Ballades & Rhymes from Ballades in Blue China and Rhymes a la Mode

VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS. BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH. (OLD FRENCH.) Money taketh town and wall, Fort and ramp without a blow; Money moves the merchants all, While the tides shall ebb and flow; Money maketh Evil show Like the Good, and Truth like lies: These alone can ne’er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise. Money maketh festival, Wine she buys, and beds can strow; Round the necks of captains tall, Money wins them chains to throw, Marches soldiers to and fro, Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes: These alone can ne’er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise. Money wins the priest his stall; Money mitres buys, I trow, Red hats for the Cardinal, Abbeys for the novice low; Money maketh sin as snow, Place of penitence supplies: These alone can ne’er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise. BALLADE OF LIFE. “‘Dead and gone,’—a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life.” Death’s Jest Book . Say, fair maids, maying In gardens green, In deep dells straying, What end hath been Two Mays between Of the flowers that shone And your own sweet queen— “They are dead and gone!” Say, grave priests, praying In dule and teen, From cells decaying What have ye seen Of the proud and mean, Of Judas and John, Of the foul and clean?— “They are dead and gone!” Say, kings, arraying Loud wars to win, Of your manslaying What gain ye glean? “They are fierce and keen, But they fall anon, On the sword that lean,— They are dead and gone!” ENVOY. Through the mad world’s scene, We are drifting on, To this tune, I ween, “They are dead and gone!” BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA. There’s a joy without canker or cark, There’s a pleasure eternally new, ’Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that’s ancient and blue; Unchipp’d all the centuries through It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang, And they fashion’d it, figure and hue, In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. These dragons (their tails, you remark, Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),— When Noah came out of the ark, Did these lie in wait for his crew? They snorted, they snapp’d, and they slew, They were mighty of fin and of fang, And their portraits Celestials drew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. Here’s a pot with a cot in a park, In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, Where the lovers eloped in the dark, Lived, died, and were changed into two Bright birds that eternally flew Through the boughs of the may, as they sang: ’Tis a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. ENVOY. Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, Kind critic, your “tongue has a tang” But—a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES. (AFTER VILLON.) Nay, tell me now in what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day. Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has passed away? Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,—around, below? Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year’s snow? Where is wise Héloïse, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders grey; And where’s the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way— Nay, but where is the last year’s snow? Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay? Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her?  No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year’s snow? ENVOY. Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know. One burden answers, ever and aye, “Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?” VILLON’S BALLADE OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE. Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You’ll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry. All evil folks that love a lie! And where goes gain that greed amasses, By wile, and trick, and thievery? ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With myst’ry and morality ; Win gold at gleek ,—and that will fly, Where all you gain at passage passes,— And that’s?  You know as well as I, ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you’ve no clerkly skill to ply; You’ll gain enough, with husbandry, But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses, And where goes all you take thereby?— ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! ENVOY. Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpasses, Or ere they’re worn, off, off they fly, ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses! BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM. Far in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with books upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more! The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! The Books I loved, I love them still! One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) The Love of Books, the Golden Key That opens the Enchanted Door; Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill, And there is all ALADDIN’S store,— The Books I loved, I love them still! Take all, but leave my Books to me! These heavy creels of old we bore We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muses’ hill; Though something’s gone from stream and shore, The Books I loved, I love them still! ENVOY. Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved—to love them still. VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE. The soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like streams that flow, The ocean dark as wine, To my true love to whisper low, To be your Valentine. The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, “I’ll send an April day,” she said, “To lands of wintry woe.” He came,—the winter’s overthrow With showers that sing and shine, Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine. Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, ’Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead, By the Nile’s overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost her foe, To be your Valentine. ENVOY. Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, Their various voice combine; But that they crave on me bestow, To be your Valentine. BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS. ( Les Œuvres de Monsieur Molière . A Paris , chez Louys Billaine , à la Palme . M.D.C. LXVI. ) LA COUR. When these Old Plays were new, the King, Beside the Cardinal’s chair, Applauded, ’mid the courtly ring, The verses of Molière; Point-lace was then the only wear, Old Corneille came to woo, And bright Du Parc was young and fair, When these Old Plays were new! LA COMÉDIE. How shrill the butcher’s cat-calls ring, How loud the lackeys swear! Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling, At Brécourt, fuming there! The Porter’s stabbed! a Mousquetaire Breaks in with noisy crew— ’Twas all a commonplace affair When these Old Plays were new! LA VILLE. When these Old Plays were new!  They bring A host of phantoms rare: Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, Old faces peaked with care: Ménage’s smirk, de Visé’s stare, The thefts of Jean Ribou,— [66] Ah, publishers were hard to bear When these Old Plays were new. ENVOY. Ghosts, at your Poet’s word ye dare To break Death’s dungeons through, And frisk, as in that golden air, When these Old Plays were new! BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS. Here stand my books, line upon line They reach the roof, and row by row, They speak of faded tastes of mine, And things I did, but do not, know: Old school books, useless long ago, Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in, Could scarcely answer “yes” or “no”— The many things I’ve tried and failed in! Here’s Villon, in morocco fine, (The Poet starved, in mud and snow,) Glatigny does not crave to dine, And René’s tears forget to flow. And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe, With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in; Ah, all my ghosts have gone below— The many things I’ve tried and failed in! He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine, The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow; And here the arms of D’Hoym shine, And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau: Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe” (The first edition, this, he wailed in); I once believed in him—but oh, The many things I’ve tried and failed in! ENVOY. Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine Quite other balances are scaled in; May you succeed, though I repine— “The many things I’ve tried and failed in!” BALLADE OF THE DREAM. Swift as sound of music fled When no more the organ sighs, Sped as all old days are sped, So your lips, love, and your eyes, So your gentle-voiced replies Mine one hour in sleep that seem, Rise and flit when slumber flies, Following darkness like a dream ! Like the scent from roses red, Like the dawn from golden skies, Like the semblance of the dead From the living love that hies, Like the shifting shade that lies On the moonlight-silvered stream, So you rise when dreams arise, Following darkness like a dream ! Could some spell, or sung or said, Could some kindly witch and wise, Lull for aye this dreaming head In a mist of memories, I would lie like him who lies Where the lights on Latmos gleam,— Wake not, find not Paradise Following darkness like a dream ! ENVOY. Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies, Shadowy bounties and supreme, Bring the dearest face that flies Following darkness like a dream ! BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS. Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; Our bolt is shot, our tale is told, Our ship of state in storms may toss, But ye are young if we are old, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! Ay, we must dwindle and decrease, Such fates the ruthless years unfold; And yet we shall not wholly cease, We shall not perish unconsoled; Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold Within the sea’s inviolate fosse, And boast her sons of English mould, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! All empires tumble—Rome and Greece— Their swords are rust, their altars cold! For us, the Children of the Seas, Who ruled where’er the waves have rolled, For us, in Fortune’s books enscrolled, I read no runes of hopeless loss; Nor—while ye last—our knell is tolled, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! ENVOY. Britannia, when thy hearth’s a-cold, When o’er thy grave has grown the moss, Still Rule Australia shall be trolled In Islands of the Southern Cross! BALLADE OF AUCASSIN Where smooth the southern waters run By rustling leagues of poplars grey, Beneath a veiled soft southern sun, We wandered out of yesterday, Went maying through that ancient May Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet, And loitered by the fountain spray With Aucassin and Nicolette. The grass-grown paths are trod of none Where through the woods they went astray. The spider’s traceries are spun Across the darkling forest way. There come no knights that ride to slay, No pilgrims through the grasses wet, No shepherd lads that sang their say With Aucassin and Nicolette! ’Twas here by Nicolette begun Her bower of boughs and grasses gay; ’Scaped from the cell of marble dun ’Twas here the lover found the fay, Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play! How hard we find it to forget Who fain would dwell with them as they, With Aucassin and Nicolette. ENVOY. Prince, ’tis a melancholy lay! For youth, for love we both regret. How fair they seem, how far away, With Aucassin and Nicolette! BALLADE AMOUREUSE. AFTER FROISSART. Not Jason nor Medea wise, I crave to see, nor win much lore, Nor list to Orpheus’ minstrelsies; Nor Her’cles would I see, that o’er The wide world roamed from shore to shore; Nor, by St. James, Penelope,— Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: To see my Love suffices me! Virgil and Cato, no man vies With them in wealth of clerkly store; I would not see them with mine eyes; Nor him that sailed, sans sail nor oar, Across the barren sea and hoar, And all for love of his ladye; Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more: To see my Love suffices me! I heed not Pegasus, that flies As swift as shafts the bowmen pour; Nor famed Pygmalion’s artifice, Whereof the like was ne’er before; Nor Oléus, that drank of yore The salt wave of the whole great sea: Why? dost thou ask?  ’Tis as I swore— To see my Love suffices me! BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE. The modish Airs, The Tansey Brew, The Swains and Fairs In curtained Pew; Nymphs Kneller drew, Books Bentley read,— Who knows them, who? Queen Anne is dead! We buy her Chairs, Her China blue, Her red-brick Squares We build anew; But ah! we rue, When all is said, The tale o’er-true, Queen Anne is dead! Now Bulls and Bears , A ruffling Crew, With Stocks and Shares, With Turk and Jew, Go bubbling through The Town ill-bred: The World’s askew, Queen Anne is dead! ENVOY. Friend, praise the new; The old is fled: Vivat Frou - Frou ! Queen Anne is dead! BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE. (AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.) Who have loved and ceased to love, forget That ever they loved in their lives, they say; Only remember the fever and fret, And the pain of Love, that was all his pay; All the delight of him passes away From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met— Too late did I love you, my love, and yet I shall never forget till my dying day. Too late were we ‘ware of the secret net That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray; There were we taken and snared, Lisette, In the dungeon of La Fausse Amistié ; Help was there none in the wide world’s fray, Joy was there none in the gift and the debt; Too late we knew it, too long regret— I shall never forget till my dying day! We must live our lives, though the sun be set, Must meet in the masque where parts we play, Must cross in the maze of Life’s minuet; Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay: But while snows of winter or flowers of May Are the sad year’s shroud or coronet, In the season of rose or of violet, I shall never forget till my dying day! ENVOY. Queen, when the clay is my coverlet, When I am dead, and when you are grey, Vow, where the grass of the grave is wet, “I shall never forget till my dying day!” BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE. Here I’d come when weariest! Here the breast Of the Windburg’s tufted over Deep with bracken; here his crest Takes the west, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover. Silent here are lark and plover; In the cover Deep below the cushat best Loves his mate, and croons above her O’er their nest, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover. Bring me here, Life’s tired-out guest, To the blest Bed that waits the weary rover, Here should failure be confessed; Ends my quest, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover! ENVOY. Friend, or stranger kind, or lover, Ah, fulfil a last behest, Let me rest Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover! DIZAIN. As , to the pipe , with rhythmic feet In windings of some old-world dance , The smiling couples cross and meet , Join hands , and then in line advance , So , to these fair old tunes of France , Through all their maze of to-and-fro , The light-heeled numbers laughing go , Retreat , return , and ere they flee , One moment pause in panting row , And seem to say—Vos plaudite ! A. D. VERSES AND TRANSLATIONS. Oronte — Ce ne sont point de ces grands vers pompeux , Mais de petits vers ! “Le Misanthrope,” Acte i., Sc. 2. A PORTRAIT OF 1783. Your hair and chin are like the hair And chin Burne-Jones’s ladies wear; You were unfashionably fair In ’83; 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;’ [88] So Rouget sang—while yet he played 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 ’93. THE MOON’S MINION. (FROM THE PROSE OF C. BAUDELAIRE.) Thine eyes are like the sea, my dear, The wand’ring waters, green and grey; Thine eyes are wonderful and clear, And deep, and deadly, even as they; The spirit of the changeful sea Informs thine eyes at night and noon, She sways the tides, and the heart of thee, The mystic, sad, capricious Moon! The Moon came down the shining stair Of clouds that fleck the summer sky, She kissed thee, saying, “Child, be fair, And madden men’s hearts, even as I; Thou shalt love all things strange and sweet, That know me and are known of me; The lover thou shalt never meet, The land where thou shalt never be!” She held thee in her chill embrace, She kissed thee with cold lips divine, She left her pallor on thy face, That mystic ivory face of thine; And now I sit beside thy feet, And all my heart is far from thee, Dreaming of her I shall not meet, And of the land I shall not see! 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. THE BURIAL OF MOLIÈRE. (AFTER J. TRUFFIER.) Dead—he is dead!  The rouge has left a trace On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear, Even while the people laughed that held him dear But yesterday.  He died,—and not in grace, And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace To slander him whose Tartuffe made them fear, And gold must win a passage for his bier, And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place. Ah, Molière, for that last time of all, Man’s hatred broke upon thee, and went by, And did but make more fair thy funeral. Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily, Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall, For torch, the stars along the windy sky! BION. The wail of Moschus on the mountains crying The Muses heard, and loved it long ago; They heard the hollows of the hills replying, They heard the weeping water’s overflow; They winged the sacred strain—the song undying, The song that all about the world must go,— When poets for a poet dead are sighing, The minstrels for a minstrel friend laid low. And dirge to dirge that answers, and the weeping For Adonais by the summer sea, The plaints for Lycidas, and Thyrsis (sleeping Far from ‘the forest ground called Thessaly’), These hold thy memory, Bion, in their keeping, And are but echoes of the moan for thee. SPRING. (AFTER MELEAGER.) Now the bright crocus flames, and now The slim narcissus takes the rain, And, straying o’er the mountain’s brow, The daffodilies bud again. The thousand blossoms wax and wane On wold, and heath, and fragrant bough, But fairer than the flowers art thou, Than any growth of hill or plain. Ye gardens, cast your leafy crown, That my Love’s feet may tread it down, Like lilies on the lilies set; My Love, whose lips are softer far Than drowsy poppy petals are, And sweeter than the violet! BEFORE THE SNOW. (AFTER ALBERT GLATIGNY.) The winter is upon us, not the snow, The hills are etched on the horizon bare, The skies are iron grey, a bitter air, The meagre cloudlets shudder to and fro. One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow, Like some strange butterfly, unclassed and rare. Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where The black trees seem to shiver as you go. Beyond lie church and steeple, with their old And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer, A sharper gust would shake them from their hold, Yet up that path, in summer of the year, And past that melancholy pile we strolled To pluck wild strawberries, with merry cheer. VILLANELLE. TO LUCIA. Apollo left the golden Muse And shepherded a mortal’s sheep, Theocritus of Syracuse! To mock the giant swain that woo’s The sea-nymph in the sunny deep, Apollo left the golden Muse. Afield he drove his lambs and ewes, Where Milon and where Battus reap, Theocritus of Syracuse! To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise Below the dim Sicilian steep Apollo left the golden Muse. Ye twain did loiter in the dews, Ye slept the swain’s unfever’d sleep, Theocritus of Syracuse! That Time might half with his confuse Thy songs,—like his, that laugh and leap,— Theocritus of Syracuse, Apollo left the golden Muse! NATURAL THEOLOGY. ἐπει καὶ τοῦτον ὀῖομαι ἀθανάτοισιν ἔυχεσθαι·.  Πάντες δὲ θεῶν χατέουσ’ ἄνθρωποι. 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 soft 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. 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 Ææan 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. 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 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. THE FAIRY’S GIFT. “Take short views.”— Sydney Smith . The Fays that to my christ’ning came (For come they did, my nurses taught me), They did not bring me wealth or fame, ’Tis very little that they brought me. But one, the crossest of the crew, The ugly old one, uninvited, Said, “I shall be avenged on you , My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!” With magic juices did she lave Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure. Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave, Hers is the present that I treasure! The bore whom others fear and flee, I do not fear, I do not flee him; I pass him calm as calm can be; I do not cut—I do not see him! And with my feeble eyes and dim, Where you see patchy fields and fences, For me the mists of Turner swim— My “azure distance” soon commences! Nay, as I blink about the streets Of this befogged and miry city, Why, almost every girl one meets Seems preternaturally pretty! “Try spectacles,” one’s friends intone; “You’ll see the world correctly through them.” But I have visions of my own, And not for worlds would I undo them. 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. 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. And yet on many a lattice pane ‘Fair Benedetta,’ scrawled in vain By lovers’ diamonds, must remain To tell us you were cruel. [108] But who, of all 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! 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, watched a crew Of rosy little Days! 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! PARTANT POUR LA SCRIBIE. [Scribie, on the north-east littoral of Bohemia, is the land of stage conventions.  It is named after the discoverer, M. Scribe.] A pleasant land is Scribie, where The light comes mostly from below, And seems a sort of symbol rare Of things at large, and how they go, In rooms where doors are everywhere And cupboards shelter friend or foe. This is a realm where people tell Each other, when they chance to meet, Of things that long ago befell— And do most solemnly repeat Secrets they both know very well, Aloud, and in the public street! A land where lovers go in fours, Master and mistress, man and maid; Where people listen at the doors Or ’neath a table’s friendly shade, And comic Irishmen in scores Roam o’er the scenes all undismayed: A land where Virtue in distress Owes much to uncles in disguise; Where British sailors frankly bless Their limbs, their timbers, and their eyes; And where the villain doth confess, Conveniently, before he dies! A land of lovers false and gay; A land where people dread a “curse;” A land of letters gone astray, Or intercepted, which is worse; Where weddings false fond maids betray, And all the babes are changed at nurse. Oh, happy land, where things come right! We of the world where things go ill; Where lovers love, but don’t unite; Where no one finds the Missing Will— Dominion of the heart’s delight, Scribie, we’ve loved, and love thee still! ST. ANDREW’S BAY. NIGHT. Ah, listen through the music, from the shore, The “melancholy long-withdrawing roar”; Beneath the Minster, and the windy caves, The wide North Ocean, marshalling his waves Even so forlorn—in worlds beyond our ken— May sigh the seas that are not heard of men; Even so forlorn, prophetic of man’s fate, Sounded the cold sea-wave disconsolate, When none but God might hear the boding tone, As God shall hear the long lament alone, When all is done, when all the tale is told, And the gray sea-wave echoes as of old! MORNING. This was the burden of the Night, The saying of the sea, But lo! the hours have brought the light, The laughter of the waves, the flight Of dipping sea-birds, foamy white, That are so glad to be! “Forget!” the happy creatures cry, “Forget Night’s monotone, With us be glad in sea and sky, The days are thine, the days that fly, The days God gives to know him by, And not the Night alone!” WOMAN AND THE WEED. (FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND MYTH.) In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes began, How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man! From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam, There was nobody waiting to welcome him home; For the Man had been made, but the woman had not , And Earth was a highly detestable spot. Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled, They did not converse but they struggled and howled, For Man had no tact—he would ne’er take a hint, And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint. So Man was alone, and he wished he could see On the Earth some one like him, but fairer than he, With locks like the red gold, a smile like the sun, To welcome him back when his hunting was done. And he sighed for a voice that should answer him still, Like the affable Echo he heard on the hill: That should answer him softly and always agree, And oh , Man reflected, how nice it would be ! So he prayed to the Gods, and they stooped to his prayer, And they spoke to the Sun on his way through the air, And he married the Echo one fortunate morn, And Woman, their beautiful daughter, was born! The daughter of Sunshine and Echo she came With a voice like a song, with a face like a flame; With a face like a flame, and a voice like a song, And happy was Man, but it was not for long! For weather’s a painfully changeable thing, Not always the child of the Echo would sing; And the face of the Sun may be hidden with mist, And his child can be terribly cross if she list. And unfortunate Man had to learn with surprise That a frown’s not peculiar to masculine eyes; That the sweetest of voices can scold and can sneer, And cannot be answered—like men—with a spear. So Man went and called to the Gods in his woe, And they answered him—“Sir, you would needs have it so: And the thing must go on as the thing has begun, She’s immortal—your child of the Echo and Sun. But we’ll send you another, and fairer is she, This maiden with locks that are flowing and free. This maiden so gentle, so kind, and so fair, With a flower like a star in the night of her hair. With her eyes like the smoke that is misty and blue, With her heart that is heavenly, and tender, and true. She will die in the night, but no need you should mourn, You shall bury her body and thence shall be born A weed that is green, that is fragrant and fair, With a flower like the star in the night of her hair. And the leaves must ye burn till they offer to you Soft smoke, like her eyes that are misty and blue. “And the smoke shall ye breathe and no more shall ye fret, But the child of the Echo and Sun shall forget: Shall forget all the trouble and torment she brings, Shall bethink ye of none but delectable things; And the sound of the wars with your brethren shall cease, While ye smoke by the camp-fire the great pipe of peace.” So the last state of Man was by no means the worst, The second gift softened the sting of the first. Nor the child of the Echo and Sun doth he heed When he dreams with the Maid that was changed to the weed; Though the Echo be silent, the Sun in a mist, The Maid is the fairest that ever was kissed. And when tempests are over and ended the rain, And the child of the Sunshine is sunny again, He comes back, glad at heart, and again is at one With the changeable child of the Echo and Sun. RHYMES À LA MODE 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. 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 doth 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 Fortunate 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 my 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 . ALMAE MATRES. 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 À 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 .

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