found my wits, but truly you lost yours.’
+
+                                                         THE BROKEN HEART.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   JULY, and June brought flowers and love
+   To you, but I would none thereof,
+   Whose heart kept all through summer time
+   A flower of frost and winter rime.
+   Yours was true wisdom—was it not?—
+   Even love; but I had clean forgot,
+   Till seasons of the falling leaf,
+   All loves, but one that turned to grief.
+   At length at touch of autumn tide,
+   When roses fell, and summer died,
+   All in a dawning deep with dew,
+   Love flew to me, love fled from you.
+
+   The roses drooped their weary heads,
+   I spoke among the garden beds;
+   You would not hear, you could not know,
+   Summer and love seemed long ago,
+   As far, as faint, as dim a dream,
+   As to the dead this world may seem.
+   Ah sweet, in winter’s miseries,
+   Perchance you may remember this,
+   How wisdom was not justified
+   In summer time or autumn-tide,
+   Though for this once below the sun,
+   Wisdom and love were made at one;
+   But love was bitter-bought enough,
+   And wisdom light of wing as love.
+
+
+
+GOOD-BYE.
+
+
+   KISS me, and say good-bye;
+      Good-bye, there is no word to say but this,
+      Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,
+   Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;
+   Kiss me, and say, good-bye.
+
+   Farewell, be glad, forget;
+      There is no need to say ‘forget,’ I know,
+      For youth is youth, and time will have it so,
+   And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,
+   Farewell, you must forget.
+
+   You shall bring home your sheaves,
+      Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined
+      Of memories that go not out of mind;
+   Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves
+   When you bring home your sheaves.
+
+   In garnered loves of thine,
+      The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years,
+      Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears;
+   It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine
+   Of life, this love of mine.
+
+   This sheaf was spoiled in spring,
+      And over-long was green, and early sere,
+      And never gathered gold in the late year
+   From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,
+   But failed in frosts of spring.
+
+   Yet was it thine my sweet,
+      This love, though weak as young corn witheréd,
+      Whereof no man may gather and make bread;
+   Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;
+   Forget not quite, my sweet.
+
+
+
+AN OLD PRAYER.
+
+
+    Χαιρέ μοι, ῶ Βασίλεια, διαμπερὲς εἰς ὅ κε γῆρας
+    Ἔλθῃ καὶ θάνατος,τὰ τ’ ἐπ’ ἀνθρώποισι πέλονται.
+
+                                                        ODYSSEY, xiii. 59.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   MY prayer an old prayer borroweth,
+   Of ancient love and memory—
+   ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death,
+   That come to all men, come to thee.’
+   Gently as winter’s early breath,
+   Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee,
+   To lands whereof _no man knoweth_
+   Of summer, over land and sea;
+   So with thy soul may summer be,
+   Even as the ancient singer saith,
+   ‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death,
+   That come to all men, come to thee.’
+
+
+
+LOVE’S MIRACLE.
+
+
+   WITH other helpless folk about the gate,
+      The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes
+      That take no pleasure in the summer skies,
+   Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait;
+   So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate
+      Makes her with dull experience early wise,
+      And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs
+   That all hath been, and shall be, desolate.
+
+   Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live,
+      And know herself the fairest of fair things,
+   Ah, if he have no healing gift to give,
+      Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings,
+   Or if at least Love’s shadow in passing by
+   Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.
+
+
+
+DREAMS.
+
+
+   HE spake not truth, however wise, who said
+      That happy, and that hapless men in sleep
+      Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep
+   As countless, careless, races of the dead.
+   Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread,
+      And one beholds the faces that he sighs
+      In vain to bring before his daylit eyes,
+   And waking, he remembers on his bed;
+
+   And one with fainting heart and feeble hand
+   Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land,
+      Where strength and courage were of no avail;
+   And one is borne on fairy breezes far
+   To the bright harbours of a golden star
+      Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.
+
+
+
+FAIRY LAND.
+
+
+   IN light of sunrise and sunsetting,
+   The long days lingered, in forgetting
+   That ever passion, keen to hold
+   What may not tarry, was of old,
+   In lands beyond the weary wold;
+   Beyond the bitter stream whose flood
+   Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood.
+   Was beauty once a thing that died?
+   Was pleasure never satisfied?
+   Was rest still broken by the vain
+   Desire of action, bringing pain,
+   To die in languid rest again?
+   All this was quite forgotten there,
+   Where never winter chilled the year,
+   Nor spring brought promise unfulfilled,
+   Nor, with the eager summer killed,
+   The languid days drooped autumnwards.
+   So magical a season guards
+   The constant prime of a cool June;
+   So slumbrous is the river’s tune,
+   That knows no thunder of heavy rains,
+   Nor ever in the summer wanes,
+   Like waters of the summer time
+   In lands far from the Fairy clime.
+
+   Yea, there the Fairy maids are kind,
+   With nothing of the changeful mind
+   Of maidens in the days that were;
+   And if no laughter fills the air
+   With sound of silver murmurings,
+   And if no prayer of passion brings
+   A love nigh dead to life again,
+   Yet sighs more subtly sweet remain,
+   And smiles that never satiate,
+   And loves that fear scarce any fate.
+   Alas, no words can bring the bloom
+   Of Fairy Land; the faint perfume,
+   The sweet low light, the magic air,
+   To eyes of who has not been there:
+   Alas, no words, nor any spell
+   Can lull the eyes that know too well,
+   The lost fair world of Fairy Land.
+
+   Ah, would that I had never been
+   The lover of the Fairy Queen!
+   Or would that through the sleepy town,
+   The grey old place of Ercildoune,
+   And all along the little street,
+   The soft fall of the white deer’s feet
+   Came, with the mystical command
+   That I must back to Fairy Land!
+
+
+
+TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.
+
+
+‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de
+Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble.  Esmues du juste deuil
+de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desespoir,
+elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles
+attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupé de leur musique
+est la Mort.’—PONTUS DE TYARD.  1570.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                                     I.
+
+   THE Sirens once were maidens innocent
+      That through the water-meads with Proserpine
+   Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content
+      Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine,
+      With lilies woven and with wet woodbine;
+   Till once they sought the bright Ætnaean flowers,
+   And their bright mistress fled from summer hours
+      With Hades, down the irremeable decline.
+   And they have sought her all the wide world through
+      Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong
+   Have filled and changed their song, and o’er the blue
+      Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song,
+   And whoso hears must listen till he die
+   Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.
+
+                                     II.
+
+   So is it with this singing art of ours,
+      That once with maids went maidenlike, and played
+      With woven dances in the poplar-shade,
+   And all her song was but of lady’s bowers
+   And the returning swallows, and spring-flowers,
+      Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,
+      A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed
+   Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers.
+   Yea, fair well-water for the bitter brine
+      She left, and by the margin of life’s sea
+         Sings, and her song is full of the sea’s moan,
+   And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine;
+      And whoso once has listened to her, he
+         His whole life long is slave to her alone.
+
+
+
+A LA BELLE HÉLÈNE.
+
+
+                              AFTER RONSARD.
+
+   MORE closely than the clinging vine
+      About the wedded tree,
+   Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine!
+      About the heart of me.
+   Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face
+      Soft on my sleeping eyes,
+   Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace,
+      Through me, in kissing wise.
+   Bow down, bow down your face, I pray,
+      To me, that swoon to death,
+   Breathe back the life you kissed away,
+      Breathe back your kissing breath.
+   So by your eyes I swear and say,
+      My mighty oath and sure,
+   From your kind arms no maiden may
+      My loving heart allure.
+   I’ll bear your yoke, that’s light enough,
+      And to the Elysian plain,
+   When we are dead of love, my love,
+      One boat shall bear us twain.
+   They’ll flock around you, fleet and fair,
+      All true loves that have been,
+   And you of all the shadows there,
+      Shall be the shadow queen.
+   _Ah shadow-loves_, _and shadow-lips_!
+      _Ah_, _while ’tis called to-day_,
+   _Love me_, _my love, for summer slips_,
+      _And August ebbs away_.
+
+
+
+SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE.
+
+
+                      IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
+
+   TWO loves there were, and one was born
+      Between the sunset and the rain;
+   Her singing voice went through the corn,
+   Her dance was woven ‘neath the thorn,
+      On grass the fallen blossoms stain;
+   And suns may set, and moons may wane,
+   But this love comes no more again.
+
+   There were two loves and one made white
+      Thy singing lips, and golden hair;
+   Born of the city’s mire and light,
+   The shame and splendour of the night,
+      She trapped and fled thee unaware;
+   Not through the lamplight and the rain
+   Shalt thou behold this love again.
+
+   Go forth and seek, by wood and hill,
+      Thine ancient love of dawn and dew;
+   There comes no voice from mere or rill,
+   Her dance is over, fallen still
+      The ballad burdens that she knew;
+   And thou must wait for her in vain,
+   Till years bring back thy youth again.
+
+   That other love, afield, afar
+      Fled the light love, with lighter feet.
+   Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are,
+   And flit in dreams from star to star,
+      That dead love shalt thou never meet,
+   Till through bleak dawn and blowing rain
+   Thy fled soul find her soul again.
+
+
+
+A LOST PATH.
+
+
+Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy,
+whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from his deathly
+flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the World.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   ALAS, the path is lost, we cannot leave
+      Our bright, our clouded life, and pass away
+   As through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve,
+      To heights remoter of the purer day.
+   The soul may not, returning whence she came,
+      Bathe herself deep in Being, and forget
+   The joys that fever, and the cares that fret,
+      Made once more one with the eternal flame
+      That breathes in all things ever more the same.
+   She would be young again, thus drinking deep
+      Of her old life; and this has been, men say,
+   But this we know not, who have only sleep
+      To soothe us, sleep more terrible than day,
+   Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray,
+      To make us weary at our wakening;
+   And of that long-lost path to the Divine
+   We dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing,
+      Half credulous, of easy Proserpine
+   And of the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’
+
+
+
+THE SHADE OF HELEN.
+
+
+Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the Gods,
+having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the
+same to be wife to Paris.  For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans
+slew each other.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   WHY from the quiet hollows of the hills,
+   And extreme meeting place of light and shade,
+   Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and became
+   Clouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beams
+   And dying glories of the sun would dwell,
+   Why have they whom I know not, nor may know,
+   Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me,
+   And borne me from the silent shadowy hills,
+   Hither, to noise and glow of alien life,
+   To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?
+
+   One speaks unto me words that would be sweet,
+   Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not,
+   And some strange force, within me or around,
+   Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh,
+   And somewhere there is fever in the halls,
+   That troubles me, for no such trouble came
+   To vex the cool far hollows of the hills.
+
+   The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry,
+   That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town,
+   Are little to lose, if they may keep me here,
+   And see me flit, a pale and silent shade,
+   Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.
+
+   At other hours another life seems mine,
+   Where one great river runs unswollen of rain,
+   By pyramids of unremembered kings,
+   And homes of men obedient to the Dead.
+   There dark and quiet faces come and go
+   Around me, then again the shriek of arms,
+   And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.
+   What are they?  Even shadows such as I.
+   What make they?  Even this—the sport of Gods—
+   The sport of Gods, however free they seem.
+   Ah would the game were ended, and the light,
+   The blinding light, and all too mighty suns,
+   Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades,
+   Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist,
+   Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
+   Ah, would ‘t were the cloud’s playtime, when the sun
+   Clothes us in raiment of a rosy flame,
+   And through the sky we flit, and gather grey,
+   Like men that leave their golden youth behind,
+   And through their wind-driven ways they gather grey,
+   And we like them grow wan, and the chill East
+   Receives us, as the Earth accepts all men,—
+   But _we_ await the dawn of a new day.
+
+
+
+
+SONNETS TO POETS.
+
+
+JACQUES TAHUREAU.  1530.
+
+
+   AH thou! that, undeceived and unregretting,
+      Saw’st Death so near thee on the flowery way,
+   And with no sigh that life was near the setting,
+   Took’st the delight and dalliance of the day,
+      Happy thou wert, to live and pass away
+   Ere life or love had done thee any wrong;
+      Ere thy wreath faded, or thy locks grew grey,
+   Or summer came to lull thine April song,
+   Sweet as all shapes of sweet things unfulfilled,
+      Buds bloomless, and the broken violet,
+         The first spring days, the sounds and scents thereof;
+   So clear thy fire of song, so early chilled,
+      So brief, so bright thy life that gaily met
+         Death, for thy Death came hand in hand with Love.
+
+
+
+FRANÇOIS VILLON.  1450.
+
+
+   List, all that love light mirth, light tears, and all
+      That know the heart of shameful loves, or pure;
+      That know delights depart, desires endure,
+   A fevered tribe of ghosts funereal,
+   Widowed of dead delights gone out of call;
+      List, all that deem the glory of the rose
+      Is brief as last year’s suns, or last year’s snows
+   The new suns melt from off the sundial.
+
+   All this your master Villon knew and sung;
+      Despised delights, and faint foredone desire;
+      And shame, a deathless worm, a quenchless fire;
+   And laughter from the heart’s last sorrow wrung,
+      When half-repentance but makes evil whole,
+      And prayer that cannot help wears out the soul.
+
+
+
+PIERRE RONSARD.  1560.
+
+
+   MASTER, I see thee with the locks of grey,
+      Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath;
+   I see the roses hiding underneath,
+   Cassandra’s gift; she was less dear than they.
+   Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay,
+      The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath,
+      Hast sung sweet answer to the songs that breathe
+   Through ages, and through ages far away.
+
+   Yea, and in thee the pulse of ancient passion
+      Leaped, and the nymphs amid the spring-water
+   Made bare their lovely limbs in the old fashion,
+      And birds’ song in the branches was astir.
+   Ah, but thy songs are sad, thy roses wan,
+   Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian.
+
+
+
+GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
+
+
+   OF all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed,
+      Ah, light and sacred soul!—none holds thee now;
+      No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou
+   Art free and happy in the lands unnamed,
+   About whose gates, with weary wings and maimed,
+      Thou most wert wont to linger, entering there
+      A moment, and returning rapt, with fair
+   Tidings that men or heeded not or blamed;
+      And they would smile and wonder, seeing where
+   Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind,
+      Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,
+   Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find
+   Old prophecies fulfilled now, old tales true
+   In the new world, where all things are made new?
+
+
+
+THE DEATH OF MIRANDOLA.  1494.
+
+
+‘The Queen of Heaven appeared, comforting him and promising that he
+should not utterly die.’—THOMAS MORE, _Life of Piens, Earl of Mirandola_.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+   STRANGE lilies came with autumn; new and old
+      Were mingling, and the old world passed away,
+      And the night gathered, and the shadows grey
+   Dimmed the kind eyes and dimmed the locks of gold,
+      And face beloved of Mirandola.
+      The Virgin then, to comfort him and stay,
+   Kissed the thin cheek, and kissed the lips acold,
+      The lips unkissed of women many a day.
+   Nor she alone, for queens of the old creed,
+      Like rival queens that tended Arthur, there
+   Were gathered, Venus in her mourning weed,
+      Pallas and Dian; wise, and pure, and fair
+   Was he they mourned, who living did not wrong
+   One altar of its dues of wine and song.
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+                            LONDON: PRINTED BY
+                 SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE
+                          AND PARLIAMENT STREET
+
+                                * * * * *
+
+
+
+
+FOOTNOTES
+
+
+{23}  Aphrodite—Avril.
+
+{110}  From the Romaic.
+
+
+
+
+***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BALLADS AND LYRICS OF OLD FRANCE***
+
+
+******* This file should be named 795-0.txt or 795-0.zip *******
+
+
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+
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