 | The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley |  |
THE BALLAD OF LIFE
I rode out in the morning,
The spring was in my blood.
I gave the devil scorning:
The world was ripe and good.
The spring was in my blood.
I gave the devil scorning:
The world was ripe and good.
The throstle cock on every hedge
Sang madly with delight.
It was May within and May without,
And never a thought of night.
Sang madly with delight.
It was May within and May without,
And never a thought of night.
464
A fig for Fortune, break her wheel,
And tear the spokes away!
A fig for death by shot or steel,
A fig for hairs of gray!
And tear the spokes away!
A fig for death by shot or steel,
A fig for hairs of gray!
Let Fortune take or Fortune bring,
Come peace or rolling war,
I follow like an eastern king
The zenith of my star.
Come peace or rolling war,
I follow like an eastern king
The zenith of my star.
Old beldam of a Pagan birth,
To stern oblivion hurled!
For boys are masters of the earth,
And youth directs the world.
To stern oblivion hurled!
For boys are masters of the earth,
And youth directs the world.
The fruit of time is mine, right fair
Shed from a golden horn;
And fragrant as this hawthorn air
To-morrow will be born.
Shed from a golden horn;
And fragrant as this hawthorn air
To-morrow will be born.
The girl I wanted long is won:
I have ripe ale in store.
My heart is good and my road is good,
And my horse is swift and sure.
I have ripe ale in store.
My heart is good and my road is good,
And my horse is swift and sure.
Then ho! my steed, for the flowery mead,
Where the amber currents run.
I ride, I ride in the royal pride
Of youth and the spring-tide sun.
Where the amber currents run.
I ride, I ride in the royal pride
Of youth and the spring-tide sun.
I carol away in the sweet May day,
I am coming, my rose, to thee;
In the garden of life a most exquisite flower
Is growing and blowing for me.
I am coming, my rose, to thee;
In the garden of life a most exquisite flower
Is growing and blowing for me.
Then spur my steed, till his hot flanks bleed,
And rush like a torrent fall;
Haste to the dove, who is waiting alone,
My love that is truest of all.
And rush like a torrent fall;
Haste to the dove, who is waiting alone,
My love that is truest of all.
And I rode to the bower in a fatal hour;
As black against the day,
A bitter cloud ran out like a shroud
And the rainbow melted away.
As black against the day,
A bitter cloud ran out like a shroud
And the rainbow melted away.
465
The gates were barred as the gates of hell,
And I heard, by the mass! I heard
My rival's voice, who strummed on a lute,
And wailed like a love-sick bird.
And I heard, by the mass! I heard
My rival's voice, who strummed on a lute,
And wailed like a love-sick bird.
And when the music ended,
Began the kissing play,
And her happy laughter blended,
As she gave her lips away.
Began the kissing play,
And her happy laughter blended,
As she gave her lips away.
But the torture of their blisses
Burnt me like molten lead,
And that agony of kisses
Brought gray hairs on my head.
Burnt me like molten lead,
And that agony of kisses
Brought gray hairs on my head.
I crawled back in the gloaming
In the grip of a giant grief,
Thro' the bitter drench of the driving hail,
And the swirl of the rushing leaf.
In the grip of a giant grief,
Thro' the bitter drench of the driving hail,
And the swirl of the rushing leaf.
The storm-cloud onwards muttering came;
I saw the fireballs glint.
My gallant horse he went dead lame
On a shard of pointed flint.
I saw the fireballs glint.
My gallant horse he went dead lame
On a shard of pointed flint.
Then ho! my steed, for a land of reed,
Where the banks of Lethe run
In the sickened ray of a waning day
And the gleam of a fading sun.
Where the banks of Lethe run
In the sickened ray of a waning day
And the gleam of a fading sun.
And I know that clap of thunder
Will sour my home-brewed beer,—
And I wonder, and I wonder
How love could turn so sere.
Will sour my home-brewed beer,—
And I wonder, and I wonder
How love could turn so sere.
There is nothing new to say or do,
But to creep to a ditch and die.
There is no truth or faith or ruth
Beneath the barren sky.
But to creep to a ditch and die.
There is no truth or faith or ruth
Beneath the barren sky.
Then ho! my steed, to the dead man's mead,
Where the lying Love is dumb.
Blind Fortune rules in a realm of fools
And the devil's kingdom is come.
Where the lying Love is dumb.
Blind Fortune rules in a realm of fools
And the devil's kingdom is come.
July 16th, 1895.
| The Collected Poems of Lord De Tabley | |