Rhymes a la Mode

RHYMES A LA MODE The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rhymes a la Mode This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org . If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title : Rhymes a la Mode Author : Andrew Lang Release date : February 1, 1999 [eBook #1645] Most recently updated: September 16, 2014 Language : English Other information and formats : www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1645 Credits : Transcribed from the 1885 Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. edition by David Price *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RHYMES A LA MODE *** Transcribed from the 1885 Kegan Paul, Trench & Co. edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org RHYMES A LA MODE BY A. LANG Hom , c’est une ballade ! Vadius LONDON KEGAN PAUL , TRENCH & CO MDCCCLXXXV Many of these verses have appeared in periodicals, English or American, and some were published in an American collection called Ballades and Verses Vain .  None of them have previously been put forth in book form in England.  The Rondeaux of the Galleries were published in the Magazine of Art , and are reprinted by permission of Messrs. Cassell and Co. (Limited). CONTENTS. PAGE Ballade Dedicatory vii The Fortunate Islands 3 The New Millenium 13 Almae Matres 23 Desiderium 27 Rhymes a la Mode 29 Ballade of Middle Age 31 The Last Cast 33 Twilight 37 Ballade of Summer 39 Ballade of Christmas Ghosts 41 Love’s Easter 42 Ballade of the Girton Girl 43 Ronsard’s Grave 45 San Terenzo 48 Romance 50 Ballade of his own Country 52 Villanelle 55 Triolets after Moschus 57 Ballade of Cricket 59 The Last Maying 61 Homeric Unity 65 In Tintagel 66 Pisidicê 68 From the East to the West 71 Love the Vampire 72 Ballade of the Book-man’s Paradise 74 Ballade of a Friar 76 Ballade of Neglected Merit 78 Ballade of Railway Novels 80 The Cloud Chorus 82 Ballade of Literary Fame 85 Νήνεμος Αἰών 87 Art 89 A very woful Ballade of the Art Critic 91 Art’s Martyr 94 The Palace of Bric-à-brac 97 Rondeaux of the Galleries 100 Science 103 The Barbarous Bird-Gods 105 Man and the Ascidian 110 Ballade of the Primitive Jest 113 Cameos 115 Cameos 117 Helen on the walls 118 The Isles of the Blessed 119 Death 121 Nysa 122 Colonus (I.) 123 ,, (II.) 124 The Passing of Œdipous 125 The Taming of Tyro 126 To Artemis 127 Criticism of Life 128 Amaryllis 129 The Cannibal Zeus 130 Invocation of Isis 132 The Coming of Isis 133 The Spinet 134 Notes 135 BALLADE DEDICATORY . TO MRS. ELTON OF WHITE STAUNTON . The painted Briton built his mound , And left his celts and clay , On yon fair slope of sunlit ground That fronts your garden gay ; The Roman came , he bore the sway , He bullied , bought , and sold , Your fountain sweeps his works away Beside your manor old ! But still his crumbling urns are found Within the window-bay , Where once he listened to the sound That lulls you day by day ;— The sound of summer winds at play , The noise of waters cold To Yarty wandering on their way , Beside your manor old ! The Roman fell : his firm-set bound Became the Saxon’s stay ; The bells made music all around For monks in cloisters grey , Till fled the monks in disarray From their warm chantry’s fold , Old Abbots slumber as they may , Beside your manor old ! Envoy . Creeds , empires , peoples , all decay , Down into darkness , rolled ; May life that’s fleet be sweet , I pray , Beside your manor old . THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS. A DREAM IN JUNE. In twilight of the longest day I lingered over Lucian, Till ere the dawn a dreamy way My spirit found, untrod of man, Between the green sky and the grey. Amid the soft dusk suddenly More light than air I seemed to sail, Afloat upon the ocean sky, While through the faint blue, clear and pale, I saw the mountain clouds go by: My barque had thought for helm and sail, And one mist wreath for canopy. Like torches on a marble floor Reflected, so the wild stars shone, Within the abysmal hyaline, Till the day widened more and more, And sank to sunset, and was gone, And then, as burning beacons shine On summits of a mountain isle, A light to folk on sea that fare, So the sky’s beacons for a while Burned in these islands of the air. Then from a starry island set Where one swift tide of wind there flows, Came scent of lily and violet, Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose, Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine, So delicate is the air and fine: And forests of all fragrant trees Sloped seaward from the central hill, And ever clamorous were these With singing of glad birds; and still Such music came as in the woods Most lonely, consecrate to Pan, The Wind makes, in his many moods, Upon the pipes some shepherd Man, Hangs up, in thanks for victory! On these shall mortals play no more, But the Wind doth touch them, over and o’er, And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh. Between