 | The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang |  |
II. Vol. II
1
VIII SONNETS
3
The Sonnet
Poet, beware! The sonnet's primrose path
Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread.
Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread,
Because the sated reader roars in wrath:
‘Little indeed to say the singer hath,
And little sense in all that he hath said;
Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read,
And naught but stubble is his aftermath.’
Is all too tempting for thy feet to tread.
Not on this journey shalt thou earn thy bread,
Because the sated reader roars in wrath:
‘Little indeed to say the singer hath,
And little sense in all that he hath said;
Such rhymes are lightly writ but hardly read,
And naught but stubble is his aftermath.’
Then shall he cast that bonny book of thine
Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes;
There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine,
With other minor poets—pallid shapes,
Who come a long way short of the divine,
Tormented souls of imitative apes.
Where the extreme waste-paper basket gapes;
There shall thy futile fancies peak and pine,
With other minor poets—pallid shapes,
Who come a long way short of the divine,
Tormented souls of imitative apes.
4
In Ithaca
‘And now am I greatly repenting that ever I left my life with thee,
and the immortality thou didst promise me.’—
Letter of Odysseus to Calypso.
Luciani Vera Historia.
'Tis thought Odysseus, when the strife was o'er
With all the waves and wars, a weary while,
Grew restless in his disenchanted isle,
And still would watch the sunset, from the shore,
Go down the ways of gold; and evermore
His sad heart followed after, mile on mile,
Back to the goddess of the magic wile,
Calypso, and the love that was of yore.
With all the waves and wars, a weary while,
Grew restless in his disenchanted isle,
And still would watch the sunset, from the shore,
Go down the ways of gold; and evermore
His sad heart followed after, mile on mile,
Back to the goddess of the magic wile,
Calypso, and the love that was of yore.
Thou too, thy haven gained, must turn thee yet
To look across the sad and stormy space,
Years of a youth as bitter as the sea,
Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet;
Because, within a fair forsaken place
The life that might have been is lost to thee.
To look across the sad and stormy space,
Years of a youth as bitter as the sea,
Ah, with a heavy heart, and eyelids wet;
Because, within a fair forsaken place
The life that might have been is lost to thee.
5
Homer
Homer, thy song men liken to the sea
With all the notes of music in its tone,
With tides that wash the dim dominion
Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee
Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me
Thy verse seems as the river of source unknown
That glasses Egypt's temples overthrown
In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally.
With all the notes of music in its tone,
With tides that wash the dim dominion
Of Hades, and light waves that laugh in glee
Around the isles enchanted; nay, to me
Thy verse seems as the river of source unknown
That glasses Egypt's temples overthrown
In his sky-nurtured stream, eternally.
No wiser we than men of heretofore
To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast;
Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore,
As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast,
His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore
Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past.
To find thy sacred fountains guarded fast;
Enough, thy flood makes green our human shore,
As Nilus Egypt, rolling down his vast,
His fertile flood, that murmurs evermore
Of gods dethroned, and empires in the past.
6
Homeric Unity
The sacred keep of Ilion is rent
By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow
Through plains where Simois and Scamander went
To war with gods and heroes long ago.
Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low
In rich Mycenae, do the fates relent:
The bones of Agamemnon are a show
And ruined is his royal monument.
By shaft and pit; foiled waters wander slow
Through plains where Simois and Scamander went
To war with gods and heroes long ago.
Not yet to tired Cassandra, lying low
In rich Mycenae, do the fates relent:
The bones of Agamemnon are a show
And ruined is his royal monument.
The dust and awful treasures of the dead
Hath learning scattered wide; but vainly thee,
Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead,
And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see
The crown that burns on thine immortal head
Of indivisible supremacy!
Hath learning scattered wide; but vainly thee,
Homer, she meteth with her tool of lead,
And strives to rend thy songs; too blind to see
The crown that burns on thine immortal head
Of indivisible supremacy!
7
The Odyssey
As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine,
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Æaean isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine;
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again—
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine,
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Æaean isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine;
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again—
So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers;
And, through the music of the languid hours,
They hear like ocean on a western beach
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free
Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers;
And, through the music of the languid hours,
They hear like ocean on a western beach
The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.
8
A Sonnet to Heavenly Beauty
Du Bellay
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.
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.
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.
9
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,
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.
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.
10
San Terenzo
[_]
(The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living before the wreck of the Don Juan
Mid April seemed like some November day,
When through the glassy waters dull as lead
Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,
Slipped down the curved shores of the Spezian bay,
Rounded a point—and San Terenzo lay
Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,
The roof that covered Shelley's homeless head—
His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray.
When through the glassy waters dull as lead
Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,
Slipped down the curved shores of the Spezian bay,
Rounded a point—and San Terenzo lay
Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,
The roof that covered Shelley's homeless head—
His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray.
The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen
Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,
When suddenly the forest glades were stirred
With waving pinions, and a great sea-bird
Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!
Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,
When suddenly the forest glades were stirred
With waving pinions, and a great sea-bird
Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!
1880.
11
Love's Easter
Love died here
Long ago;
O'er his bier
Lying low,
Poppies throw;
Shed no tear;
Year by year,
Roses blow!
Long ago;
O'er his bier
Lying low,
Poppies throw;
Shed no tear;
Year by year,
Roses blow!
Year by year,
Adon—dear
To Love's queen—
Does not die!
Wakes when green
May is nigh!
Adon—dear
To Love's queen—
Does not die!
Wakes when green
May is nigh!
12
Twilight
(After Richepin)
Light has flown!
Through the gray
The wind's way,
The sea's moan
Sound alone!
For the day
These repay
And atone!
Through the gray
The wind's way,
The sea's moan
Sound alone!
For the day
These repay
And atone!
Scarce I know,
Listening so
To the streams
Of the sea,
If old dreams
Sing to me!
Listening so
To the streams
Of the sea,
If old dreams
Sing to me!
13
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 ennuyees jusques au desespoir, elles s'arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l'unique fin de la volupté 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 Etnæan flowers,
And their bright mistress fled from summer hours
With Hades, down the irremeable decline.
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 Etnæan 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.
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.
14
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.
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.
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.
15
Herodotus in Egypt
He left the land of youth, he left the young,
The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isle
Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung;
He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile,
And of their old world, dead a weary while,
Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue,
And through the fanes went voyaging, among
Dark tribes that worshipped cat and crocodile.
The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isle
Where Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung;
He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile,
And of their old world, dead a weary while,
Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue,
And through the fanes went voyaging, among
Dark tribes that worshipped cat and crocodile.
He learned the tales of death divine and birth,
Strange loves of hawk and serpent, sky and earth,
The marriage, and the slaying of the sun.
The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through,
And mocked not at their godhead, for he knew
Behind all creeds the Spirit that is One.
Strange loves of hawk and serpent, sky and earth,
The marriage, and the slaying of the sun.
The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through,
And mocked not at their godhead, for he knew
Behind all creeds the Spirit that is One.
16
Metempsychosis
I shall not see thee, nay, but I shall know
Perchance, thy gray 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.
Perchance, thy gray 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,
In song or story are but shapes of thee;
Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear,
Shall life or death bring all thy being near?
Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me;
The shadows of the beauty of all time,
In song or story are but shapes of thee;
Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear,
Shall life or death bring all thy being near?
17
An Old Garden
The autumn sun is warm, the soft winds moan,
The golden fruits make sweet September air
In gardens where the apple blossoms were
Through these old Aprils that we twain have known.
I pass along the pathways overgrown;
Of all the flowers a single poppy there
Droops her tired head, a faded flower and fair,
One poppy that the wandering breeze hath sown.
The golden fruits make sweet September air
In gardens where the apple blossoms were
Through these old Aprils that we twain have known.
I pass along the pathways overgrown;
Of all the flowers a single poppy there
Droops her tired head, a faded flower and fair,
One poppy that the wandering breeze hath sown.
Here be no roses, and thou lack'st the rose;
No lilies fragrant in the lily bed;
One poppy in the bare untended close,
Droops, and the sun is shrouded overhead;
The gray sea-mist upon the sea-wind blows
Chill; and methinks the summer-time is dead.
No lilies fragrant in the lily bed;
One poppy in the bare untended close,
Droops, and the sun is shrouded overhead;
The gray sea-mist upon the sea-wind blows
Chill; and methinks the summer-time is dead.
18
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 gray
Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment's space.
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 gray
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.
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.
19
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.
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.
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.
20
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.
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.
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.
21
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!
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.
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.
22
Natural Theology
επει χαι τουτον οιομαι αθανατοισιν
ευχεσθαι παντες δε θεων χατεουσ' ανθρωποι.
Od. iii. 47.
‘Once
Cagn was like a father, kind and good,
But he was spoiled by fighting many things;
He wars upon the lions in the wood,
And breaks the thunder-bird's tremendous wings;
But still we cry to him—We are thy brood—
O Cagn, be merciful! and us he brings
To herds of elands, and great store of food,
And in the desert opens water-springs.’
But he was spoiled by fighting many things;
He wars upon the lions in the wood,
And breaks the thunder-bird's tremendous wings;
But still we cry to him—We are thy brood—
O Cagn, be merciful! and us he brings
To herds of elands, and great store of food,
And in the desert opens water-springs.’
So Qing, King Nqsha's Bushman hunter, spoke,
Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair,
When all were weary, and clouds of smoke
Were fading, fragrant in the twilit air;
And suddenly in each man's heart there woke
A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.
Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair,
When all were weary, and clouds of smoke
Were fading, fragrant in the twilit air;
And suddenly in each man's heart there woke
A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.
23
To Izaak Walton
Old Izaak, in this angry age of ours—
This hungry, angry age—how oft of thee
We dream, and thy divine tranquillity;
And all thy pleasure in the dewy flowers,
The meads enamelled, and the singing showers,
And shelter of the silvery willow-tree,
By quiet waters of the river Lea!
Ah, happy hours! we cry—ah, halcyon hours!
This hungry, angry age—how oft of thee
We dream, and thy divine tranquillity;
And all thy pleasure in the dewy flowers,
The meads enamelled, and the singing showers,
And shelter of the silvery willow-tree,
By quiet waters of the river Lea!
Ah, happy hours! we cry—ah, halcyon hours!
Yet thou, like us, hadst trouble for this realm
Of England: for thy dear Church mocked and rent,
Thy friends in beggary, thy monarch slain,
But naught could thy mild spirit overwhelm.
Ah, Father Izaak, teach us thy content
When time brings many a sorrow back again!
Of England: for thy dear Church mocked and rent,
Thy friends in beggary, thy monarch slain,
But naught could thy mild spirit overwhelm.
Ah, Father Izaak, teach us thy content
When time brings many a sorrow back again!
24
Lines after Wordsworth
[_]
Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a siate-pencil on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting for tea after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a novel by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.
How solemn is the front of this hotel,
When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
Of ‘tints of amber’, or of ‘amethyst’.
Here once thy daughters, young romance, did dwell;
Here Sara flirted with whoever list,
Belinda loved not wisely but too well,
And Mr. Ford played the philologist!
When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,
And none can speak of scenery, nor tell
Of ‘tints of amber’, or of ‘amethyst’.
Here once thy daughters, young romance, did dwell;
Here Sara flirted with whoever list,
Belinda loved not wisely but too well,
And Mr. Ford played the philologist!
Haunted the house is, and the balcony
Where that fond matron knew her lover near;
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere;
And all our hearts go forth into the cry—
Would that the teller of the tale were here!
Where that fond matron knew her lover near;
And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh,
While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere;
And all our hearts go forth into the cry—
Would that the teller of the tale were here!
25
The Spinet
My heart's an old spinet with strings
To laughter chiefly tuned, but some
That fate has practised hard on, dumb;
They answer not whoever sings.
The ghosts of half-forgotten things
Will touch the keys with fingers numb,
The little mocking spirits come
And thrill it with their fairy wings.
To laughter chiefly tuned, but some
That fate has practised hard on, dumb;
They answer not whoever sings.
The ghosts of half-forgotten things
Will touch the keys with fingers numb,
The little mocking spirits come
And thrill it with their fairy wings.
A jingling harmony it makes
My heart—my lyre—my old spinet;
And now a memory it wakes,
And now the music means ‘forget’;
And little heed the player takes
Howe'er the thoughtful critic fret.
My heart—my lyre—my old spinet;
And now a memory it wakes,
And now the music means ‘forget’;
And little heed the player takes
Howe'er the thoughtful critic fret.
[_]
Spinet. The accent is on the last foot, even when the word is written spinnet. Compare the remarkable liberty which Pamela took with the 137th Psalm:
My Joys and Hopes all overthrown,
My Heartstrings almost broke,
Unfit my Mind for Melody,
Much less to bear a Joke.
But yet, if from my Innocence
I, even in Thought, should slide,
Then, let my fingers quite forget
The sweet Spinnet to guide!
My Heartstrings almost broke,
Unfit my Mind for Melody,
Much less to bear a Joke.
But yet, if from my Innocence
I, even in Thought, should slide,
Then, let my fingers quite forget
The sweet Spinnet to guide!
Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, vol. i, p. 184, 1785. A. L.
27
CAMEOS
SONNETS FROM THE ANTIQUE
[_]
These versions from classical passages are pretty close to the original, except where compression was needed, as in the sonnets from Pausanias and Apuleius, or where, as in the case of fragments of Æschylus and Sophocles, a little expansion was required.
29
Cameos
The graver by Apollo's shrineBefore the gods had fled, would stand,
A shell or onyx in his hand,
To copy there the face divine;
Till earnest touches, line by line,
Had wrought the wonder of the land
Within a beryl's golden band,
Or on some fiery opal fine.
Ah! would that, as some ancient ring
To us, on shell or stone, doth bring
Art's marvels perished long ago,
So I, within the sonnet's space,
The large Hellenic lines might trace,
The statue in the cameo!
30
Helen on the Walls
Fair Helen to the Scæan portals came,Where sat the elders—peers of Priamus—
Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus,
And many another of a noble name,
Famed warriors, now in council more of fame.
Always above the gates, in converse thus
They chattered like cicalas garrulous;
Who marking Helen, swore ‘it is no shame
That armed Achæan knights, and Ilian men
For such a woman's sake should suffer long.
Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she.
Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again
Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong
To us, and children's children yet to be.’
31
The Isles of the Blessed
Now the light of the sun, in the night of the earth, on the souls of the trueShines, and their city is girt with the meadow where reigneth the rose;
And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits o'er them and through,
Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where the frankincense blows.
Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it glows,
And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the pleasures on earth that they knew,
And in chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy those;
And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and rises anew.
32
These at the end of the age—be they prince, be they singer, or seer—
These to the world shall be born as of old, shall be sages again;
These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and shall die, and shall hear
Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them amain,
And their glory shall dwell in the land where they dwelt, while year calls unto year!
33
Death
Of all gods Death alone
Disdaineth sacrifice:
No man hath found or shown
The gift that Death would prize.
In vain are songs or sighs,
Pæan, or praise, or moan;
Alone beneath the skies
Hath Death no altar-stone!
Disdaineth sacrifice:
No man hath found or shown
The gift that Death would prize.
In vain are songs or sighs,
Pæan, or praise, or moan;
Alone beneath the skies
Hath Death no altar-stone!
There is no head so dear
That men would grudge to Death;
Let Death but ask, we give
All gifts that we may live;
But though Death dwells so near,
We know not what he saith.
That men would grudge to Death;
Let Death but ask, we give
All gifts that we may live;
But though Death dwells so near,
We know not what he saith.
34
Nysa
On these Nysæan shores divine
The clusters ripen in a day.
At dawn the blossom shreds away;
The berried grapes are green and fine
And full by noon; in day's decline
They're purple with a bloom of gray;
And e'er the twilight plucked are they,
And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.
The clusters ripen in a day.
At dawn the blossom shreds away;
The berried grapes are green and fine
And full by noon; in day's decline
They're purple with a bloom of gray;
And e'er the twilight plucked are they,
And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.
But through the night with torch in hand
Down the dusk hills the maenads fare;
The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare,
The muffled timbrels swell and sound,
And drown the clamour of the band
Like thunder moaning underground.
Down the dusk hills the maenads fare;
The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare,
The muffled timbrels swell and sound,
And drown the clamour of the band
Like thunder moaning underground.
35
Colonus
I
Here be the fairest homes the land can show,
The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here
The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear,
For well the deep green gardens doth she know.
Groves of the god, where winds may never blow,
Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer
Among the myriad-berried ivy dear,
Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.
The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here
The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear,
For well the deep green gardens doth she know.
Groves of the god, where winds may never blow,
Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer
Among the myriad-berried ivy dear,
Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.
For here he loves to dwell, and here resort
These nymphs that are his nurses and his court;
And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs
The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair
Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair,
Demeter, and to wreathe the maiden's brows!
These nymphs that are his nurses and his court;
And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs
The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair
Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair,
Demeter, and to wreathe the maiden's brows!
36
II
Yea, here the dew of heaven upon the grain
Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring,
Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering,
That day by day revisiteth the plain.
Nor do the goddesses the grove disdain,
But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing,
And here they love to weave their dancing ring,
With Aphrodite of the golden rein.
Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring,
Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering,
That day by day revisiteth the plain.
Nor do the goddesses the grove disdain,
But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing,
And here they love to weave their dancing ring,
With Aphrodite of the golden rein.
And here there springs a plant that knoweth not
The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle,
Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot
It dwells—the gray-leaved olive; ne'er shall guile
Nor force of foemen root it from the spot:
Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!
The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle,
Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot
It dwells—the gray-leaved olive; ne'er shall guile
Nor force of foemen root it from the spot:
Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!
37
The Passing of Œdipus
How Œdipus departed, who may tell
Save Theseus only? for there neither came
The burning bolt of thunder and the flame
To blast him into nothing, nor the swell
Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell.
But some diviner herald none may name
Called him, or inmost earth's abyss became
The painless place where such a soul might dwell.
Save Theseus only? for there neither came
The burning bolt of thunder and the flame
To blast him into nothing, nor the swell
Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell.
But some diviner herald none may name
Called him, or inmost earth's abyss became
The painless place where such a soul might dwell.
Howe'er it chanced, untouched of malady,
Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament,
With comfort on the twilight way he went,
Passing, if ever man did, wondrously;
From this world's death to life, divinely rent,
Unschooled in time's last lesson, how we die.
Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament,
With comfort on the twilight way he went,
Passing, if ever man did, wondrously;
From this world's death to life, divinely rent,
Unschooled in time's last lesson, how we die.
38
The Taming of Tyro
(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro daughter of Salmoneus, cruelly entreated her in all things, and chiefly in this, that she let sheer her beautiful hair.)
At fierce Sidero's word the thralls drew near,
And shore the locks of Tyro—like ripe corn
They fell in golden harvest; but forlorn
The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear,
Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn
Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer,
And drive her where, within the waters clear,
She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.
And shore the locks of Tyro—like ripe corn
They fell in golden harvest; but forlorn
The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear,
Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn
Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer,
And drive her where, within the waters clear,
She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.
Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart
Who, marking that wild thing made weak and tame,
Broken, and grieving for her glory gone,
Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart
Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came
And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!
Who, marking that wild thing made weak and tame,
Broken, and grieving for her glory gone,
Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart
Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came
And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!
39
To Artemis
For thee soft crowns in thine untrampled mead
I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear;
Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed,
Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there;
Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair
The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed
Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead
About the grassy close that is her care!
I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear;
Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed,
Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there;
Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair
The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed
Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead
About the grassy close that is her care!
Souls only that are gracious and serene
By gift of god, in human lore unread,
May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green
That now I wreathe for thine immortal head—
I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen,
And by thy whispered voice am comforted.
By gift of god, in human lore unread,
May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green
That now I wreathe for thine immortal head—
I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen,
And by thy whispered voice am comforted.
40
Criticism of Life
Long life hath taught me many things, and shown
That lukewarm loves for men who die are best;
Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,
Not love, that stings the soul within the breast;
Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,
Now cherished, now away at random thrown!
Grievous it is for other's grief to moan,
Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!
That lukewarm loves for men who die are best;
Weak wine of liking let them mix alone,
Not love, that stings the soul within the breast;
Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest,
Now cherished, now away at random thrown!
Grievous it is for other's grief to moan,
Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!
Wise ruling this of life: but yet again
Perchance too rigid diet is not well;
He lives not best who dreads the coming pain
And shunneth each delight desirable:
Flee thou extremes, this word alone is plain,
Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!
Perchance too rigid diet is not well;
He lives not best who dreads the coming pain
And shunneth each delight desirable:
Flee thou extremes, this word alone is plain,
Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!
41
The Cannibal Zeus
[_]
Και εθυσε το βρεφος, χχι εσπεισεν επι του βωμου το αιμα----επι τουτου του βωμου τω Διι θυουσιν εν απορρητω.— Paus. viii. 38.
None elder city doth the sun behold
Than ancient Lycosura; 'twas begun
Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun;
And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold
The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: 'tis told
That whoso fares within that forest dun
Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the sun,
Ay, and within the year his life is cold!
Than ancient Lycosura; 'twas begun
Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun;
And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold
The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: 'tis told
That whoso fares within that forest dun
Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the sun,
Ay, and within the year his life is cold!
Hard by dwelt he
who, while the gods deigned eat
At good men's tables, gave them dreadful meat,
A child he slew:—his mountain altar green
Here still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me,
Piteous, but as they are, let these things be,
And as from the beginning they have been!
At good men's tables, gave them dreadful meat,
A child he slew:—his mountain altar green
Here still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me,
Piteous, but as they are, let these things be,
And as from the beginning they have been!
42
Amaryllis
Fair Amaryllis, wilt thou never peep
From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine?
Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep,
These didst thou long for, and all these are thine.
Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep
Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine;
To watch thee waken, love, and watch thee sleep,
Within thy grot below the shadowy pine.
From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine?
Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep,
These didst thou long for, and all these are thine.
Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep
Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine;
To watch thee waken, love, and watch thee sleep,
Within thy grot below the shadowy pine.
Now know I Love, a cruel god is he,
The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear;
And truly to the bone he burneth me.
But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne'er a tear,
Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee;
Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.
The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear;
And truly to the bone he burneth me.
But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne'er a tear,
Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee;
Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.
43
Invocation of Isis
Thou that art sandalled on immortal feet
With leaves of palm, the prize of victory;
Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet,
Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky,
I pray thee by all names men name thee by!
Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat!
Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh!
Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet!
With leaves of palm, the prize of victory;
Thou that art crowned with snakes and blossoms sweet,
Queen of the silver dews and shadowy sky,
I pray thee by all names men name thee by!
Demeter, come, and leave the yellow wheat!
Or Aphrodite, let thy lovers sigh!
Or Dian, from thine Asian temple fleet!
Or, yet more dread, divine Persephone
From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near;
Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea;
Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer:
By all thy names and rites I summon thee,
By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear!
From worlds of wailing spectres, ah, draw near;
Approach, Selene, from thy subject sea;
Come, Artemis, and this night spare the deer:
By all thy names and rites I summon thee,
By all thy rites and names, Our Lady, hear!
44
The Coming of Isis
So Lucius prayed, and sudden, from afar,
Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright
Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star;
She came in deep blue raiment of the night,
Above her robes that now were snowy white,
Now golden as the moons of harvest are,
Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bar,
Now stained with all the lustre of the light.
Floated the locks of Isis, shone the bright
Crown that is tressed with berry, snake, and star;
She came in deep blue raiment of the night,
Above her robes that now were snowy white,
Now golden as the moons of harvest are,
Now red, now flecked with many a cloudy bar,
Now stained with all the lustre of the light.
Then he who saw her knew her, and he knew
The awful symbols borne in either hand;
The golden urn that laves Demeter's dew,
The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand;
The shaken seistron's music, tinkling through
The temples of that old Osirian land.
The awful symbols borne in either hand;
The golden urn that laves Demeter's dew,
The handles wreathed with asps, the mystic wand;
The shaken seistron's music, tinkling through
The temples of that old Osirian land.
45
TO POETS
47
I Jacques Tahureau
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 gray,
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.
48
II François Villon
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.
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.
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.
49
III Pierre Ronsard
Master, I see thee with the locks of gray,
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.
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.
And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat,
Known Horace by the fount Bandusian!
Their deathless line thy living strains repeat,
But ah! thy voice is sad, thy roses wan,
But ah! thy honey is not cloying sweet,
Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian.
Known Horace by the fount Bandusian!
Their deathless line thy living strains repeat,
But ah! thy voice is sad, thy roses wan,
But ah! thy honey is not cloying sweet,
Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian.
50
IV 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,
Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,
Thou still wouldst bear that mystic golden bough
The Sibyl doth to singing men allow,
Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed.
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,
Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,
Thou still wouldst bear that mystic golden bough
The Sibyl doth to singing men allow,
Yet thy report folk heeded not, but 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
A new life gladder than the old times were,
A love more fair than Sylvie and as kind?
Thou stood'st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind,
Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,
Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find
A new life gladder than the old times were,
A love more fair than Sylvie and as kind?
51
V The Death of Mirandola
[_]
‘The Queen of Heaven appeared, comforting him and promising that he should not utterly die.’—Thomas More,, Life of Pico, 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 gray
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.
Were mingling, and the old world passed away,
And the night gathered, and the shadows gray
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.
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.
53
IX GAMES AND SPORT
CRICKET, GOLF, FISHING
55
Ballade of the Three Graces
W. G. E. M. G. F.
In the mountains and meadows of Greece,
In the holy, the delicate air,
When Pan was the piper of peace,
When the satyrs were all debonair,
In the days dear to old Lemprière,
The Graces would frolic and bound.
Our Graces are still, we declare,
The best men in England, all round!
In the holy, the delicate air,
When Pan was the piper of peace,
When the satyrs were all debonair,
In the days dear to old Lemprière,
The Graces would frolic and bound.
Our Graces are still, we declare,
The best men in England, all round!
Though the season of midsummer cease
The blossom of Hellas to bear,
Though the critics, a cohort of geese,
Deny that dame Venus is fair,
The Graces, at least are ‘all there’,
And no better bats to be found,
And at point, or at long-leg, or square,
The best men in England, all round!
The blossom of Hellas to bear,
Though the critics, a cohort of geese,
Deny that dame Venus is fair,
The Graces, at least are ‘all there’,
And no better bats to be found,
And at point, or at long-leg, or square,
The best men in England, all round!
56
May Gilbert abide in the crease!
And the bowling of Fred may it scare!
And the slows of the coroner tease
The colonists hugely that dare!
Go smite them, ye brethren, nor spare!
Till the glades of St. John's Wood resound
With the cheers that are surely your share,
The best men in England, all round!
And the bowling of Fred may it scare!
And the slows of the coroner tease
The colonists hugely that dare!
Go smite them, ye brethren, nor spare!
Till the glades of St. John's Wood resound
With the cheers that are surely your share,
The best men in England, all round!
Envoy
Old Glostershire, cast away care,And go in for a new county ground.
Green mother of cricketers rare,
The best men in England, all round!
57
A Ballade of Mourning
1878
The glories of the ball and bat,
Alas! are unsubstantial things;
Fate lays the stoutest wicket flat,
Nor spares the game's anointed kings.
Look on these ‘duck's-eggs’—ranged in strings;
Hark to that shout—a losing cheer!
Ah me! (the question soothes and stings)
Where are the scores of yester-year?
Alas! are unsubstantial things;
Fate lays the stoutest wicket flat,
Nor spares the game's anointed kings.
Look on these ‘duck's-eggs’—ranged in strings;
Hark to that shout—a losing cheer!
Ah me! (the question soothes and stings)
Where are the scores of yester-year?
I'll wear a willow round my hat
This day of days for many springs,
And sitting where the patriarch sat,
Spend the sad hours in murmurings
That fortune should have spread her wings
And sought the lower hemisphere,
Singing, as melancholy sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
This day of days for many springs,
And sitting where the patriarch sat,
Spend the sad hours in murmurings
That fortune should have spread her wings
And sought the lower hemisphere,
Singing, as melancholy sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
58
The stump of Grace is taken—pat!
Vain is the sceptre Hornby swings;
Webbe, Ridley, Hearne—on this and that
The bowlers' craft destruction brings.
Fatal and strange, like stones from slings,
Are Spofforth's ‘fasts’, and Boyle's. Oh, dear!
Lord's with the lamentation sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
Vain is the sceptre Hornby swings;
Webbe, Ridley, Hearne—on this and that
The bowlers' craft destruction brings.
Fatal and strange, like stones from slings,
Are Spofforth's ‘fasts’, and Boyle's. Oh, dear!
Lord's with the lamentation sings,
‘Where are the scores of yester-year?’
Envoy
Prince, though I know how fortune flingsHer darts, and how they disappear,
This thought my bosom racks and wrings—
Where are the scores of yester-year?
59
The Old Cricketer's Lament
Ah, known or unknown playfellowsWhom still the old Pavilion hears
Serenely critical of slows,
And wise with all the weight of years—
Men who perchance remember Mynn,
(Of these there are not very many)
And Powys' pace and Butler's spin,
And Francis, Ottaway, and Kenney.
Can you recall a year like this?
A year of rain, a year of woe?
How many catches did we miss!
Was cricket ever half so slow!
Could that gray Bishop —he who played
So gallantly in'27—
Have seen such dire fiascos made
In all his years, by our Eleven?
Nay, let the seasons come and fleet,
Let us be missed from field and town,
Let ancient cricketers who meet
Hint that our wickets have gone down;
They shall not see, they shall not weep
Such weather and such strokes of fate,
As we who sad and slowly creep
From Lord's this awful '88.
60
Death in June
For Cricketers Only
June is the month of Suicides
Why do we slay ourselves in June,
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When ‘moon’, and ‘tune’, and ‘afternoon’,
And other happy rhymes we meet;
When strawberries are coming soon?
‘Why do we do it?’ you repeat!
When life, if ever, seems so sweet?
When ‘moon’, and ‘tune’, and ‘afternoon’,
And other happy rhymes we meet;
When strawberries are coming soon?
‘Why do we do it?’ you repeat!
Ah, careless butterfly! to thee
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on music's wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
For love is monarch of thy mood!
The strawberry seems passing good;
And sweet, on music's wings, to flee
Amid the waltzing multitude,
And revel late—perchance till three—
For love is monarch of thy mood!
Alas, to us no solace shows
For sorrows we endure—at Lord's,
When Oxford's bowling always goes
For ‘fours’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;
These things can pierce the heart like swords.
For sorrows we endure—at Lord's,
When Oxford's bowling always goes
For ‘fours’ for ever to the cords—
Or more, perhaps, with ‘overthrows’;
These things can pierce the heart like swords.
61
And thus it is though woods are green,
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling;
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford's bowling.
Though mayflies down the Test are rolling;
Though sweet, the silver showers between,
The finches sing in strains consoling,
We cut our throats for very spleen,
And very shame of Oxford's bowling.
62
Brahma
If the wild bowler thinks he bowls,Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled,
They know not, poor misguided souls,
They too shall perish unconsoled.
I am the batsman and the bat,
I am the bowler and the ball,
The umpire, the pavilion cat,
The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.
63
Ballade of Dead Cricketers
Ah, where be Beldham now, and Brett,
Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?
Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet
That drove the bails in disarray?
And Small that would, like Orpheus, play
Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy?
Booker, and Quiddington, and May?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Barker, and Hogsflesh, where be they?
Brett, of all bowlers fleetest yet
That drove the bails in disarray?
And Small that would, like Orpheus, play
Till wild bulls followed his minstrelsy?
Booker, and Quiddington, and May?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
And where is Lambert, that would get
The stumps with balls that broke astray?
And Mann, whose balls would ricochet
In almost an unholy way
(So do baseballers ‘pitch’ to-day);
George Lear, that seldom let a bye,
And Richard Nyren, grave and gray?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
The stumps with balls that broke astray?
And Mann, whose balls would ricochet
In almost an unholy way
(So do baseballers ‘pitch’ to-day);
George Lear, that seldom let a bye,
And Richard Nyren, grave and gray?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
64
Tom Sueter, too, the ladies' pet,
Brown, that would bravest hearts affray;
Walker, invincible when set,
(Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);
Think ye that we could match them, pray,
These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,
With Buck to hit, and Small to stay?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Brown, that would bravest hearts affray;
Walker, invincible when set,
(Tom, of the spider limbs and splay);
Think ye that we could match them, pray,
These heroes of Broad-halfpenny,
With Buck to hit, and Small to stay?
Beneath the daisies, there they lie!
Envoy
Prince, canst thou moralize the lay?How all things change below the sky!
Of Fry and Grace shall mortals say,
‘Beneath the daisies, there they lie!’
65
To Helen
(After seeing her bowl with her usual success.)
St. Leonard's Hall.
Helen, thy bowling is to me
Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore,
Which gently broke the wickets three:
From Alfred few could smack a four:
Most difficult to score!
Like that wise Alfred Shaw's of yore,
Which gently broke the wickets three:
From Alfred few could smack a four:
Most difficult to score!
The music of the moaning sea,
The rattle of the flying bails,
The gray sad spires, the tawny sails—
What memories they bring to me,
Beholding thee!
The rattle of the flying bails,
The gray sad spires, the tawny sails—
What memories they bring to me,
Beholding thee!
Upon our old monastic pitch,
How sportsmanlike I see thee stand
The leather in thy lily hand,
O Helen of the yorkers, which
Are nobly planned!
How sportsmanlike I see thee stand
The leather in thy lily hand,
O Helen of the yorkers, which
Are nobly planned!
66
Ballade of Cricket
To T. W. L.
The burden of hard hitting: slog away!
Here shalt thou make a ‘five’ and there a ‘four’,
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire;
When lo, the Umpire gives thee ‘leg before’—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Here shalt thou make a ‘five’ and there a ‘four’,
And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,
That thou art in for an uncommon score.
Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,
And thou to rival Thornton shalt aspire;
When lo, the Umpire gives thee ‘leg before’—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
The burden of much bowling, when the stay
Of all thy team is ‘collared’, swift or slower,
When ‘bailers’ break not in their wonted way,
And ‘yorkers’ come not off as here-to-fore;
When length balls shoot no more—ah never more!
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Of all thy team is ‘collared’, swift or slower,
When ‘bailers’ break not in their wonted way,
And ‘yorkers’ come not off as here-to-fore;
When length balls shoot no more—ah never more!
When all deliveries lose their former fire,
When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
67
The burden of long fielding, when the clay
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
And running still thou stumblest; or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a ‘skyer’,
And lose a match the fates cannot restore—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,
And running still thou stumblest; or the ray
Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore,
And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,
Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a ‘skyer’,
And lose a match the fates cannot restore—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
Envoy
Alas, yet liefer on youth's hither shoreWould I be some poor player on scant hire,
Than king among the old, who play no more,—
‘This is the end of every man's desire!’
68
[A hope for the hopeless lips to frame]
[_]
Verse written by A. L. in a copy of ‘XXII Ballades in Blue China’, 1880, given to C. J. L. by A. L.
A hope for the hopeless lips to frame,
'Tis, oh, for a hard-hit innings of Game!
A prayer unheard that the wild wind blows,
'Tis, oh, for an over of Ridley's slows!
'Tis, oh, for a hard-hit innings of Game!
A prayer unheard that the wild wind blows,
'Tis, oh, for an over of Ridley's slows!
Captain Oxford Eleven in 1875 and won the match v. Cambridge by six runs by putting himself on to bowl lobs and taking two wickets at the end of the innings. 1875 is known to cricketers as Ridley's Year.
69
GOLF
A Song of Life and Golf
The thing they ca' the stimy o't,
I find it ilka where!
Ye 'maist lie deid—an unco shot—
Anither's ba' is there!
Ye canna win into the hole,
However gleg ye be,
And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll,
Some limmer stimies me!
Chorus—Somebody stimying me,
Somebody stimying me,
The grass may grow, the ba' may row,
Some limmer stimies me!
I find it ilka where!
Ye 'maist lie deid—an unco shot—
Anither's ba' is there!
Ye canna win into the hole,
However gleg ye be,
And aye, where'er ma ba' may roll,
Some limmer stimies me!
Chorus—Somebody stimying me,
Somebody stimying me,
The grass may grow, the ba' may row,
Some limmer stimies me!
I lo'ed a lass, a bonny lass,
Her lips an' locks were reid;
Intil her heart I couldna pass:
Anither man lay deid!
He cam' atween me an' her heart,
I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;
I couldna loft him, I maun part,
The limmer stimied me!
Her lips an' locks were reid;
Intil her heart I couldna pass:
Anither man lay deid!
He cam' atween me an' her heart,
I turned wi' tearfu' e'e;
I couldna loft him, I maun part,
The limmer stimied me!
70
I socht a kirk, a bonny kirk,
Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';
A bonny yaird to feed a stirk,
An' links to ca' the ba'!
Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched—
A Convartit U.P.—
An' a' in vain ma best I preached,
That limmer stimied me!
Wi' teind, an' glebe, an' a';
A bonny yaird to feed a stirk,
An' links to ca' the ba'!
Anither lad he cam' an' fleeched—
A Convartit U.P.—
An' a' in vain ma best I preached,
That limmer stimied me!
It's aye the same in life an' gowf;
I'm stimied, late an' ear';
This world is but a weary howf,
I'd fain be itherwhere.
But whan auld deith wad hole ma corp,
As sure as deith ye'll see
Some coof has played the moudiewarp,
Rin in, an' stimied me!
Chorus (if thought desirable).
I'm stimied, late an' ear';
This world is but a weary howf,
I'd fain be itherwhere.
But whan auld deith wad hole ma corp,
As sure as deith ye'll see
Some coof has played the moudiewarp,
Rin in, an' stimied me!
Chorus (if thought desirable).
71
Ode to Golf
‘Delusive nymph, farewell!’
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell’,
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft we've said or sung,
When balls evasive fell,
Or in the jaws of ‘Hell’,
Or salt sea-weeds among,
'Mid shingle and sea-shell!
How oft beside the burn,
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've ‘topped and swore’,
In bent and whin and fern!
We play the sad ‘two more’;
How often at the turn,
The heather must we spurn;
How oft we've ‘topped and swore’,
In bent and whin and fern!
Yes, when the broken head
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred.
Bounds further than the ball,
The heart has inly bled.
Ah! and the lips have said
Words we would fain recall—
Wild words, of passion bred.
72
In bunkers all unknown,
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw’,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan.
Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw’,
Where never ball had flown—
Reached by ourselves alone—
Caddies have heard with awe
The music of our moan.
Yet, nymph, if once alone,
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown.
The ball hath featly fled—
Not smitten from the bone—
That drive doth still atone
And one long shot laid dead
Our grief to the winds hath blown.
So, still beside the tee,
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the gray, sad sea.
We meet in storm or calm,
Lady, and worship thee;
While the loud lark sings free,
Piping his matin psalm
Above the gray, sad sea.
73
Ballade of the Royal Game of Golf
There are laddies will drive ye a ba'
To the burn frae the farthermost tee;
But ye mauna think driving is a’,
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
To the burn frae the farthermost tee;
But ye mauna think driving is a’,
Ye may heel her, and send her ajee,
Ye may land in the sand or the sea;
And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen,
Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt—ony she,—
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean;
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
That their putting is pawky and slee;
In a bunker they're nae gude ava',
But to girn, and to gar the sand flee.
And a lassie can putt—ony she,—
Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean;
But a cleek-shot's the billy for me,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
74
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw,
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen—
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd since the year thirty-three,
I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw,
And I trust I may play till I dee;
And I tell ye the truth and nae lee,
For I speak o' the thing I hae seen—
Tom Morris, I ken, will agree—
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
Envoy
Prince, faith you're improving a wee,And, Lord, man! they tell me you're keen;
Tak' the best o' advice that can be,
Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
75
Off my Game
‘I’m off my game,' the golfer said,
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand—
I'm off my game!
And shook his locks in woe;
‘My putter never lays me dead,
My drives will never go;
Howe'er I swing, howe'er I stand,
Results are still the same,
I'm in the burn, I'm in the sand—
I'm off my game!
‘Oh, would that such mishaps might fall
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I'm off my game!
On Laidlay or Macfie,
That they might toe or heel the ball,
And sclaff along like me!
Men hurry from me in the street,
And execrate my name,
Old partners shun me when we meet—
I'm off my game!
76
‘Why is it that I play at all?
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I'm off my game!
Let memory remind me
How once I smote upon my ball,
And bunkered it—behind me.
I mostly slice into the whins,
And my excuse is lame—
It cannot cover half my sins—
I'm off my game!
I hate the sight of all my set,
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting's wild or tame;
It's really time for me to stop—
I'm off my game.’
I grow morose as Byron;
I never loved a brassey yet,
And now I hate an iron.
My cleek seems merely made to top,
My putting's wild or tame;
It's really time for me to stop—
I'm off my game.’
77
Ballade of Roulette
To R. R.
This life—one was thinking to-day,
In the midst of a medley of fancies—
Is a game, and the board where we play
Green earth with her poppies and pansies.
Let manque be faded romances,
Be passe remorse and regret;
Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
In the midst of a medley of fancies—
Is a game, and the board where we play
Green earth with her poppies and pansies.
Let manque be faded romances,
Be passe remorse and regret;
Hearts dance with the wheel as it dances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
The lover will stake as he may
His heart on his Peggies and Nancies;
The girl has her beauty to lay;
The saint has his prayers and his trances;
The poet bets endless expanses
In dreamland; the scamp has his debt:
How they gaze at the wheel as it glances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette!
His heart on his Peggies and Nancies;
The girl has her beauty to lay;
The saint has his prayers and his trances;
The poet bets endless expanses
In dreamland; the scamp has his debt:
How they gaze at the wheel as it glances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette!
78
The Kaiser will stake his array
Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;
An Englishman punts with his pay,
And glory the jeton of France is;
Your artists—or Whistlers or Vances,
Have voices or colours to bet;
Will you moan that its motion askance is—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette?
Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;
An Englishman punts with his pay,
And glory the jeton of France is;
Your artists—or Whistlers or Vances,
Have voices or colours to bet;
Will you moan that its motion askance is—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette?
Envoy
The prize that the pleasure enhances?The prize is—at last to forget
The changes, the chops, and the chances—
The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
79
FISHING
Piscatori Piscator
In Memory of Thomas Tod Stoddart
An angler to an angler here,
To one who longed not for the bays,
I bring a little gift and dear,
A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways,
By Elibank and Yair that lead;
Of all the burns, from all the braes,
That yield their tribute to the Tweed.
To one who longed not for the bays,
I bring a little gift and dear,
A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways,
By Elibank and Yair that lead;
Of all the burns, from all the braes,
That yield their tribute to the Tweed.
His boyhood found the waters clean,
His age deplored them, foul with dye;
But purple hills, and copses green,
And these old towers he wandered by,
Still to the simple strains reply
Of his pure unrepining reed,
Who lies where he was fain to lie,
Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.
His age deplored them, foul with dye;
But purple hills, and copses green,
And these old towers he wandered by,
Still to the simple strains reply
Of his pure unrepining reed,
Who lies where he was fain to lie,
Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed.
80
The Contented Angler
The Angler hath a jolly life
Who by the rail runs down,
And leaves his business and his wife,
And all the din of town.
The wind down stream is blowing straight,
And nowhere cast can he:
Then lo, he doth but sit and wait
In kindly company.
Who by the rail runs down,
And leaves his business and his wife,
And all the din of town.
The wind down stream is blowing straight,
And nowhere cast can he:
Then lo, he doth but sit and wait
In kindly company.
The miller turns the water off,
Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
And ne'er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
To bear him company.
Or folk be cutting weed,
While he doth at misfortune scoff,
From every trouble freed.
Or else he waiteth for a rise,
And ne'er a rise may see;
For why, there are not any flies
To bear him company.
81
Or, if he mark a rising trout,
He straightway is caught up;
And then he takes his flasket out,
And drinks a rousing cup.
Or if a trout he chance to hook,
Weeded and broke is he;
And then he finds a goodly book
Instructive company.
He straightway is caught up;
And then he takes his flasket out,
And drinks a rousing cup.
Or if a trout he chance to hook,
Weeded and broke is he;
And then he finds a goodly book
Instructive company.
82
The Last Cast
The Angler's Apology
Just one cast more! how many a year
Beside how many a pool and stream,
Beneath the falling leaves and sere,
I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!
Beside how many a pool and stream,
Beneath the falling leaves and sere,
I've sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!
Dreamed of the sport since April first
Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,
Adown the pastoral valleys burst
Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.
Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow,
Adown the pastoral valleys burst
Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.
Dreamed of the singing showers that break,
And sting the lochs, or near or far,
And rouse the trout, and stir ‘the take’
From Urigil to Lochinvar.
And sting the lochs, or near or far,
And rouse the trout, and stir ‘the take’
From Urigil to Lochinvar.
Dreamed of the kind propitious sky
O'er Ari Innes brooding gray;
The sea trout, rushing at the fly,
Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!
O'er Ari Innes brooding gray;
The sea trout, rushing at the fly,
Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!
83
Brief are man's days at best; perchance
I waste my own, who have not seen
The castled palaces of France
Shine on the Loire in summer green.
I waste my own, who have not seen
The castled palaces of France
Shine on the Loire in summer green.
And clear and fleet Eurotas still,
You tell me, laves his reedy shore,
And flows beneath his fabled hill
Where Dian drave the chase of yore.
You tell me, laves his reedy shore,
And flows beneath his fabled hill
Where Dian drave the chase of yore.
And ‘like a horse unbroken’ yet
The yellow stream with rush and foam,
'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,
Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!
The yellow stream with rush and foam,
'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet,
Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!
I may not see them, but I doubt
If seen I'd find them half so fair
As ripples of the rising trout
That feed beneath the elms of Yair.
If seen I'd find them half so fair
As ripples of the rising trout
That feed beneath the elms of Yair.
Nay, spring I'd meet by Tweed or Ail,
And summer by Loch Assynt's deep,
And autumn in that lonely vale
Where wedded Avons westward sweep,
And summer by Loch Assynt's deep,
And autumn in that lonely vale
Where wedded Avons westward sweep,
Or where, amid the empty fields,
Among the bracken of the glen,
Her yellow wreath October yields
To crown the crystal brows of Ken.
Among the bracken of the glen,
Her yellow wreath October yields
To crown the crystal brows of Ken.
84
Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal!
Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide!
You never heard the ringing reel,
The music of the water side!
Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide!
You never heard the ringing reel,
The music of the water side!
Though gods have walked your woods among,
Though nymphs have fled your banks along;
You speak not that familiar tongue
Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.
Though nymphs have fled your banks along;
You speak not that familiar tongue
Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.
My cradle song—no other hymn
I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear
Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim
Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!
I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear
Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim
Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!
85
Shameful Death
(The keeper speaks)
The biggest trout in the brook!
His weight it was five pound clear;
Never he'd wink at a hook,
If you fished for him half the year,
And in summer he lay where a tall flag shook
In the thin at the tail o' the weir.
His weight it was five pound clear;
Never he'd wink at a hook,
If you fished for him half the year,
And in summer he lay where a tall flag shook
In the thin at the tail o' the weir.
He did not die by the line,
He did not fall to the fly,
Not fishing far and fine
On the stream where he used to lie,
But six bait hooks and a ball o' twine
Brought that big trout to die!
He did not fall to the fly,
Not fishing far and fine
On the stream where he used to lie,
But six bait hooks and a ball o' twine
Brought that big trout to die!
It was 'Arry from London town,
A music-hall cad, and a fast;
'Arry, and Moses Brown,
As had served before the mast,
With young George Smith, a clod-hopping clown,
Killed that big trout at last!
A music-hall cad, and a fast;
'Arry, and Moses Brown,
As had served before the mast,
With young George Smith, a clod-hopping clown,
Killed that big trout at last!
86
It's a good long while since then—
I'm a little bit stiff or so—
But last year I and my men,
Down there, where the alders grow,
Rolled 'Arry from town in the mud o' the fen,
And kicked him, and let him go!
I'm a little bit stiff or so—
But last year I and my men,
Down there, where the alders grow,
Rolled 'Arry from town in the mud o' the fen,
And kicked him, and let him go!
It's long since the big trout died,
And my hair is mostly gray,
But down by the water-side
Mo bathed—on a Sabbath day!
And Lor', sir, I laughed till I nearly cried,
For we tuk his clothes away!
And my hair is mostly gray,
But down by the water-side
Mo bathed—on a Sabbath day!
And Lor', sir, I laughed till I nearly cried,
For we tuk his clothes away!
87
Piscatrix
Foot-deep in wet flowers and grasses,
O playmate of sunshine and shade!
What song has the stream as it passes?
What song does it sing to its maid?
O playmate of sunshine and shade!
What song has the stream as it passes?
What song does it sing to its maid?
Does it sing of the hills left behind it?
Does it sing of the moorland and mist?
Of the mosses that break it and bind it,
Of flowers that its waters have kissed?
Does it sing of the moorland and mist?
Of the mosses that break it and bind it,
Of flowers that its waters have kissed?
Does it sing how it runs to the river?
Shall it greatly delight it to be
With the waters that murmur for ever
To the death of the depths of the sea?
Shall it greatly delight it to be
With the waters that murmur for ever
To the death of the depths of the sea?
88
The Salmo Irritans
A most accommodating fish
Is he who lies in stream or pot,
Who rises frequent as you wish
At Silver Doctor or Jock Scott,
Or any other fly you've got
In all the piscatory clans;
You strike, but ah! you strike him not;
He is the Salmo Irritans.
Is he who lies in stream or pot,
Who rises frequent as you wish
At Silver Doctor or Jock Scott,
Or any other fly you've got
In all the piscatory clans;
You strike, but ah! you strike him not;
He is the Salmo Irritans.
You give him the accustomed rest;
A quarter of an hour or so—
And then you cast your very best,
Your heart is throbbing, loud or low;
He rises with a splendid show
Of silver sides and fins like fans,
Perchance you think you've got him? No!
He is the Salmo Irritans.
A quarter of an hour or so—
And then you cast your very best,
Your heart is throbbing, loud or low;
He rises with a splendid show
Of silver sides and fins like fans,
Perchance you think you've got him? No!
He is the Salmo Irritans.
89
You leave him till the eventide,
When wandering on by dub and pool
A score of other casts you've tried,
All fruitless and all beautiful;
But he still rises, calm and cool,
Who is not yours, nor any man's!
He leaves you looking like a fool—
He is the Salmo Irritans.
When wandering on by dub and pool
A score of other casts you've tried,
All fruitless and all beautiful;
But he still rises, calm and cool,
Who is not yours, nor any man's!
He leaves you looking like a fool—
He is the Salmo Irritans.
Envoy
Prince, wherefore comes he always short,This demon whom the angler bans?
This is his selfish view of sport,
He is the Salmo Irritans!
90
The Last Chance
Within the streams, Pausanias saith,That down Cocytus valley flow,
Girdling the gray domain of Death,
The spectral fishes come and go;
The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.
Persephone, fulfil my wish;
And grant that in the shades below
My ghost may land the ghosts of fish.
91
Scots Wha
Scots wha fish wi' salmon roe,
Scots wha sniggle as ye go,
Will ye stand the Bailie? No!
Let the limmer die!
Scots wha sniggle as ye go,
Will ye stand the Bailie? No!
Let the limmer die!
Now's the day and now's the time,
Poison a' the burns wi' lime,
Fishing fair's a dastard crime,
We're for fishing free!
Poison a' the burns wi' lime,
Fishing fair's a dastard crime,
We're for fishing free!
92
The Philosophy of Fly-fishing
Leave thou thy gillie, when he playsHis local flies, his early views;
Nor thou with shadowed hint confuse
His notion of the hook that pays.
93
X GHOSTS AND KINDRED SUBJECTS
95
The Haunted Homes of England
The haunted homes of England,
How eerily they stand,
While through them flit their ghosts—to wit,
The Monk with the Red Hand;
The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook—
To stop the boldest breath,
The boy that inked his copybook,
And so got ‘wopped’ to death!
How eerily they stand,
While through them flit their ghosts—to wit,
The Monk with the Red Hand;
The Eyeless Girl—an awful spook—
To stop the boldest breath,
The boy that inked his copybook,
And so got ‘wopped’ to death!
Call them not shams—from haunted Glamis
To haunted Woodhouselea,
I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts
I hear the fell Banshie!
I know the spectral dog that howls
Before the death of squires;
In my ‘Ghosts'-guide’ addresses hide
For Podmore and for Myers!
To haunted Woodhouselea,
I mark in hosts the grisly ghosts
I hear the fell Banshie!
I know the spectral dog that howls
Before the death of squires;
In my ‘Ghosts'-guide’ addresses hide
For Podmore and for Myers!
96
I see the vampire climb the stairs
From vaults below the church;
And hark! the pirate's spectre swears!
O psychical research,
Canst thou not hear what meets my ear,
The viewless wheels that come?
The wild Banshie that wails to thee?
The Drummer with his drum?
From vaults below the church;
And hark! the pirate's spectre swears!
O psychical research,
Canst thou not hear what meets my ear,
The viewless wheels that come?
The wild Banshie that wails to thee?
The Drummer with his drum?
O haunted homes of England,
Though tenantless ye stand,
With none content to pay the rent,
Through all the shadowy land,
Now, science true will find in you
A sympathetic perch,
And take you all, both grange and hall,
For psychical research!
Though tenantless ye stand,
With none content to pay the rent,
Through all the shadowy land,
Now, science true will find in you
A sympathetic perch,
And take you all, both grange and hall,
For psychical research!
97
Ghosts in the Library
Suppose, when now the house is dumb,
When lights are out, and ashes fall—
Suppose their ancient owners come
To claim our spoils of shop and stall;
Ah me! within the narrow hall
How strange a mob would meet and go,
What famous folk would haunt them all,
Octavo, quarto, folio!
When lights are out, and ashes fall—
Suppose their ancient owners come
To claim our spoils of shop and stall;
Ah me! within the narrow hall
How strange a mob would meet and go,
What famous folk would haunt them all,
Octavo, quarto, folio!
The great Napoleon lays his hand
Upon this eagle-headed N,
That marks for his a pamphlet banned
By all but scandal-loving men—
A libel from some nameless den
Of Frankfort—Arnaud à la Sphère,
Wherein one spilt, with venal pen,
Lies o'er the loves of Molière.
Upon this eagle-headed N,
That marks for his a pamphlet banned
By all but scandal-loving men—
A libel from some nameless den
Of Frankfort—Arnaud à la Sphère,
Wherein one spilt, with venal pen,
Lies o'er the loves of Molière.
98
Another shade—he does not see
‘Boney’, the foeman of his race—
The great Sir Walter, this is he
With that grave homely Border face.
He claims his poem of the chase
That rang Benvoirlich's valley through;
And this, that doth the lineage trace
And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch.
‘Boney’, the foeman of his race—
The great Sir Walter, this is he
With that grave homely Border face.
He claims his poem of the chase
That rang Benvoirlich's valley through;
And this, that doth the lineage trace
And fortunes of the bold Buccleuch.
For these were his, and these he gave
To one who dwelt beside the Peel,
That murmurs with its tiny wave
To join the Tweed at Ashestiel.
Now thick as motes the shadows wheel,
And find their own, and claim a share
Of books wherein Ribou did deal,
Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.
To one who dwelt beside the Peel,
That murmurs with its tiny wave
To join the Tweed at Ashestiel.
Now thick as motes the shadows wheel,
And find their own, and claim a share
Of books wherein Ribou did deal,
Or Roulland sold to wise Colbert.
What famous folk of old are here!
A royal duke comes down to us,
And greatly wants his Elzevir,
His pagan tutor, Lucius.
And Beckford claims an amorous
Old heathen in morocco blue;
And who demands Eobanus
But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou!
A royal duke comes down to us,
And greatly wants his Elzevir,
His pagan tutor, Lucius.
And Beckford claims an amorous
Old heathen in morocco blue;
And who demands Eobanus
But stately Jacques Auguste de Thou!
99
They come—the wise, the great, the true—
They jostle on the narrow stair,
The joyous Countess de Verrue,
Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre,
The new and elder dead are there—
The lords of speech, and song, and pen—
Gambetta, Schlegel, and the rare
Drummond of haunted Hawthornden.
They jostle on the narrow stair,
The joyous Countess de Verrue,
Lamoignon, ay, and Longepierre,
The new and elder dead are there—
The lords of speech, and song, and pen—
Gambetta, Schlegel, and the rare
Drummond of haunted Hawthornden.
Ah, and with those, a hundred more,
Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot:
Brave ‘Smiths’ and ‘Thompsons’ by the score,
Scrawled upon many a shabby ‘lot’.
This playbook was the joy of Pott—
Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves;
Our names, like his, remembered not,
Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!
Whose names, whose deeds, are quite forgot:
Brave ‘Smiths’ and ‘Thompsons’ by the score,
Scrawled upon many a shabby ‘lot’.
This playbook was the joy of Pott—
Pott, for whom now no mortal grieves;
Our names, like his, remembered not,
Like his, shall flutter on fly-leaves!
At least in pleasant company
We bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit;
A man may turn a page, and sigh,
Seeing one's name, to think of it.
Beauty, or poet, sage, or wit,
May ope our book, and muse awhile,
And fall into a dreaming fit,
As now we dream, and wake, and smile!
We bookish ghosts, perchance, may flit;
A man may turn a page, and sigh,
Seeing one's name, to think of it.
Beauty, or poet, sage, or wit,
May ope our book, and muse awhile,
And fall into a dreaming fit,
As now we dream, and wake, and smile!
100
Gainsborough Ghosts
In the Grosvenor Gallery
They smile upon the western wall—
The lips that laughed an age agone,
The fops, the dukes, the beauties all,
Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone.
We gaze with idle eyes: we con
The faces of an elder time—
Alas! and ours is flitting on;
Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!
The lips that laughed an age agone,
The fops, the dukes, the beauties all,
Le Brun that sang, and Carr that shone.
We gaze with idle eyes: we con
The faces of an elder time—
Alas! and ours is flitting on;
Oh, moral for an empty rhyme!
Think, when the tumult and the crowd
Have left the solemn rooms and chill,
When dilettanti are not loud,
When lady critics are not shrill—
Ah, think how strange upon the still
Dim air may sound these voices faint;
Once more may Johnson talk his fill
And fair Dalrymple charm the saint!
Have left the solemn rooms and chill,
When dilettanti are not loud,
When lady critics are not shrill—
Ah, think how strange upon the still
Dim air may sound these voices faint;
Once more may Johnson talk his fill
And fair Dalrymple charm the saint!
101
Of us they speak as we of them;
Like us, perchance, they criticize:
Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem;
Our beauty—dim to Devon's eyes!
Their silks and lace our cloth despise,
Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud,
What modern fop with Walpole vies?
With St. Leger what modern blood?
Like us, perchance, they criticize:
Our wit, they vote, is Brummagem;
Our beauty—dim to Devon's eyes!
Their silks and lace our cloth despise,
Their pumps—our boots that pad the mud,
What modern fop with Walpole vies?
With St. Leger what modern blood?
Ah true, we lack the charm, the wit,
Our very greatest, sure, are small;
And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt,
And Garrick comes not when we call.
Yet—pass an age—and, after all,
Even we may please the folk that look
When we are faces on the wall,
And voices in a history book!
Our very greatest, sure, are small;
And Mr. Gladstone is not Pitt,
And Garrick comes not when we call.
Yet—pass an age—and, after all,
Even we may please the folk that look
When we are faces on the wall,
And voices in a history book!
In art the statesman yet shall live,
With collars keen, with Roman nose;
To beauty yet shall Millais give
The roses that outlast the rose:
The lords of verse, the slaves of prose,
On canvas yet shall seem alive,
And charm the mob that comes and goes,
And lives—in 1985.
With collars keen, with Roman nose;
To beauty yet shall Millais give
The roses that outlast the rose:
The lords of verse, the slaves of prose,
On canvas yet shall seem alive,
And charm the mob that comes and goes,
And lives—in 1985.
102
Ballade of a Choice of Ghosts
Now, which are you anxious to see—
A bogie, a sprite, or a gnome?
If a spectre should drop in to tea,
Would you like him to find us at home?
Or a mermaid with mirror and comb,
In her have you plenary faith?
Or a lemur of classical Rome,
Or a common respectable wraith?
A bogie, a sprite, or a gnome?
If a spectre should drop in to tea,
Would you like him to find us at home?
Or a mermaid with mirror and comb,
In her have you plenary faith?
Or a lemur of classical Rome,
Or a common respectable wraith?
Here's the vampire, or Bronkola Ki,
From his grave in old Greece hath he clomb;
But perhaps he might bite us, and we
Should be forced in his fashion to roam;
Or a ginn from a Mussulman dome—
He might work such unlimited scathe
That we'd all turn as yellow as chrome—
Or a common respectable wraith!
From his grave in old Greece hath he clomb;
But perhaps he might bite us, and we
Should be forced in his fashion to roam;
Or a ginn from a Mussulman dome—
He might work such unlimited scathe
That we'd all turn as yellow as chrome—
Or a common respectable wraith!
103
From the ghost of our youth would you flee
In his shroud that is dappled with loam?
Or a faithful ancestral banshie?
Or a martyr from some catacomb?
Or a wizard with magical tome
Whom his cerements becomingly swathe?
Or a wili as fair as the foam?
Or a common respectable wraith?
In his shroud that is dappled with loam?
Or a faithful ancestral banshie?
Or a martyr from some catacomb?
Or a wizard with magical tome
Whom his cerements becomingly swathe?
Or a wili as fair as the foam?
Or a common respectable wraith?
Envoy
Oh, the gloaming's beginning to gloamAnd (if Scotch is allowed) I am ‘laith’
To encounter a bogie or gnome,
Or a common respectable wraith.
104
The Disappointment
A house I took, and many a spook
Was deemed to haunt that house,
I bade the glum Researchers come
With bogles to carouse.
That house I'd sought with anxious thought,
'Twas old—'twas dark as sin,
And deeds of bale, so ran the tale,
Had oft been done therein.
Was deemed to haunt that house,
I bade the glum Researchers come
With bogles to carouse.
That house I'd sought with anxious thought,
'Twas old—'twas dark as sin,
And deeds of bale, so ran the tale,
Had oft been done therein.
Full many a child its mother wild,
Men said, had strangled there;
Full many a sire, in heedless ire,
Had slain his daughter fair!
'Twas rarely let: I can't forget
A recent tenant's dread,
This widow lone had heard a moan
Proceeding from her bed.
Men said, had strangled there;
Full many a sire, in heedless ire,
Had slain his daughter fair!
'Twas rarely let: I can't forget
A recent tenant's dread,
This widow lone had heard a moan
Proceeding from her bed.
105
The tenants next were chiefly vexed
By spectres grim and gray;
A headless ghost annoyed them most,
And so they did not stay.
The next in turn saw corpse lights burn,
And also a banshie,
A spectral hand they could not stand,
And left the house to me.
By spectres grim and gray;
A headless ghost annoyed them most,
And so they did not stay.
The next in turn saw corpse lights burn,
And also a banshie,
A spectral hand they could not stand,
And left the house to me.
Then came my friends for divers ends,
Some curious, some afraid;
No direr pest disturbed their rest
Than a neat chambermaid.
The grisly halls were gay with balls,
One melancholy nook,
Where ghosts galore were seen before,
Now yielded ne'er a spook.
Some curious, some afraid;
No direr pest disturbed their rest
Than a neat chambermaid.
The grisly halls were gay with balls,
One melancholy nook,
Where ghosts galore were seen before,
Now yielded ne'er a spook.
When man and maid, all unafraid,
‘Sat out’ upon the stairs,
No spectre dread, with feet of lead,
Came past them unawares.
I know not why, but alway I
Have found that it is so,
That when the glum Researchers come
The brutes of bogeys—go.
‘Sat out’ upon the stairs,
No spectre dread, with feet of lead,
Came past them unawares.
I know not why, but alway I
Have found that it is so,
That when the glum Researchers come
The brutes of bogeys—go.
As a matter of fact the Haunted House Committee of the Society for Psychical Research have never succeeded in seeing a ghost.—A. L.
106
The Haunted Tower
Suggested by a Poem of Théophile Gautier
In front he saw the donjon tall
Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan
The guards that slept along the wall,
Or dozed upon the bartizan.
He marked the drowsy flag that hung
Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,
He listened to the birds that sung—
Go forth and win the baunted tower!
The tangled brake made way for him,
The twisted brambles bent aside;
And lo, he pierced the forest dim,
And lo, he won the fairy bride!
For be was young, but ah! we find—
All we, whose beards are flecked with gray,
Our fairy castle's far behind,
We watch it from the darkling way.
'Twas ours, that palace, in our youth;
We revelled there in happy cheer,
Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,
Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!
For not the boughs of forest green
Begird that castle far away;
There is a mist where we have been
That weeps about it, cold and gray.
And if we seek to travel back
'Tis through a thicket dim and sere,
With many a grave beside the track,
And many a haunting form of fear.
Dead leaves are wet among the moss,
With weed and thistle overgrown—
A ruined barge within the fosse—
A castle built of crumbling stone!
The drawbridge drops from rusty chains;
There comes no challenge from the hold;
No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains,
Of all who dwelt with us of old.
And there is silence in the hall—
No sound of songs, no ray of fire;
But gloom where all was glad, and all
Is darkened with a vain desire.
Deep in the woods, and stayed to scan
The guards that slept along the wall,
Or dozed upon the bartizan.
He marked the drowsy flag that hung
Unwaved by wind, unfrayed by shower,
He listened to the birds that sung—
Go forth and win the baunted tower!
The tangled brake made way for him,
The twisted brambles bent aside;
And lo, he pierced the forest dim,
And lo, he won the fairy bride!
For be was young, but ah! we find—
All we, whose beards are flecked with gray,
Our fairy castle's far behind,
We watch it from the darkling way.
107
We revelled there in happy cheer,
Who scarce dare visit now in sooth,
Le Vieux Château de Souvenir!
For not the boughs of forest green
Begird that castle far away;
There is a mist where we have been
That weeps about it, cold and gray.
And if we seek to travel back
'Tis through a thicket dim and sere,
With many a grave beside the track,
And many a haunting form of fear.
Dead leaves are wet among the moss,
With weed and thistle overgrown—
A ruined barge within the fosse—
A castle built of crumbling stone!
The drawbridge drops from rusty chains;
There comes no challenge from the hold;
No squire, nor dame, nor knight remains,
Of all who dwelt with us of old.
And there is silence in the hall—
No sound of songs, no ray of fire;
But gloom where all was glad, and all
Is darkened with a vain desire.
108
And every picture's fading fast,
Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.
Lo, the white shadows hurrying past,
Below the boughs of dripping trees!
Ah rise, and march, and look not back,
Of fair Jehanne, or Cydalise.
Lo, the white shadows hurrying past,
Below the boughs of dripping trees!
Now the long way has brought us here;
We may not turn and seek the track
To the old Château de Souvenir!
109
The Ballade of the Subconscious Self
Who suddenly calls to our ken
The knowledge that should not be there;
Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen
Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air;
Who makes physiologists stare—
Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf?
Who fashions the dream of the fair?
It is just the Subconscious Self.
The knowledge that should not be there;
Who charms Mr. Stead with the pen
Of the Prince of the Powers of the Air;
Who makes physiologists stare—
Is he ghost, is he demon, or elf?
Who fashions the dream of the fair?
It is just the Subconscious Self.
He's the ally of medicine men
Who consult the Australian bear,
And 'tis he, with his lights on the fen,
Who helps Jack o' Lanthorn to snare
The peasants of Devon, who swear
Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph,
That they never had half such a scare—
It is just the Subconscious Self.
Who consult the Australian bear,
And 'tis he, with his lights on the fen,
Who helps Jack o' Lanthorn to snare
The peasants of Devon, who swear
Under Commonwealth, Stuart, or Guelph,
That they never had half such a scare—
It is just the Subconscious Self.
110
It is he, from his cerebral den,
Who raps upon table and chair,
Who frightens the housemaid, and then
Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair:
'Tis the brownie (according to Mair)
Who rattles the pots on the shelf,
But the psychical sages declare
‘It is just the Subconscious Self’.
Who raps upon table and chair,
Who frightens the housemaid, and then
Slinks back, like a thief, to his lair:
'Tis the brownie (according to Mair)
Who rattles the pots on the shelf,
But the psychical sages declare
‘It is just the Subconscious Self’.
Envoy
Prince, each of us all is a pair—The Conscious, who labours for pelf,
And the other, who charmed Mr. Blair,
It is just the Subconscious Self.
111
Song by the Subconscious Self
(Rhymes made in a Dream)
I know not what my secret is,I only know 'tis mine;
I know to dwell with it were bliss,
To die for it divine.
I cannot yield it in a kiss,
Nor breathe it in a sigh,
I know that I have lived for this;
For this, my love, I die.
112
Ballade of Christmas Ghosts
Between the moonlight and the fire
In winter twilights long ago,
What ghosts we raised for your desire
To make your merry blood run slow!
How old, how grave, how wise we grow!
No Christmas ghost can make us chill,
Save those that troop in mournful row—
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
In winter twilights long ago,
What ghosts we raised for your desire
To make your merry blood run slow!
How old, how grave, how wise we grow!
No Christmas ghost can make us chill,
Save those that troop in mournful row—
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
The beasts can talk in barn and byre
On Christmas Eve, old legends know;
As year by year the years retire,
We men fall silent then I trow;
Such sights hath memory to show,
Such voices from the silence thrill,
Such shapes return with Christmas snow—
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
On Christmas Eve, old legends know;
As year by year the years retire,
We men fall silent then I trow;
Such sights hath memory to show,
Such voices from the silence thrill,
Such shapes return with Christmas snow—
The ghosts we all can raise at will.
113
O children of the village choir,
Your carols on the midnight throw;
Oh bright across the mist and mire
Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!
Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,
Let's cheerily descend the hill;
Be welcome all, to come or go,
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
Your carols on the midnight throw;
Oh bright across the mist and mire
Ye ruddy hearths of Christmas glow!
Beat back the dread, beat down the woe,
Let's cheerily descend the hill;
Be welcome all, to come or go,
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
Envoy
Friend, sursum corda, soon or slowWe part, like guests who've joyed their fill;
Forget them not, nor mourn them so,
The ghosts we all can raise at will!
115
XI PICTURES and BUSTS
117
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.
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 her 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.
The twelve great shining angels, garlanded,
Marvel upon her 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.
118
The Lille Bust
Was it Cæcilia or Felicula,
Matron or maid, who wore this purity
Of loveliness so fair it could not die
Even with her death, but dwelt in the chill clay
That might not fall to dust, nor know decay,
Till years rolled into many a century,
And peasants, delving where dead Romans lie,
Found her, and worshipped, by the Appian Way?
Matron or maid, who wore this purity
Of loveliness so fair it could not die
Even with her death, but dwelt in the chill clay
That might not fall to dust, nor know decay,
Till years rolled into many a century,
And peasants, delving where dead Romans lie,
Found her, and worshipped, by the Appian Way?
Then men, beholding her sweet face, forgot
The Saints, forgot their living loves, and pined
For this cold heart that might not throb nor feel.
So the priests hid her in a secret spot;
But one who bore her beauty in his mind,
Made it twice deathless in the bust of Lille!
The Saints, forgot their living loves, and pined
For this cold heart that might not throb nor feel.
So the priests hid her in a secret spot;
But one who bore her beauty in his mind,
Made it twice deathless in the bust of Lille!
119
Ideal
[_]
Suggested by a female head in wax, of unknown date, but supposed to be either of the best Greek age, or a work of Raphael or Leonardo. It is now in the Lille Museum.
Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid,
Dateless and fatherless, how long ago,
A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed,
Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe!
Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow,
While magical his fingers o'er thee strayed,
Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio
Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade
Dateless and fatherless, how long ago,
A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed,
Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe!
Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow,
While magical his fingers o'er thee strayed,
Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio
Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade
That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn,
Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace,
And that grave tenderness of thine awhile.
Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face
Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn,
And only on thy lips I find her smile.
Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace,
And that grave tenderness of thine awhile.
Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face
Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn,
And only on thy lips I find her smile.
120
A Portrait of 1783
Your hair and chin are like the hairAnd chin Burne-Jones's ladies wear;
You were unfashionably fair
In eighty-three,
And sad you were when girls are gay,
You read a book about Le vrai
Mérite de l'homme, alone in May.
What can it be,
Le vrai mérite de l'homme? Not gold,
Not titles that are bought and sold,
Not wit that flashes and is cold,
But virtue merely!
Instructed by Jean-Jacques Rousseau
(And Jean-Jacques, surely, ought to know),
You bade the crowd of foplings go,
You glanced severely,
Dreaming beneath the spreading shade
Of ‘that vast hat the Graces made’;
121
With courtly rhyme,
And hymned great Doisi's red perruque,
And Nice's eyes, and Zulmé's look,
And dead canaries, ere he shook
The sultry time
With strains like thunder. Loud and low
Methinks I hear the murmur grow,
The tramp of men that come and go
With fire and sword.
They war against the quick and dead,
Their flying feet are dashed with red,
As theirs the vintaging that tread
Before the Lord.
O head unfashionably fair,
What end was thine, for all thy care?
We only see thee dreaming there:
We cannot see
The breaking of thy vision, when
The Rights of man were lords of men,
When virtue won her own again
In ninety-three.
Vous y verrez, belle Julie,
Que ce chapeau tout maltraité
Fut, dans un instant de folie,
Par les Gràces même inventé.
‘À Julie.’Que ce chapeau tout maltraité
Fut, dans un instant de folie,
Par les Gràces même inventé.
Essais en Prose et en Vers, par Joseph Lisle; Paris, An V de la Republique.
122
Benedetta Ramus
After Romney
Mysterious Benedetta! who
That Reynolds or that Romney drew
Was ever half so fair as you,
Or is so well forgot?
These eyes of melancholy brown,
These woven locks, a shadowy crown,
Must surely have bewitched the town;
Yet you're remembered not.
That Reynolds or that Romney drew
Was ever half so fair as you,
Or is so well forgot?
These eyes of melancholy brown,
These woven locks, a shadowy crown,
Must surely have bewitched the town;
Yet you're remembered not.
Through all that prattle of your age,
Through lore of fribble and of sage
I've read, and chiefly Walpole's page,
Wherein are beauties famous;
I've haunted ball, and rout, and sale;
I've heard of Devonshire and Thrale,
And all the Gunnings' wondrous tale,
But nothing of Miss Ramus.
Through lore of fribble and of sage
I've read, and chiefly Walpole's page,
Wherein are beauties famous;
I've haunted ball, and rout, and sale;
I've heard of Devonshire and Thrale,
And all the Gunnings' wondrous tale,
But nothing of Miss Ramus.
123
And yet on many a lattice pane
‘Fair Benedetta’, scrawled in vain
By lovers' diamonds, must remain
To tell us you were cruel.
But who, of ail that sighed and swore—
Wits, poets, courtiers by the score—
Did win and on his bosom wore
This hard and lovely jewel?
‘Fair Benedetta’, scrawled in vain
By lovers' diamonds, must remain
To tell us you were cruel.
But who, of ail that sighed and swore—
Wits, poets, courtiers by the score—
Did win and on his bosom wore
This hard and lovely jewel?
Why, dilettante records say
An alderman, who came that way,
Woo'd you and made you Lady Day;
You crowned his civic flame.
It suits a melancholy song
To think your heart had suffered wrong,
And that you lived not very long
To be a City dame!
An alderman, who came that way,
Woo'd you and made you Lady Day;
You crowned his civic flame.
It suits a melancholy song
To think your heart had suffered wrong,
And that you lived not very long
To be a City dame!
Perchance you were a Mourning Bride,
And conscious of a heart that died
With one who fell by Rodney's side
In blood-stained Spanish bays.
Perchance 'twas no such thing, and you
Dwelt happy with your knight and true
And, like Aurora, watch a crew
Of rosy little Days!
And conscious of a heart that died
With one who fell by Rodney's side
In blood-stained Spanish bays.
Perchance 'twas no such thing, and you
Dwelt happy with your knight and true
And, like Aurora, watch a crew
Of rosy little Days!
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Oh, lovely face and innocent!
Whatever way your fortunes went,
And if to earth your life was lent
For little space or long,
In your kind eyes we seem to see
What woman at her best may be,
And offer to your memory
An unavailing song!
Whatever way your fortunes went,
And if to earth your life was lent
For little space or long,
In your kind eyes we seem to see
What woman at her best may be,
And offer to your memory
An unavailing song!
‘I have broken many a pane of glass marked Cruel Parthenissa,’ says the aunt of Sophia Western in Tom Jones.—A. L.
125
Colinette
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!
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.
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.
126
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.
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.
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 canvases
Did 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.
Did 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.
127
A Sunset of Watteau
LUIThe 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.
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.
We rested in the shade;
And now, why should we seek to know
What way the wilful waters flow?
There is no fairer glade.
| The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang | |