The Poetical Works of Andrew Lang :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.’

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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—

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.

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.

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.

Two Homes

To a young English lady in the Hospital of the Wounded at Carlsruhe, Sept. 1870.

What does the dim gaze of the dying find
To waken dream or memory, seeing you?
In your sweet eyes what other eyes are blue,
And in your hair what gold hair on the wind
Floats of the days gone almost out of mind?
In deep green valleys of the Fatherland
He may remember girls with locks like thine—
May dream how, where the waiting angels stand,

Some lost love's eyes are dim before they shine
With welcome:—so past homes, or homes to be,
He sees a moment, ere, a moment blind,
He crosses death's inhospitable sea,
And with brief passage of those barren lands
Comes to the home that is not made with hands.

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.

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!

1880.

Love's Easter

Love died here
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!

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!

Scarce I know,
Listening so
To the streams
Of the sea,
If old dreams
Sing to me!

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.

And they have sought her all the wide world through,
Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong
Have filled and changed their song, and o'er the blue
Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song;
And whoso hears must listen till he die
Far on the flowery shores of Sicily.

II

So is it with this singing art of ours,
That once with maids went maidenlike, and played
With woven dances in the poplar-shade;
And all her song was but of lady's bowers
And the returning swallows, and spring-flowers,
Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,
A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed
Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers.

Yea, fair well-water for the bitter brine
She left, and by the margin of life's sea
Sings, and her song is full of the sea's moan,
And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine;
And whoso once has listened to her, he
His whole life long is slave to her alone.

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.

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.

From. Euterpe.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Love's Miracle

With other helpless folk about the gate,
The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes
That take no pleasure in the summer skies,
Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait;
So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate
Makes her with dull experience early wise,
And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs
That all hath been, and shall be, desolate.

Ah, if love come not soon, and bid her live,
And know herself the fairest of fair things;
Ah, if he have no healing gift to give,
Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings;
Or if at least love's shadow in passing by
Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.

Dreams

He spake not truth, however wise, who said
That happy and that hapless men in sleep
Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep
As countless, careless races of the dead.
Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread,
And one beholds the faces that he sighs
In vain to bring before his daylit eyes,
And waking, he remembers on his bed.

And one with fainting heart and feeble hand
Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land,
Where strength and courage were of no avail;
And one is borne on fairy breezes far
To the bright harbours of a golden star,
Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.

Lost in Hades

I dreamed that, somewhere in the shadowy place,
Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot
In welcome, and regret remembered not;
And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise
On lips that had been songless many days;
Hope had no more to hope for, and desire
And dread were overpast; in white attire
New born we walked among the new world's ways!

Then from the press of shades a spirit threw
Towards me such apples as these gardens bear,
And turning, I was 'ware of her, and knew
And followed her fleet voice and flying hair—
Followed, and found her not, and seeking you
I found you never, dearest, anywhere.

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.’

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.

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.

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.

[_]

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!

Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded, vol. i, p. 184, 1785. A. L.

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.

Cameos

The graver by Apollo's shrine
Before 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!

Helen on the Walls

[_]

(Iliad, iii. 146.)

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.’

The Isles of the Blessed

[_]

Pindar, Fr., 106, 107 (95): B. 4, 129-130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132:

Now the light of the sun, in the night of the earth, on the souls of the true
Shines, 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.

But the souls that Persephone cleanses from ancient pollution and stain,
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!

Death

[_]

(Aesch., Fr., 156.)

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!

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.

Nysa

[_]

(Soph., Fr., 235; Aesch., Fr., 56.)

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.

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.

Colonus

[_]

(Œd. Col., 667-705.)

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.

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!

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.

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 Passing of Œdipus

[_]

((Œd. Col., 1655-1666.)

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.

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.

The Taming of Tyro

[_]

(Soph., Fr., 587.)

(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.

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!

To Artemis

[_]

(Hippol., Eurip., 73-87.)

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!

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.

Criticism of Life

[_]

(Hippol., Eurip., 252-266.)

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!

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!

The Cannibal Zeus

[_]

A. D. 160.

[_]

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!

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!

Lycaon, the first werewolf.

Amaryllis

[_]

(Theocritus, Idyll, iii.)

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.

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.

Invocation of Isis

[_]

(Apuleius, Metamorph. XI.)

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!

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!

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.

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.

TO POETS

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.