the daylight and the dark That island lies in silver air, And suddenly my magic barque Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there; And by me stood the sentinel Of them who in the island dwell; All smiling did he bind my hands, With rushes green and rosy bands, They have no harsher bonds than these The people of the pleasant lands Within the wash of the airy seas! Then was I to their city led: Now all of ivory and gold The great walls were that garlanded The temples in their shining fold, (Each fane of beryl built, and each Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,) And all about the town, and through, There flowed a River fed with dew, As sweet as roses, and as clear As mountain crystals pure and cold, And with his waves that water kissed The gleaming altars of amethyst That smoke with victims all the year, And sacred are to the Gods of old. There sat three Judges by the Gate, And I was led before the Three, And they but looked on me, and straight The rosy bonds fell down from me Who, being innocent, was free; And I might wander at my will About that City on the hill, Among the happy people clad In purple weeds of woven air Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves At shut of languid summer eves So light their raiment seemed; and glad Was every face I looked on there! There was no heavy heat, no cold, The dwellers there wax never old, Nor wither with the waning time, But each man keeps that age he had When first he won the fairy clime. The Night falls never from on high, Nor ever burns the heat of noon. But such soft light eternally Shines, as in silver dawns of June Before the Sun hath climbed the sky! Within these pleasant streets and wide, The souls of Heroes go and come, Even they that fell on either side Beneath the walls of Ilium; And sunlike in that shadowy isle The face of Helen and her smile Makes glad the souls of them that knew Grief for her sake a little while! And all true Greeks and wise are there; And with his hand upon the hair Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates, About him many youths and fair, Hylas, Narcissus, and with these Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew By fleet Eurotas, unaware! All these their mirth and pleasure made Within the plain Elysian, The fairest meadow that may be, With all green fragrant trees for shade And every scented wind to fan, And sweetest flowers to strew the lea; The soft Winds are their servants fleet To fetch them every fruit at will And water from the river chill; And every bird that singeth sweet Throstle, and merle, and nightingale Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,— Lily, and rose, and asphodel— With these doth each guest twine his crown And wreathe his cup, and lay him down Beside some friend he loveth well. There with the shining Souls I lay When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say, In far-off haunts of Memory, Whoso death taste the Dead Men’s bread , Shall dwell for ever with these Dead , Nor ever shall his body lie Beside his friends , on the grey hill Where rains weep , and the curlews shrill And the brown water wanders by ! Then did a new soul in me wake, The dead men’s bread I feared to break, Their fruit I would not taste indeed Were it but a pomegranate seed. Nay, not with these I made my choice To dwell for ever and rejoice, For otherwhere the River rolls That girds the home of Christian souls, And these my whole heart seeks are found On otherwise enchanted ground. Even so I put the cup away, The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke, And, nowise sorrowing, I woke While, grey among the ruins grey Chill through the dwellings of the dead, The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea, Then, in a moment, flushed to red, Flushed all the broken minster old, And turned the shattered stones to gold, And wakened half the world with me! L’Envoi. To E. W. G. (Who also had rhymed on the Fortune Islands of Lucian). Each in the self-same field we glean The field of the Samosatene , Each something takes and something leaves And this must choose , and that forego In Lucian’s visionary sheaves , To twine a modern posy so ; But all any gleanings , truth to tell , Are mixed with mournful asphodel , While yours are wreathed with poppies red , With flowers that Helen’s feet have kissed , With leaves of vine that garlanded The Syrian Pantagruelist , The sage who laughed the world away , Who mocked at Gods , and men , and care , More sweet of voice than Rabelais , And lighter-hearted than Voltaire . THE NEW MILLENIUM. ( THE UNFORTUNATE ISLANDS .) A VISION IN THE STRAND. The jaded light of late July Shone yellow down the dusty Strand, The anxious people bustled by, Policeman, Pressman, you and I, And thieves, and judges of the land. So swift they strode they had not time To mark the humours of the Town, But I, that mused an idle rhyme, Looked here and there, and up and down, And many a rapid cart I spied That drew, as fast as ponies can, The Newspapers of either side, These joys of every Englishman! The Standard here, the Echo there, And cultured ev’ning papers fair, With din and fuss and shout and blare Through all the eager land they bare, The rumours of our little span. ’Midst these, but ah, more slow of speed, A biggish box of sanguine hue Was tugged on a velocipede, And in and out the crowd, and through, An earnest stripling urged it well Perched on a cranky tricycle! A seedy tricycle he rode, Perchance some three miles in the hour, But, on the big red box that glowed Behind him, was a name of Power, Justice , (I read it e’er I wist,) The Organ of the Socialist ! The paper carts fled fleetly by And vanished up the roaring Strand, And eager purchasers drew nigh Each with his penny in his hand, But Justice , scarce more fleet than I, Began to permeate the land, And dark, methinks, the twilight fell, Or ever Justice reached Pall Mall. Oh Man, (I stopped to moralize,) How eager thou to fight with Fate, To bring Astraea from the skies; Yet ah, how too inadequate The means by which thou fain wouldst cope With Laws and Morals, King and Pope! “ Justice !”—how prompt the witling’s sneer,— “Justice!  Thou wouldst have Justice here! And each poor man should be a squire, Each with his competence a year, Each with sufficient beef and beer, And all things matched to his desire, While all the Middle Classes should With every vile Capitalist Be clean reformed away for good, And vanish like a morning mist! “Ah splendid Vision, golden time, An end of hunger, cold, and crime. An end of Rent, an end of Rank, An end of balance at the Bank, An end of everything that’s meant To bring Investors five per cent!” How fair doth Justice seem, I cried, Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers That war against on every side Justice, and this great dream of ours, And what have we to plead our cause ’Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws, What but a big red box indeed, With copies of a weekly screed, That’s slowly jolted, up and down, Behind an old velocipede To clamour Justice through the town: How touchingly inadequate These arms wherewith we’d vanquish Fate! Nay, the old Order shall endure And little change the years shall know, And still the Many shall be poor, And still the Poor shall dwell in woe; Firm in the iron Law of things The strong shall be the wealthy still, And (called Capitalists or Kings) Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill. Leaving the weaker for their gain, Leaving the gentler for their prize Such dens and husks as beasts disdain,— Till slowly from the wrinkled skies The fireless frozen Sun shall wane, Nor Summer come with golden grain; Till men be glad, mid frost and snow To live such equal lives of pain As now the hutted Eskimo! Then none shall plough nor garner seed, Then, on some last sad human shore, Equality shall reign indeed, The Rich shall be with us no more, Thus, and not otherwise, shall come The new, the true Millennium! ALMAE MATRES. (ST. ANDREWS, 1862.  OXFORD, 1865) St. Andrews by the Northern sea , A haunted town it is to me ! A little city, worn and grey, The grey North Ocean girds it round. And o’er the rocks, and up the bay, The long sea-rollers surge and sound. And still the thin and biting spray Drives down the melancholy street, And still endure, and still decay, Towers that the salt winds vainly beat. Ghost-like and shadowy they stand Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand. St. Leonard’s chapel, long ago We loitered idly where the tall Fresh budded mountain ashes blow Within thy desecrated wall: The tough roots rent the tomb below, The April birds sang clamorous, We did not dream, we could not know How hardly Fate would deal with us! O, broken minster, looking forth Beyond the bay, above the town, O, winter of the kindly North, O, college of the scarlet gown, And shining sands beside the sea, And stretch of links beyond the sand, Once more I watch you, and to me It is as if I touched his hand! And therefore art thou yet more dear, O, little city, grey and sere, Though shrunken from thine ancient pride And lonely by thy lonely sea, Than these fair halls on Isis’ side, Where Youth an hour came back to me! A land of waters green and clear, Of willows and of poplars tall, And, in the spring time of the year, The white may breaking over all, And Pleasure quick to come at call. And summer rides by marsh and wold, And Autumn with her crimson pall About the towers of Magdalen rolled; And strange enchantments from the past, And memories of the friends of old, And strong Tradition, binding fast The “flying terms” with bands of gold,— All these hath Oxford: all are dear, But dearer far the little town, The drifting surf, the wintry year, The college of the scarlet gown, St. Andrews by the Northern sea , That is a haunted town to me ! DESIDERIUM. IN MEMORIAM S. F. A. The call of homing rooks, the shrill Song of some bird that watches late, The cries of children break the still Sad twilight by the churchyard gate. And o’er your far-off tomb the grey Sad twilight broods, and from the trees The rooks call on their homeward way, And are you heedless quite of these? The clustered rowan berries red And Autumn’s may, the clematis, They droop above your dreaming head, And these, and all things must you miss? Ah, you that loved the twilight air, The dim lit hour of quiet best, At last, at last you have your share Of what life gave so seldom, rest! Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep, Or labour, nearer the Divine, And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep, And gentle as thy soul, is thine! So let it be!  But could I know That thou in this soft autumn eve, This hush of earth that pleased thee so, Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve. RHYMES A LA MODE. BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE. Our youth began with tears and sighs, With seeking what we could not find; Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind: Life’s more amusing than we thought! Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise! Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find Life’s more amusing than we thought! Though youth “turns spectre-thin and dies,” To mourn for youth we’re not inclined; We set our souls on salmon flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind! By Heaven we’re “well deceived,” I wot; Who hum, contented or resigned, “Life’s more amusing than we thought!” Envoy . O nate mecum , worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught; Our hearts are young ’neath wrinkled rind: Life’s more amusing than we thought! 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! 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. 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. Dreamed of the kind propitious sky O’er Ari Innes brooding grey; The sea trout, rushing at the fly, Breaks the black wave with sudden spray! * * * * * 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. 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. And “like a horse unbroken” yet 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. 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, Or where, amid the empty fields, Among the bracken of the glen, Her yellow wreath October yields, To crown the crystal brows of Ken. Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal, 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. My cradle song,—nor 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! TWILIGHT. SONNET. (AFTER RICHEPIN.) Light has flown! Through the grey 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! BALLADE OF SUMMER. TO C. H. ARKCOLL When strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And far from Fleet Street, far from here, The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, And moonlit nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! When clamour that doves in the lindens keep Mingles with musical plash of the weir, Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose-hung hedges on either hand, Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer, Where kine knee deep in the water stand, On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! Envoy . Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! 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! 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. Oh, 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! Envoy . Friend, sursum corda , soon or slow We part, like guests who’ve joyed their fill; Forget them not, nor mourn them so, The ghosts we all can raise at will! LOVE’S EASTER. SONNET 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! BALLADE OF THE GIRTON GIRL. She has just “put her gown on” at Girton, She is learned in Latin and Greek, But lawn tennis she plays with a skirt on That the prudish remark with a shriek. In her accents, perhaps, she is weak (Ladies are , one observes with a sigh), But in Algebra— there she’s unique, But her forte’s to evaluate π. She can talk about putting a “spirt on” (I admit, an unmaidenly freak), And she dearly delighteth to flirt on A punt in some shadowy creek; Should her bark, by mischance, spring a leak, She can swim as a swallow can fly; She can fence, she can put with a cleek, But her forte’s to evaluate π. She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton, Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique, Old tiles with the secular dirt on, Old marbles with noses to seek. And her Cobet she quotes by the week, And she’s written on κεν and on καὶ, And her service is swift and oblique, But her forte’s to evaluate π. Envoy . Princess, like a rose is her cheek, And her eyes are as blue as the sky, And I’d speak, had I courage to speak, But—her forte’s to evaluate pi. RONSARD’S GRAVE. Ye wells, ye founts that fall From the steep mountain wall, That fall, and flash, and fleet With silver feet, Ye woods, ye streams that lave The meadows with your wave, Ye hills, and valley fair, Attend my prayer! When Heaven and Fate decree My latest hour for me, When I must pass away From pleasant day, I ask that none my break The marble for my sake, Wishful to make more fair My sepulchre. Only a laurel tree Shall shade the grave of me, Only Apollo’s bough Shall guard me now! Now shall I be at rest Among the spirits blest, The happy dead that dwell— Where,—who may tell? The snow and wind and hail May never there prevail, Nor ever thunder fall Nor storm at all. But always fadeless there The woods are green and fair, And faithful ever more Spring to that shore! There shall I ever hear Alcaeus’ music clear, And sweetest of all things There Sappho sings. 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 long 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 grey. 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. ROMANCE. My Love dwelt in a Northern land. A grey tower in a forest green Was hers, and far on either hand The long wash of the waves was seen, And leagues on leagues of yellow sand, The woven forest boughs between! And through the silver Northern night The sunset slowly died away, And herds of strange deer, lily-white, Stole forth among the branches grey; About the coming of the light, They fled like ghosts before the day! I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle grey; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the grass is green, My heart is colder than the clay! BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY. I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves Among the shining salmon-flies; A song for summer-time that grieves I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves. Between grey sea and golden sheaves, Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies, I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves Among the shining salmon-flies. TO C. H. ARKCOLL Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed By the odour of myrrh on the breeze; In the isles of the East and the West That are sweet with the cinnamon trees Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas; Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete, We are more than content, if you please, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best With the scent of the limes, when the bees Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest, While the vintagers lay at their ease, Had he sung in our northern degrees, He’d have sought a securer retreat, He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest And the daffodil’s fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But we , that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! Envoy . Ah Constance, the land of our quest It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat! VILLANELLE (TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”) Villanelle , why art thou mute? Hath the singer ceased to sing? Hath the Master lost his lute? Many a pipe and scrannel flute On the breeze their discords fling; Villanelle, why art thou mute? Sound of tumult and dispute, Noise of war the echoes bring; Hath the Master lost his lute? Once he sang of bud and shoot In the season of the Spring; Villanelle, why art thou mute? Fading leaf and falling fruit Say, “The year is on the wing, Hath the Master lost his lute?” Ere the axe lie at the root, Ere the winter come as king, Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the Master lost his lute? TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS. Αίαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾱπον ὄλωνται ὕστερον άυ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι άμμες δ’ οι μεγάλοι καὶ χαρτερί οι σοφοὶ ἄνδρες ὁππότε πρᾱτα θάνωμες άνάχοοι ἔν χθονὶ χοίλα ‘εύδομες ἔυ μάλα μαχρὸν ἀπέμονα νήγρετον ‘ύπνον. Alas , for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed, For these the grave has lost his sting, Alas, for us no second spring, Who sleep without awakening, And, dead, for ever more are dead, Alas, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed! Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave That boast themselves the sons of men! Once they go down into the grave— Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,— They perish and have none to save, They are sown, and are not raised again; Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, That boast themselves the sons of men! BALLADE OF CRICKET. TO T. W. LANG. 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!” 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!” 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!” Envoy . Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither shore Would 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!” THE LAST MAYING. “It is told of the last Lovers which watched May-night in the forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this land, that they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but the very Venus herself, who bade them ‘make such cheer as they might, for’ said she, ‘I shall live no more in these Woods, nor shall ye endure to see another May time.’”— Edmund Gorliot , “Of Phantasies and Omens,” p. 149.  (1573.) “ Whence do ye come, with the dew on your hair? From what far land are the boughs ye bear, The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses, The light burned white in your faces fair?” “In a falling fane have we built our house, With the dying Gods we have held carouse, And our lips are wan from their wild caresses, Our hands are filled with their holy boughs. As we crossed the lawn in the dying day No fairy led us to meet the May, But the very Goddess loved by lovers, In mourning raiment of green and grey. She was not decked as for glee and game, She was not veiled with the veil of flame, The saffron veil of the Bride that covers The face that is flushed with her joy and shame. On the laden branches the scent and dew Mingled and met, and as snow to strew The woodland rides and the fragrant grasses, White flowers fell as the night wind blew. Tears and kisses on lips and eyes Mingled and met amid laughter and sighs For grief that abides, and joy that passes, For pain that tarries and mirth that flies. It chanced as the dawning grew to grey Pale and sad on our homeward way, With weary lips, and palled with pleasure The Goddess met us, farewell to say. “Ye have made your choice, and the better part, Ye chose” she said, “and the wiser art; In the wild May night drank all the measure, The perfect pleasure of heart and heart. “Ye shall walk no more with the May,” she said, “Shall your love endure though the Gods be dead? Shall the flitting flocks, mine own, my chosen, Sing as of old, and be happy and wed? “Yea, they are glad as of old; but you, Fair and fleet as the dawn or the dew, Abide no more, for the springs are frozen, And fled the Gods that ye loved and knew. Ye shall never know Summer again like this; Ye shall play no more with the Fauns, I wis, No more in the nymphs’ and dryads’ playtime Shall echo and answer kiss and kiss. “Though the flowers in your golden hair be bright, Your golden hair shall be waste and white On faded brows ere another May time Bring the spring, but no more delight.” 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 Mycenæ, 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! IN TINTAGEL. LUI. Ah lady, lady, leave the creeping mist, And leave the iron castle by the sea! ELLE. Nay, from the sea there came a ghost that kissed My lips, and so I cannot come to thee! LUI. Ah lady, leave the cruel landward wind That crusts the blighted flowers with bitter foam! ELLE. Nay, for his arms are cold and strong to bind, And I must dwell with him and make my home! LUI. Come, for the Spring is fair in Joyous Guard And down deep alleys sweet birds sing again. ELLE. But I must tarry with the winter hard, And with the bitter memory of pain, Although the Spring be fair in Joyous Guard, And in the gardens glad birds sing again! PISIDICÊ. The incident is from the Love Stories of Parthenius, who preserved fragments of a lost epic on the expedition of Achilles against Lesbos, an island allied with Troy. The daughter of the Lesbian king Within her bower she watched the war, Far off she heard the arrows ring, The smitten harness ring afar; And, fighting from the foremost car, Saw one that smote where all must flee; More fair than the Immortals are He seemed to fair Pisidicê! She saw, she loved him, and her heart Before Achilles, Peleus’ son, Threw all its guarded gates apart, A maiden fortress lightly won! And, ere that day of fight was done, No more of land or faith recked she, But joyed in her new life begun,— Her life of love, Pisidicê! She took a gift into her hand, As one that had a boon to crave; She stole across the ruined land Where lay the dead without a grave, And to Achilles’ hand she gave Her gift, the secret postern’s key. “To-morrow let me be thy slave!” Moaned to her love Pisidicê. Ere dawn the Argives’ clarion call Rang down Methymna’s burning street; They slew the sleeping warriors all, They drove the women to the fleet, Save one, that to Achilles’ feet Clung, but, in sudden wrath, cried he: “For her no doom but death is meet,” And there men stoned Pisidicê. In havens of that haunted coast, Amid the myrtles of the shore, The moon sees many a maiden ghost Love’s outcast now and evermore. The silence hears the shades deplore Their hour of dear-bought love; but thee The waves lull, ’neath thine olives hoar, To dreamless rest, Pisidicê!

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