The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang Edited by Mrs. Lang |
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BALLADES |
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179
VII BALLADES
181
At the Sign of the Ship
Ballade Introductory
What men collect, what men debate,
What Bain has bought, or Christie sold,
Whatever serves to illustrate
The fashions of the days of old;
How Cambridge pulled, how Oxford bowled,
Wild lore of races white or black;
Of these shall many a tale be told
In this our Stall of Bric-a-brac!
What Bain has bought, or Christie sold,
Whatever serves to illustrate
The fashions of the days of old;
How Cambridge pulled, how Oxford bowled,
Wild lore of races white or black;
Of these shall many a tale be told
In this our Stall of Bric-a-brac!
Strange wrecks from rarest books that fate
Hath hardly saved from moth and mould;
Quaint traits of manner, old or late,
Of cloth of frieze, and cloth of gold,
Faint echoes that the ages cold
To our warm age send ringing back,
We gather all, we all enfold
In this our Stall of Bric-a-brac.
Hath hardly saved from moth and mould;
Quaint traits of manner, old or late,
Of cloth of frieze, and cloth of gold,
Faint echoes that the ages cold
To our warm age send ringing back,
We gather all, we all enfold
In this our Stall of Bric-a-brac.
182
Tales of the Church, and of the State,
Of how men prayed—and how they polled—
We tell; and talk of flies, and bait,
And ancient missals golden-scrolled;
And here, perchance, shall songs be trolled—
Of holidays, when work is slack—
We shall do everything—but scold
In this our Stall of Bric-a-brac.
Of how men prayed—and how they polled—
We tell; and talk of flies, and bait,
And ancient missals golden-scrolled;
And here, perchance, shall songs be trolled—
Of holidays, when work is slack—
We shall do everything—but scold
In this our Stall of Bric-a-brac.
Envoy
Then come, ye merry buyers bold,What is't ye seek? what is't ye lack?
We've many wares, and manifold,
In this our Stall of Bric-à-brac!
183
Ballade of Literary Fame
‘All these for fourpence.’
Oh, where are the endless romances
Our grandmothers used to adore?
The knights with their helms and their lances,
Their shields and the favours they wore?
And the monks with their magical lore?
They have passed to oblivion and nox,
They have fled to the shadowy shore,—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Our grandmothers used to adore?
The knights with their helms and their lances,
Their shields and the favours they wore?
And the monks with their magical lore?
They have passed to oblivion and nox,
They have fled to the shadowy shore,—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
And where the poetical fancies
Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?
The lyric's melodious expanses,
The epics in cantos a score
They have been and are not: no more
Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,
Nor the ladies their languors deplore—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore?
The lyric's melodious expanses,
The epics in cantos a score
They have been and are not: no more
Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks,
Nor the ladies their languors deplore—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
184
And the music? The songs and the dances?
The tunes that time may not restore?
And the tomes where divinity prances?
And the pamphlets where heretics roar?
They have ceased to be even a bore—
The divine, and the sceptic who mocks—
They are ‘cropped’, they are ‘foxed’ to the core—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
The tunes that time may not restore?
And the tomes where divinity prances?
And the pamphlets where heretics roar?
They have ceased to be even a bore—
The divine, and the sceptic who mocks—
They are ‘cropped’, they are ‘foxed’ to the core—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
Envoy
Suns beat on them; tempests downpour,On the chest without cover or locks,
Where they lie by the bookseller's door—
They are all in the Fourpenny Box!
185
Ballade of the Primitive Jest
‘What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at before the tall blonde
Aryan drove him into the corners of Europe?’—
Brander Matthews.
I am an ancient Jest!
Palaeolithic man
In his arboreal nest
The sparks of fun would fan;
My outline did he plan,
And laughed like one possessed,
'Twas thus my course began,
I am a Merry Jest!
Palaeolithic man
In his arboreal nest
The sparks of fun would fan;
My outline did he plan,
And laughed like one possessed,
'Twas thus my course began,
I am a Merry Jest!
I am an early Jest!
Man delved, and built, and span;
Then wandered south and west
The peoples Aryan,
I journeyed in their van;
The Semites, too, confessed,—
From Beersheba to Dan,—
I am a Merry Jest!
Man delved, and built, and span;
Then wandered south and west
The peoples Aryan,
I journeyed in their van;
The Semites, too, confessed,—
From Beersheba to Dan,—
I am a Merry Jest!
186
I am an ancient Jest,
Through all the human clan,
Red, black, white, free, oppressed,
Hilarious I ran!
I'm found in Lucian,
In Poggio, and the rest,
I'm dear to Moll and Nan!
I am a Merry Jest!
Through all the human clan,
Red, black, white, free, oppressed,
Hilarious I ran!
I'm found in Lucian,
In Poggio, and the rest,
I'm dear to Moll and Nan!
I am a Merry Jest!
Envoy
Prince, you may storm and ban—Joe Millers are a pest,
Suppress me if you can!
I am a Merry Jest!
187
Ballade of Sleep
The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower, and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower, and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow,
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow,
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
188
What cause hast thou to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labour(e`)d
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labour(e`)d
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red,
Where thy still gardens grow,
And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Envoy
Prince, ere the dark be shredBy golden shafts, ere low
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft-footed as the snow,
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
189
Ballade of the Girton Girl
She has just ‘put her gown on’ at Girton,
She is learned in Latin and Greek,
But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on
That the prudish remark with a shriek.
In her accents, perhaps, she is weak
(Ladies are, one observes with a sigh),
And in Algebra—there she's unique,
But her forte's to evaluate π.
She is learned in Latin and Greek,
But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on
That the prudish remark with a shriek.
In her accents, perhaps, she is weak
(Ladies are, one observes with a sigh),
And in Algebra—there she's unique,
But her forte's to evaluate π.
She can talk about putting a ‘spirt on’
(I admit, an unmaidenly freak),
And she dearly delighteth to flirt on
A punt in some shadowy creek.
Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak,
She can swim as a swallow can fly;
She can fence, she can putt with a cleek,
But her forte's to evaluate π.
(I admit, an unmaidenly freak),
And she dearly delighteth to flirt on
A punt in some shadowy creek.
Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak,
She can swim as a swallow can fly;
She can fence, she can putt with a cleek,
But her forte's to evaluate π.
190
She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton,
Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,
Old tiles with the secular dirt on,
Old marbles with noses to seek.
And her Cobet she quotes by the week,
And she's written on χεν and on χχι,
And her service is swift and oblique,
But her forte's to evaluate π.
Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,
Old tiles with the secular dirt on,
Old marbles with noses to seek.
And her Cobet she quotes by the week,
And she's written on χεν and on χχι,
And her service is swift and oblique,
But her forte's to evaluate π.
Envoy
Princess, like a rose is her cheek,And her eyes are as blue as the sky,
And I'd speak, had I courage to speak,
But—her forte's to evaluate π.
191
Ballade of the Penitents
[_]
‘Le repentir de leur premier choix les rend des Penitens du Diable, comme dit Tertullien.’— Pascal, Pensées, 1672, p. 178.
‘Oh, who be ye thus doubtful led
And listless through the glad array
With languid look, with drooping head,
In all this rout of ladies gay?
Ye walk with them, but not as they,
Ye tarry sadly in their tents,
Why fare ye thus half-hearted, say?’—
‘We are St. Satan's Penitents!
And listless through the glad array
With languid look, with drooping head,
In all this rout of ladies gay?
Ye walk with them, but not as they,
Ye tarry sadly in their tents,
Why fare ye thus half-hearted, say?’—
‘We are St. Satan's Penitents!
‘A straiter path we once would tread,
Through wilds that knew not of the may;
The loads that weighed on us like lead
We bore through thorns and sloughs of clay.
No time had we to pause or play
With music of glad instruments,
But still we clambered: Well-a-day!
We are St. Satan's Penitents!
Through wilds that knew not of the may;
The loads that weighed on us like lead
We bore through thorns and sloughs of clay.
No time had we to pause or play
With music of glad instruments,
But still we clambered: Well-a-day!
We are St. Satan's Penitents!
192
“The path is over steep,” we said,
“The rueful skies are ashen gray,
And over harshly are we sped,
Still upwards! Ne'er a stop nor stay.”
We cast our burdens all away,
We fled adown the steep ascents,
We were aweary of that way;
We are St. Satan's Penitents.'
“The rueful skies are ashen gray,
And over harshly are we sped,
Still upwards! Ne'er a stop nor stay.”
We cast our burdens all away,
We fled adown the steep ascents,
We were aweary of that way;
We are St. Satan's Penitents.'
Envoy
Fair is the path and bright the day,Where now we whisper our laments;
With backward glance we go astray,
We are St. Satan's Penitents.
193
Ballade to Theocritus, in Winter
Ah! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar
Of London, and the bustling street,
For still, by the Sicilian shore,
The murmur of the Muse is sweet.
Still, still, the suns of summer greet
The mountain-grave of Helikê,
And shepherds still their songs repeat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.
Of London, and the bustling street,
For still, by the Sicilian shore,
The murmur of the Muse is sweet.
Still, still, the suns of summer greet
The mountain-grave of Helikê,
And shepherds still their songs repeat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.
What though they worship Pan no more
That guarded once the shepherd's seat,
They chatter of their rustic lore,
They watch the wind among the wheat:
Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat,
Where whispers pine to cypress tree;
They count the waves that idly beat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.
That guarded once the shepherd's seat,
They chatter of their rustic lore,
They watch the wind among the wheat:
Cicalas chirp, the young lambs bleat,
Where whispers pine to cypress tree;
They count the waves that idly beat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.
194
Theocritus! thou canst restore
The pleasant years, and over-fleet;
With thee we live as men of yore,
We rest where running waters meet:
And then we turn unwilling feet
And seek the world—so must it be—
We may not linger in the heat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!
The pleasant years, and over-fleet;
With thee we live as men of yore,
We rest where running waters meet:
And then we turn unwilling feet
And seek the world—so must it be—
We may not linger in the heat
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!
Envoy
Master—when rain, and snow, and sleetAnd northern winds are wild, to thee
We come, we rest in thy retreat,
Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea!
195
Ballade of Difficult Rhymes
With certain rhymes 'tis hard to deal;
For ‘silver’ we have ne'er a rhyme.
On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel)
The bard has slipped full many a time.
With ‘babe’ there's scarce a sound will chime,
Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove;
But, ye that on Parnassus climb,
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
For ‘silver’ we have ne'er a rhyme.
On ‘orange’ (as on orange peel)
The bard has slipped full many a time.
With ‘babe’ there's scarce a sound will chime,
Though ‘astrolabe’ fits like a glove;
But, ye that on Parnassus climb,
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
A rhyme to ‘cusp’, to beg or steal,
I've sought from evensong to prime;
But vain is my poetic zeal,
There's not one sound is worth a ‘dime’:
‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ ‘window’—deeds of crime
I'd do to gain the rhymes thereof;
Nor shrink from acts of moral grime—
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
I've sought from evensong to prime;
But vain is my poetic zeal,
There's not one sound is worth a ‘dime’:
‘Bilge,’ ‘coif,’ ‘scarf,’ ‘window’—deeds of crime
I'd do to gain the rhymes thereof;
Nor shrink from acts of moral grime—
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
196
To ‘dove’ my fancies flit, and wheel
Like butterflies on banks of thyme.
‘Above’?—or ‘shove’?—alas! I feel,
They're too much used to be sublime.
I scorn with angry pantomime,
The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as muv)
Ah, in Apollo's golden clime
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
Like butterflies on banks of thyme.
‘Above’?—or ‘shove’?—alas! I feel,
They're too much used to be sublime.
I scorn with angry pantomime,
The thought of ‘move’ (pronounced as muv)
Ah, in Apollo's golden clime
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
Envoy
Prince of the lute and lyre, revealNew rhymes, fresh-minted, from above,
Nor still be deaf to our appeal,
Why, why are rhymes so rare to love?
197
Ballade of Blue China
There's a joy without canker or cark,
There's a pleasure eternally new,
'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark
Of china that's ancient and blue;
Unchipp'd all the centuries through
It has pass'd, since the chime of it rang,
And they fashion'd it, figure and hue,
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
There's a pleasure eternally new,
'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark
Of china that's ancient and blue;
Unchipp'd all the centuries through
It has pass'd, since the chime of it rang,
And they fashion'd it, figure and hue,
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
These dragons (their tails, you remark,
Into bunches of gillyflowers grew);
When Noah came out of the ark,
Did these lie in wait for his crew?
They snorted, they snapp'd, and they slew,
They were mighty of fin and of fang,
And their portraits Celestials drew
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
Into bunches of gillyflowers grew);
When Noah came out of the ark,
Did these lie in wait for his crew?
They snorted, they snapp'd, and they slew,
They were mighty of fin and of fang,
And their portraits Celestials drew
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
198
Here's a pot with a cot in a park,
In a park where the peach-blossoms blew;
Where the lovers eloped in the dark,
Lived, died, and were changed into two
Bright birds that eternally flew
Through the boughs of the may, as they sang;
'Tis a tale was undoubtedly true
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
In a park where the peach-blossoms blew;
Where the lovers eloped in the dark,
Lived, died, and were changed into two
Bright birds that eternally flew
Through the boughs of the may, as they sang;
'Tis a tale was undoubtedly true
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
Envoy
Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do!Kind critic, your ‘tongue has a tang’;
But—a sage never heeded a shrew
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
199
Ballade of Middle Age
Our youth began with tears and sighs,
With seeking what we could not find;
Our verses all were threnodies,
In elegiacs still we whined;
Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,
We sought and knew not what we sought.
We marvel, now we look behind:
Life's more amusing than we thought!
With seeking what we could not find;
Our verses all were threnodies,
In elegiacs still we whined;
Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,
We sought and knew not what we sought.
We marvel, now we look behind:
Life's more amusing than we thought!
Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!
Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!
What? not content with seas and skies,
With rainy clouds and southern wind,
With common cares and faces kind,
With pains and joys each morning brought?
Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find
Life's more amusing than we thought!
Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind!
What? not content with seas and skies,
With rainy clouds and southern wind,
With common cares and faces kind,
With pains and joys each morning brought?
Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find
Life's more amusing than we thought!
200
Though youth ‘turns spectre-thin and dies’,
To mourn for youth we're not inclined;
We set our souls on salmon flies,
We whistle where we once repined.
Confound the woes of human-kind!
By Heaven we're well deceived, I wot;
Who hum, contented or resigned,
‘Life's more amusing than we thought’!
To mourn for youth we're not inclined;
We set our souls on salmon flies,
We whistle where we once repined.
Confound the woes of human-kind!
By Heaven we're well deceived, I wot;
Who hum, contented or resigned,
‘Life's more amusing than we thought’!
Envoy
O nate mecum, worn and linedOur faces show, but that is naught;
Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind:
Life's more amusing than we thought!
201
Ballade of the Voyage to Cythera
After Théodore De Banville
I know Cythera long is desolate;
I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.
Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight
A barren reef lies where love's flowers have been,
Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!
So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,
To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,
To wander where love's labyrinths beguile;
There let us land, there dream for evermore:
‘It may be we shall touch the happy isle.’
I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.
Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight
A barren reef lies where love's flowers have been,
Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!
So be it, but we seek a fabled shore,
To lull our vague desires with mystic lore,
To wander where love's labyrinths beguile;
There let us land, there dream for evermore:
‘It may be we shall touch the happy isle.’
The sea may be our sepulchre. If fate,
If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene
We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate
Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.
Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen
That veils the fairy coast we would explore.
Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar;
Come, for the air of this old world is vile,
Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;
‘It may be we shall touch the happy isle.’
If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene
We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate
Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.
Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen
That veils the fairy coast we would explore.
Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar;
Come, for the air of this old world is vile,
Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar;
‘It may be we shall touch the happy isle.’
202
Gray serpents trail in temples desecrate
Where Cypris smiled—the golden maid—the queen—
And ruined is the palace of our state;
But happy loves flit round the mast, and keen
The shrill wind sings the silken cords between.
Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore,
Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar;
Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile;
Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore:
‘It may be we shall touch the happy isle!’
Where Cypris smiled—the golden maid—the queen—
And ruined is the palace of our state;
But happy loves flit round the mast, and keen
The shrill wind sings the silken cords between.
Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore,
Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar;
Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile;
Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore:
‘It may be we shall touch the happy isle!’
Envoy
Sad eyes, the blue sea laughs, as heretofore;Ah, singing birds, your happy music pour!
Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile;
Fill to these ancient gods we still adore;
‘It may be, we shall touch the happy isle!’
203
Ballade of Aucassin
Where smooth the southern waters run
Through rustling leagues of poplars gray,
Beneath a veiled soft southern sun,
We wandered out of yesterday—
Went maying in that ancient May
Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,
And loitered by the fountain spray
With Aucassin and Nicolete.
Through rustling leagues of poplars gray,
Beneath a veiled soft southern sun,
We wandered out of yesterday—
Went maying in that ancient May
Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet,
And loitered by the fountain spray
With Aucassin and Nicolete.
The grass-grown paths are trod of none
Where through the woods they went astray;
The spider's traceries are spun
Across the darkling forest way;
There come no knights that ride to slay,
No pilgrims through the grasses wet,
No shepherd lads that sang their say
With Aucassin and Nicolete!
Where through the woods they went astray;
The spider's traceries are spun
Across the darkling forest way;
There come no knights that ride to slay,
No pilgrims through the grasses wet,
No shepherd lads that sang their say
With Aucassin and Nicolete!
204
'Twas here by Nicolete begun
Her lodge of boughs and grasses gay;
'Scaped from the cell of marble dun
'Twas here the lover found the fay,
O, lovers fond! O, foolish play!
How hard we find it to forget
Who fain would dwell with them as they,
With Aucassin and Nicolete.
Her lodge of boughs and grasses gay;
'Scaped from the cell of marble dun
'Twas here the lover found the fay,
O, lovers fond! O, foolish play!
How hard we find it to forget
Who fain would dwell with them as they,
With Aucassin and Nicolete.
Envoy
Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay!For youth, for life we both regret!
How fair they seem how far away;
With Aucassin and Nicolete!
205
Ballade of a Friar
[_]
(Clement Marot's Frère Lubin, though translated by Longfellow and others, has not hitherto been rendered into the original measure of ballade à double refrain.)
Some ten or twenty times a day
To bustle to the town with speed,
To dabble in what dirt he may—
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
But any sober life to lead
Upon an exemplary plan,
Requires a Christian indeed—
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
To bustle to the town with speed,
To dabble in what dirt he may—
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
But any sober life to lead
Upon an exemplary plan,
Requires a Christian indeed—
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
Another's wealth on his to lay,
With all the craft of guile and greed,
To leave you bare of pence or pay—
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
But watch him with the closest heed,
And dun him with what force you can—
He'll not refund, howe'er you plead—
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
With all the craft of guile and greed,
To leave you bare of pence or pay—
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
But watch him with the closest heed,
And dun him with what force you can—
He'll not refund, howe'er you plead—
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
206
An honest girl to lead astray,
With subtle saw and promised meed,
Requires no cunning crone and gray—
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
He preaches an ascetic creed,
But—try him with the water can—
A dog will drink, whate'er his breed—
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
With subtle saw and promised meed,
Requires no cunning crone and gray—
Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
He preaches an ascetic creed,
But—try him with the water can—
A dog will drink, whate'er his breed—
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
Envoy
In good to fail, in ill succeed,Le Frère Lubin's the man you need!
In honest works to lead the van,
Le Frère Lubin is not the man!
207
Ballade of Neglected Merit
I have scribbled in verse and in prose,
I have painted ‘arrangements in greens’,
And my name is familiar to those
Who take in the high-class magazines.
I compose; I've invented machines;
I have written an ‘Essay on rhyme’;
For my county I played, in my teens,
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
I have painted ‘arrangements in greens’,
And my name is familiar to those
Who take in the high-class magazines.
I compose; I've invented machines;
I have written an ‘Essay on rhyme’;
For my county I played, in my teens,
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
I have lived, as a chief, with the Crows;
I have ‘interviewed’ princes and queens;
I have climbed the Caucasian snows;
I abstain, like the ancients, from beans—
I've a guess what Pythagoras means
When he says that to eat them's a crime—
I have lectured upon the Essenes,
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
I have ‘interviewed’ princes and queens;
I have climbed the Caucasian snows;
I abstain, like the ancients, from beans—
I've a guess what Pythagoras means
When he says that to eat them's a crime—
I have lectured upon the Essenes,
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
208
I've a fancy as morbid as Poe's,
I can tell what is meant by ‘shebeens’,
I have breasted the river that flows
Through the land of the wild Gadarenes;
I can gossip with Burton on skenes,
I can imitate Irving (the Mime),
And my sketches are quainter than Keene's;
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
I can tell what is meant by ‘shebeens’,
I have breasted the river that flows
Through the land of the wild Gadarenes;
I can gossip with Burton on skenes,
I can imitate Irving (the Mime),
And my sketches are quainter than Keene's;
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
Envoy
So the tower of mine eminence leansLike the Pisan, and mud is its lime;
I'm acquainted with dukes and with deans—
But—I am not in ‘Men of the Time!’
N.B.—There is only one veracious statement in this ballade, which must not be accepted as autobiographical.
209
Ballade of Autumn
We built a castle in the air,
In summer weather, you and I;
The wind and sun were in your hair—
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh—
My love returns no more again!
In summer weather, you and I;
The wind and sun were in your hair—
Gold hair against a sapphire sky:
When autumn came, with leaves that fly
Before the storm, across the plain,
You fled from me, with scarce a sigh—
My love returns no more again!
The windy lights of autumn flare:
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
‘My love returns no more again!’
I watch the moonlit sails go by;
I marvel how men toil and fare,
The weary business that they ply!
Their voyaging is vanity,
And fairy gold is all their gain,
And all the winds of winter cry,
‘My love returns no more again!’
210
Here, in my castle of despair,
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy—
My love returns no more again!
I sit alone with memory;
The wind-fed wolf has left his lair,
To keep the outcast company.
The brooding owl he hoots hard by,
The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane,
The Rhymer's soothest prophecy—
My love returns no more again!
Envoy
Lady, my home until I dieIs here, where youth and hope were slain:
They flit, the ghosts of our July,
My love returns no more again!
211
Ballade of True Wisdom
While others are asking for beauty or fame,
Or praying to know that for which they should pray,
Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,
Or chasing the Muses the weary and gray,
The sage has found out a more excellent way—
To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,
And his humble petition puts up day by day,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Or praying to know that for which they should pray,
Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame,
Or chasing the Muses the weary and gray,
The sage has found out a more excellent way—
To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers,
And his humble petition puts up day by day,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Inventors may bow to the god that is lame,
And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;
Philosophers kneel to the god without name,
Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;
The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,
The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;
But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray;
Philosophers kneel to the god without name,
Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they;
The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay,
The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours;
But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
212
Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame!
(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day
With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!
Oh, grant me a house by the beach of a bay,
Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play
With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!
And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
(As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day
With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)!
Oh, grant me a house by the beach of a bay,
Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play
With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers!
And I'd leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray,
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
Envoy
Gods, give or withhold it; your ‘yea’ and your ‘nay’Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours:
But life is worth living, and here we would stay
For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.
213
Valentine in Form of Ballade
The soft wind from the south land sped,
He set his strength to blow,
From forests where Adonis bled,
And lily flowers a-row:
He crossed the straits like streams that flow,
The ocean dark as wine,
To my true love to whisper low,
To be your Valentine.
He set his strength to blow,
From forests where Adonis bled,
And lily flowers a-row:
He crossed the straits like streams that flow,
The ocean dark as wine,
To my true love to whisper low,
To be your Valentine.
The spring half-raised her drowsy head,
Besprent with drifted snow,
‘I'll send an April day’, she said,
‘To lands of wintry woe’.
He came—the winter's overthrow—
With showers that sing and shine;
Pied daisies round your path to strow,
To be your Valentine.
Besprent with drifted snow,
‘I'll send an April day’, she said,
‘To lands of wintry woe’.
He came—the winter's overthrow—
With showers that sing and shine;
Pied daisies round your path to strow,
To be your Valentine.
214
Where sands of Egypt, swart and red,
'Neath suns Egyptian glow,
In places of the princely dead,
By the Nile's overflow,
The swallow preened her wings to go,
And for the north did pine,
And fain would brave the frost her foe,
To be your Valentine.
'Neath suns Egyptian glow,
In places of the princely dead,
By the Nile's overflow,
The swallow preened her wings to go,
And for the north did pine,
And fain would brave the frost her foe,
To be your Valentine.
Envoy
Spring, swallow, south wind, even so,Their various voice combine;
But that they crave on me bestow—
To be your Valentine.
215
Ballade of Old Plays
La Cour
When these old plays were new, the King,Beside the Cardinal's chair,
Applauded, 'mid the courtly ring,
The verses of Molière.
Point-lace was then the only wear,
Old Corneille came to woo,
And bright Du Parc was young and fair,
When these old plays were new!
La Comédie
How shrill the butcher's cat-calls ring,How loud the lackeys swear!
Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling,
At Brécourt, fuming there!
The porter's stabbed! a Mousquetaire
Breaks in with noisy crew—
'Twas all a commonplace affair
When these old plays were new!
216
La Ville
When these old plays were new! They bringA host of phantoms rare:
Old jests that float, old jibes that sting,
Old faces peaked with care:
Ménage's smirk, de Visé's stare,
The thefts of Jean Ribou—
Ah, publishers were hard to bear
When these old plays were new.
Envoy
Ghosts, at your poet's word ye dareTo break death's dungeons through;
And frisk, as in that golden air,
When these old plays were new!
217
Ballade of Life
Say, fair maids, maying
In gardens green,
In deep dells straying,
What end hath been
Two Mays between
Of the flowers that shone
And your own sweet queen—
‘They are dead and gone!’
In gardens green,
In deep dells straying,
What end hath been
Two Mays between
Of the flowers that shone
And your own sweet queen—
‘They are dead and gone!’
Say, grave priests, praying
In dule and teen,
From cells decaying—
What have ye seen
Of the proud and mean?
Of Judas and John,
Of the foul and clean?—
‘They are dead and gone!’
In dule and teen,
From cells decaying—
What have ye seen
Of the proud and mean?
Of Judas and John,
Of the foul and clean?—
‘They are dead and gone!’
218
Say, kings, arraying
Loud wars to win—
Of your manslaying
What gain ye glean?
‘They are fierce and keen,
But they fall anon,
On the swords that lean—
They are dead and gone!’
Loud wars to win—
Of your manslaying
What gain ye glean?
‘They are fierce and keen,
But they fall anon,
On the swords that lean—
They are dead and gone!’
Envoy
Through the mad world's scene,We are drifting on,
To this tune, I ween,
‘They are dead and gone!’
219
Ballade of the Southern Cross
Fair islands of the silver fleece,
Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,
Whose havens are the haunts of peace,
Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;
Our bolt is shot, our tale is told,
Our ship of state in storms may toss;
But ye are young, if we are old,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,
Whose havens are the haunts of peace,
Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;
Our bolt is shot, our tale is told,
Our ship of state in storms may toss;
But ye are young, if we are old,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
Ah, we must dwindle and decrease,
Such fates the ruthless years unfold;
And yet we shall not wholly cease,
We shall not perish unconsoled;
Nay, still shall freedom keep her hold
Within the sea's inviolate fosse,
And boast her sons of English mould,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
Such fates the ruthless years unfold;
And yet we shall not wholly cease,
We shall not perish unconsoled;
Nay, still shall freedom keep her hold
Within the sea's inviolate fosse,
And boast her sons of English mould,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
220
All empires tumble—Rome and Greece—
Their swords are rust, their altars cold!
For us, the children of the seas,
Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled,
For us, in fortune's books enscrolled,
I read no runes of hopeless loss;
Nor—while ye last—our knell is tolled,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
Their swords are rust, their altars cold!
For us, the children of the seas,
Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled,
For us, in fortune's books enscrolled,
I read no runes of hopeless loss;
Nor—while ye last—our knell is tolled,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
Envoy
Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold,When o'er thy grave has grown the moss,
Still Rule Australia shall be trolled
In Islands of the Southern Cross!
221
Double Ballade of Primitive Man
To J. A. F.
He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
And his list of forbidden degrees,
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose—
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.
He lived upon oysters and foes,
And his list of forbidden degrees,
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose—
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.
He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,
He worshipp'd the river that flows,
And the dawn, and the moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked-up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose—
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.
He worshipp'd the river that flows,
And the dawn, and the moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked-up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose—
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man.
222
His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his state had a queen, like the bees;
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke, it was never in prose,
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his state had a queen, like the bees;
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke, it was never in prose,
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
On the coasts that incessantly freeze,
With his stones, and his bones, and his bows;
On luxuriant tropical leas,
Where the summer eternally glows,
He is found, and his habits disclose
(Let theology say what she can)
That he lived in the long, long agos,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
With his stones, and his bones, and his bows;
On luxuriant tropical leas,
Where the summer eternally glows,
He is found, and his habits disclose
(Let theology say what she can)
That he lived in the long, long agos,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
From a status like that of the Crees,
Our society's fabric arose—
Develop'd, evolved, if you please,
But deluded chronologists chose,
In a fancied accordance with Mos
es, 4000 B.C. for the span
When he rushed on the world and its woes—
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
Our society's fabric arose—
Develop'd, evolved, if you please,
But deluded chronologists chose,
In a fancied accordance with Mos
es, 4000 B.C. for the span
When he rushed on the world and its woes—
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
223
But the mild anthropologist—he's
Not recent inclined to suppose
Flints palæolithic like these,
Quaternary bones such as those!
In rhinoceros, mammoth and co.'s,
First epoch, the human began,
Theologians all to expose—
'Tis the mission of Primitive Man.
Not recent inclined to suppose
Flints palæolithic like these,
Quaternary bones such as those!
In rhinoceros, mammoth and co.'s,
First epoch, the human began,
Theologians all to expose—
'Tis the mission of Primitive Man.
Envoy
Max, proudly your Aryans pose,But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,
For, as every Darwinian knows,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
224
Ballade of the Dream
Swift as sound of music fled
When no more the organ sighs;
Sped as all old days are sped,
So your lips, love, and your eyes,
So your gentle-voiced replies
Mine one hour in sleep that seem,
Rise and flit when slumber flies,
Following darkness like a dream!
When no more the organ sighs;
Sped as all old days are sped,
So your lips, love, and your eyes,
So your gentle-voiced replies
Mine one hour in sleep that seem,
Rise and flit when slumber flies,
Following darkness like a dream!
Like the scent from roses red,
Like the dawn from golden skies,
Like the semblance of the dead
From the living love that hies;
Like the shifting shade that lies
On the moonlight-silvered stream,
So you rise when dreams arise,
Following darkness like a dream!
Like the dawn from golden skies,
Like the semblance of the dead
From the living love that hies;
Like the shifting shade that lies
On the moonlight-silvered stream,
So you rise when dreams arise,
Following darkness like a dream!
225
Could some spell, or sung or said,
Could some kindly witch and wise,
Lull for aye this dreaming head
In a mist of memories,
I would lie like him who lies
Where the lights on Latmos gleam,—
Wake not, find not Paradise
Following darkness like a dream!
Could some kindly witch and wise,
Lull for aye this dreaming head
In a mist of memories,
I would lie like him who lies
Where the lights on Latmos gleam,—
Wake not, find not Paradise
Following darkness like a dream!
Envoy
Sleep, that giv'st what Life denies,Shadowy bounties and supreme,
Bring the dearest face that flies
Following darkness like a dream!
226
Ballade of Queen Anne
The modish Airs,
The tansey brew,
The Swains and Fairs
In curtained pew;
Nymphs Kneller drew,
Books Bentley read,—
Who knows them, who?
Queen Anne is dead!
The tansey brew,
The Swains and Fairs
In curtained pew;
Nymphs Kneller drew,
Books Bentley read,—
Who knows them, who?
Queen Anne is dead!
We buy her chairs,
Her china blue;
Her red-brick squares
We build anew;
But ah! we rue,
When all is said,
The tale o'er-true,
Queen Anne is dead!
Her china blue;
Her red-brick squares
We build anew;
But ah! we rue,
When all is said,
The tale o'er-true,
Queen Anne is dead!
227
Now Bulls and Bears,
A ruffling crew,
With stocks and shares,
With Turk and Jew,
Go bubbling through
The town ill-bred:
The world's askew,
Queen Anne is dead!
A ruffling crew,
With stocks and shares,
With Turk and Jew,
Go bubbling through
The town ill-bred:
The world's askew,
Queen Anne is dead!
Envoy
Friend, praise the new;The old is fled:
Vivat Frou-Frou!
Queen Anne is dead!
228
Ballade of the Real and Ideal
Ovisions of salmon tremendous,
Of trout of unusual weight,
Of waters that wander as Ken does,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the skies that bring never a ‘spate’,
But the flies that catch up in a thorn,
But the creel that is barren of freight,
Through the portals of horn!
Of trout of unusual weight,
Of waters that wander as Ken does,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the skies that bring never a ‘spate’,
But the flies that catch up in a thorn,
But the creel that is barren of freight,
Through the portals of horn!
O dreams of the fates that attend us
With prints in the earliest state!
O bargains in books that they send us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the tome that has never a mate,
But the quarto that's tattered and torn,
And bereft of a title and date,
Through the portals of horn!
With prints in the earliest state!
O bargains in books that they send us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the tome that has never a mate,
But the quarto that's tattered and torn,
And bereft of a title and date,
Through the portals of horn!
229
O dreams of the tongues that commend us,
Of crowns for the laureate pate,
Of a public to buy and befriend us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the critics that slash us and slate,
But the people that hold us in scorn,
But the sorrow, the scathe, and the hate,
Through the portals of horn!
Of crowns for the laureate pate,
Of a public to buy and befriend us,
Ye come through the Ivory Gate!
But the critics that slash us and slate,
But the people that hold us in scorn,
But the sorrow, the scathe, and the hate,
Through the portals of horn!
Envoy
Fair dreams of things golden and great,Ye come through the Ivory Gate;
But the facts that are bleak and forlorn,
Through the portals of horn!
‘Slate’ is a professional term for a severe criticism. Clearly the word is originally ‘slat’, a narrow board of wood with which a person might be beaten.
This was the note in earlier editions, but, in the Athenaeum, October 31, 1891, Mr. Skeat gives another derivation, and insists that from his verdict only dull and ignorant people can differ. ον) φροντις 'ιπποχλειδη.
230
Ballade of Yule
This
life's most jolly, Amiens said,
Heigh-ho, the holly! So sang he.
As the good duke was comforted
In forest exile, so may we!
The years may darken as they flee,
And Christmas bring his melancholy:
But round the old mahogany tree
We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the holly!
Heigh-ho, the holly! So sang he.
As the good duke was comforted
In forest exile, so may we!
The years may darken as they flee,
And Christmas bring his melancholy:
But round the old mahogany tree
We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the holly!
Though some are dead and some are fled
To lands of summer over sea,
The holly berry keeps his red,
The merry children keep their glee;
They hoard with artless secrecy
This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,
And Santa Claus he turns the key
On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the holly!
To lands of summer over sea,
The holly berry keeps his red,
The merry children keep their glee;
They hoard with artless secrecy
This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,
And Santa Claus he turns the key
On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the holly!
231
Amid the snow the birds are fed,
The snow lies deep on lawn and lea;
The skies are shining overhead,
The robin's tame that was so free.
Far north, at home, the ‘barley bree’
They brew; they give the hour to folly,
How ‘Rab and Allan came to pree’,
They sing, we sing, Heigh-ho, the holly!
The snow lies deep on lawn and lea;
The skies are shining overhead,
The robin's tame that was so free.
Far north, at home, the ‘barley bree’
They brew; they give the hour to folly,
How ‘Rab and Allan came to pree’,
They sing, we sing, Heigh-ho, the holly!
Envoy
Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!
It is a duty so to be,
Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the holly!
232
Ballade against the Jesuits
After La Fontaine
Rome does right well to censure all the vain
Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach
That earthly joys are damnable! 'Tis plain
We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach;
No, amble on! We'll gain it, one and all;
The narrow path's a dream fantastical,
And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven
Mirth from the world. We'll scale the heavenly wall;
Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach
That earthly joys are damnable! 'Tis plain
We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach;
No, amble on! We'll gain it, one and all;
The narrow path's a dream fantastical,
And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven
Mirth from the world. We'll scale the heavenly wall;
Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
He does not hold a man may well be slain
Who vexes with unseasonable speech,
You may do murder for five ducats gain,
Not for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach;
He ventures (most consistently) to teach
That there are certain cases that befall
When perjury need no good man appal,
And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven.
Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl,
‘Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!’
Who vexes with unseasonable speech,
You may do murder for five ducats gain,
Not for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach;
He ventures (most consistently) to teach
That there are certain cases that befall
When perjury need no good man appal,
And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven.
Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl,
‘Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!’
233
‘For God's sake read me somewhat in the strain
Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!’
Why should I name them all? a mighty train—
So many, none may know the name of each.
Make these your compass to the heavenly beach,
These only in your library install:
Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small,
Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven;
I tell you, and the common voice doth call,
Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!’
Why should I name them all? a mighty train—
So many, none may know the name of each.
Make these your compass to the heavenly beach,
These only in your library install:
Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small,
Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven;
I tell you, and the common voice doth call,
Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
Envoy
Satan, that pride did hurry to thy fall,Thou porter of the grim infernal hall—
Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven!
To shun thy shafts, to 'scape thy hellish thrall,
Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
234
Ballade of Dead Cities
To E. W. G.
The dust of Carthage and the dust
Of Babel on the desert wold,
The loves of Corinth, and the lust,
Orchomenos increased with gold;
The town of Jason, over-bold,
And Cherson, smitten in her prime—
What are they but a dream half-told?
Where are the cities of old time?
Of Babel on the desert wold,
The loves of Corinth, and the lust,
Orchomenos increased with gold;
The town of Jason, over-bold,
And Cherson, smitten in her prime—
What are they but a dream half-told?
Where are the cities of old time?
In towns that were a kingdom's trust,
In dim Atlantic forests' fold,
The marble wasteth to a crust,
The granite crumbles into mould;
O'er these—left nameless from of old—
As over Shinar's brick and slime,
One vast forgetfulness is roll'd—
Where are the cities of old time?
In dim Atlantic forests' fold,
The marble wasteth to a crust,
The granite crumbles into mould;
O'er these—left nameless from of old—
As over Shinar's brick and slime,
One vast forgetfulness is roll'd—
Where are the cities of old time?
235
The lapse of ages, and the rust,
The fire, the frost, the waters cold,
Efface the evil and the just;
From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,
To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd
Beneath the wave a dreamy chime,
That echo'd from the mountain-hold—
‘Where are the cities of old time?’
The fire, the frost, the waters cold,
Efface the evil and the just;
From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold,
To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd
Beneath the wave a dreamy chime,
That echo'd from the mountain-hold—
‘Where are the cities of old time?’
Envoy
Prince, all thy towns and cities mustDecay as these, till all their crime,
And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust
Where are the cities of old time.
236
Ballade of the Wicked Earl
Had I been ‘in the purple born’
(As Ouida loves to say),
I'd treat morality with scorn,
And live uncommon gay:
My bills, of course, I ne'er would pay,
At creditors I'd sneer,
What ‘hecatombs of doves’ I'd slay,
Had I been born a peer!
(As Ouida loves to say),
I'd treat morality with scorn,
And live uncommon gay:
My bills, of course, I ne'er would pay,
At creditors I'd sneer,
What ‘hecatombs of doves’ I'd slay,
Had I been born a peer!
What wreathes of roses I'd have worn,
All drenched with bright tokay!
What maidens from their lovers torn
Had rued their natal day!
What wondrous odds you'd see me lay,
What fences I would clear,
And gold, like dross, I'd fling away,
Had I been born a peer!
All drenched with bright tokay!
What maidens from their lovers torn
Had rued their natal day!
What wondrous odds you'd see me lay,
What fences I would clear,
And gold, like dross, I'd fling away,
Had I been born a peer!
237
And last, grown aged, stern, forlorn,
My gold locks turned to gray;
My crown of roses changed to thorn
I'd end with some display!
Through foeman's ranks I'd cleave my way,
Through Zouave and Cuirassier,
And die where fiercest raged the fray,
Had I been born a peer.
My gold locks turned to gray;
My crown of roses changed to thorn
I'd end with some display!
Through foeman's ranks I'd cleave my way,
Through Zouave and Cuirassier,
And die where fiercest raged the fray,
Had I been born a peer.
Envoy
Ouida, the good old times decay,And even viscounts fear
To play the kind of pranks we'd play
Had I been born a peer,
My dear,
Had I been born a peer!
238
Ballade for the Laureate
Rhyme, in a late disdainful age,
Hath many and many an eager knight;
Each man of them, to print his page,
From every quarter wings his flight!
What tons of manuscripts alight
Here in the Row, how many a while,
For all can rhyme, when all can write—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
Hath many and many an eager knight;
Each man of them, to print his page,
From every quarter wings his flight!
What tons of manuscripts alight
Here in the Row, how many a while,
For all can rhyme, when all can write—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
Like Otus some, with giant rage,
But scarcely with a giant's might,
Ossa on Pelion engage
To pile, and scale Parnassus' height!
And some, with subtle nets and slight,
Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,
And wondrous adjectives unite—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
But scarcely with a giant's might,
Ossa on Pelion engage
To pile, and scale Parnassus' height!
And some, with subtle nets and slight,
Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,
And wondrous adjectives unite—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
239
Alas, the Muse they cannot cage,
These poets in a sorry plight,
Vain is the weary war they wage,
In vain they curse the critic's spite!
While grammar some neglect outright,
While others polish with the file,
Some fate contrives their toil to blight—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
These poets in a sorry plight,
Vain is the weary war they wage,
In vain they curse the critic's spite!
While grammar some neglect outright,
While others polish with the file,
Some fate contrives their toil to blight—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
Envoy
Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright,And Browning, in his iron style,
Doth gold on his rude anvil smite—
The Master's yonder, in the Isle!
240
Ballade of the Midnight Forest
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis though the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray,
Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis though the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky gray,
Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold
The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee;
Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,
The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy;
Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright,
The sudden goddess enters, tall and white,
With one long sigh for summers pass'd away;
The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee;
Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold
Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be,
The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy;
Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright,
The sudden goddess enters, tall and white,
With one long sigh for summers pass'd away;
The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
241
She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold
She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee
Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd,
But her delight is all in archery,
And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
More than her hounds that follow on the flight;
The goddess draws a golden bow of might
And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.
She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee
Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd,
But her delight is all in archery,
And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she
More than her hounds that follow on the flight;
The goddess draws a golden bow of might
And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.
She tosses loose her locks upon the night,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
Envoy
Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite,The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight:
Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray
There is the mystic home of our delight,
And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
242
Ballade of Cleopatra's Needle
Ye giant shades of Ra and Tum,
Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,
If murmurs of our planet come
To exiles in the precincts wan
Where, fetish or Olympian,
To help or harm no more ye list;
Look down, if look ye may, and scan
This monument in London mist!
Ye ghosts of gods Egyptian,
If murmurs of our planet come
To exiles in the precincts wan
Where, fetish or Olympian,
To help or harm no more ye list;
Look down, if look ye may, and scan
This monument in London mist!
Behold, the hieroglyphs are dumb
That once were read of him that ran
When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum
Wild music of the Bull began;
When through the chanting priestly clan
Walk'd Ramses, and the high sun kiss'd
This stone, with blessing scored and ban—
This monument in London mist.
That once were read of him that ran
When seistron, cymbal, trump, and drum
Wild music of the Bull began;
When through the chanting priestly clan
Walk'd Ramses, and the high sun kiss'd
This stone, with blessing scored and ban—
This monument in London mist.
243
The stone endures though gods be numb;
Though human effort, plot, and plan
Be sifted, drifted, like the sum
Of sands in wastes Arabian.
What king may deem him more than man,
What priest says faith can time resist
While this endures to mark their span—
This monument in London mist?
Though human effort, plot, and plan
Be sifted, drifted, like the sum
Of sands in wastes Arabian.
What king may deem him more than man,
What priest says faith can time resist
While this endures to mark their span—
This monument in London mist?
Envoy
Prince, the stone's shade on your divanFalls; it is longer than ye wist:
It preaches, as time's gnomon can,
This monument in London mist!
244
Ballade of Æsthetic Adjectives
There be ‘subtle’ and ‘sweet’, that are bad ones to beat,
There are ‘lives unlovely’, and ‘souls astray’;
There is much to be done yet with ‘moody’ and ‘meet’,
And ‘ghastly’, and ‘grimly’, and ‘gaunt’, and ‘gray’;
We should ever be ‘blithesome’, but never be ‘gay’,
And ‘splendid’ is suited to ‘summer’ and ‘sea’;
‘Consummate’, they say, is enjoying its day—
‘Intense’ is the adjective dearest to me!
There are ‘lives unlovely’, and ‘souls astray’;
There is much to be done yet with ‘moody’ and ‘meet’,
And ‘ghastly’, and ‘grimly’, and ‘gaunt’, and ‘gray’;
We should ever be ‘blithesome’, but never be ‘gay’,
And ‘splendid’ is suited to ‘summer’ and ‘sea’;
‘Consummate’, they say, is enjoying its day—
‘Intense’ is the adjective dearest to me!
The snows and the rose they are ‘windy’ and ‘fleet’,
And ‘frantic’ and ‘faint’ are delight and dismay;
Yea, ‘sanguine’, it seems, as the juice of the beet,
Are ‘the hands of the king’ in a general way:
There be loves that ‘quicken’, and ‘sicken’, and ‘slay’;
‘Supreme’ is the song of the bard of the free;
But of adjectives all that I name in my lay
‘Intense’ is the adjective dearest to me!
And ‘frantic’ and ‘faint’ are delight and dismay;
Yea, ‘sanguine’, it seems, as the juice of the beet,
Are ‘the hands of the king’ in a general way:
There be loves that ‘quicken’, and ‘sicken’, and ‘slay’;
‘Supreme’ is the song of the bard of the free;
But of adjectives all that I name in my lay
‘Intense’ is the adjective dearest to me!
245
The matron intense—let us sit at her feet,
And pelt her with lilies as long as we may;
The maiden intense—is not always discreet:
But the singer intense, in his ‘singing array’,
Will win all the world with his roundelay:
While ‘blithe’ birds carol from tree to tree,
And art unto nature doth simper, and say—
‘“Intense” is the adjective dearest to me!’
And pelt her with lilies as long as we may;
The maiden intense—is not always discreet:
But the singer intense, in his ‘singing array’,
Will win all the world with his roundelay:
While ‘blithe’ birds carol from tree to tree,
And art unto nature doth simper, and say—
‘“Intense” is the adjective dearest to me!’
Envoy
Prince, it is surely as good as a playTo mark how the poets and painters agree;
But of plumage aesthetic that feathers the jay,
‘Intense’ is the adjective dearest to me!
246
Ballade for a Baby
'Tis distance lends, the poet says,
Enchantment to the view,
And this makes possible the praise
Which I bestow on you.
For babies rosy-pink of hue
I do not always care,
But distance paints the mountains blue,
And Rachel always fair.
Enchantment to the view,
And this makes possible the praise
Which I bestow on you.
For babies rosy-pink of hue
I do not always care,
But distance paints the mountains blue,
And Rachel always fair.
Ah, time! speed on her flying days,
Bring back my youth that flew,
That she may listen to my lays
Where Merton stock-doves coo;
That I may sing afresh, anew,
My songs, now faint and rare,
Time, make me always twenty-two,
And Rachel always fair.
Bring back my youth that flew,
That she may listen to my lays
Where Merton stock-doves coo;
That I may sing afresh, anew,
My songs, now faint and rare,
Time, make me always twenty-two,
And Rachel always fair.
247
Nay, long ago, down dusky ways
Fled Cupid and his crew;
Life brings not back the morning haze,
The dawning and the dew;
And other lips must sigh and sue,
And younger lovers dare
To hint that love is always true,
And Rachel always fair.
Fled Cupid and his crew;
Life brings not back the morning haze,
The dawning and the dew;
And other lips must sigh and sue,
And younger lovers dare
To hint that love is always true,
And Rachel always fair.
Envoy
Princess, let Age bid Youth adieu,Adieu to this despair,
To me, who thus despairing woo,
And Rachel always fair.
On the birth of Rachel, daughter of the Rev. C. H. O. Daniel, of Worcester College, his friends were asked each to write her a poem, which were all bound under the title of The Garland of Rachel.
248
Ballade of the Muse
Quem tu, Melpomene, semel.
The man whom once, Melpomene,
Thou look'st on with benignant sight,
Shall never at the Isthmus be
A boxer eminent in fight,
Nor fares he foremost in the flight
Of Grecian cars to victory,
Nor goes with Delian laurels dight,
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
Thou look'st on with benignant sight,
Shall never at the Isthmus be
A boxer eminent in fight,
Nor fares he foremost in the flight
Of Grecian cars to victory,
Nor goes with Delian laurels dight,
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
Not him the Capitol shall see,
As who hath crush'd the threats and might
Of monarchs, march triumphantly;
But fame shall crown him, in his right
Of all the Roman lyres that smite
The first; so woods of Tivoli
Proclaim him, so her waters bright,
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
As who hath crush'd the threats and might
Of monarchs, march triumphantly;
But fame shall crown him, in his right
Of all the Roman lyres that smite
The first; so woods of Tivoli
Proclaim him, so her waters bright,
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
249
The sons of queenly Rome count me,
Me too, with them whose chants delight
The poets' kindly company;
Now broken is the tooth of spite,
But thou, that temperest aright
The golden lyre, all, all to thee
He owes—life, fame, and fortune's height—
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene—
Me too, with them whose chants delight
The poets' kindly company;
Now broken is the tooth of spite,
But thou, that temperest aright
The golden lyre, all, all to thee
He owes—life, fame, and fortune's height—
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene—
Envoy
Queen, that to mute lips could'st uniteThe wild swan's dying melody—
Thy gifts, ah, how shall he requite—
The man thou lov'st, Melpomene?
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |