Chapter D: F. Blomfield

A SINGING LESSON.

Far-fetched and dear bought, as the proverb rehearses,
Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but nought
In a song can be good if the turn of the verse is
Far-fetched and dear bought.

As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thought
Ring smooth, and as light as the spray that disperses
Be the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought.

Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it pierces
Men's hearts with possession of music unsought;
For the bounties of song are no jealous god's mercies,
Far-fetched and dear bought.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

IN GUERNSEY.

(To Theodore Watts.)

I.

The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors,
Storm-stained ravines, and crags that lawns inlay,
Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard secures
The heavenly bay.

O friend, shall time take even this away,
This blessing given of beauty that endures,
This glory shown us, not to pass but stay?

Though sight be changed for memory, love ensures
What memory, changed by love to sight, would say--
The word that seals for ever mine and yours,
The heavenly bay.

II.

My mother sea, my fortress, what new strand,
What new delight of waters, may this be,
The fairest found since time's first breezes fanned
My mother sea?

Once more I give me body and soul to thee,
Who hast my soul for ever: cliff and sand
Recede, and heart to heart once more are we.

My heart springs first and plunges, ere my hand
Strike out from shore: more close it brings to me,
More near and dear than seems my fatherland,
My mother sea.
Across and along, as the bay's breadth opens, and o'er us
Wild autumn exults in the wind, swift rapture and strong
Impels us, and broader the wide waves brighten before us
Across and along.

The whole world's heart is uplifted, and knows not wrong;
The whole world's life is a chant to the sea-tide's chorus;
Are we not as waves of the water, as notes of the song?

Like children unworn of the passions and toils that wore us,
We breast for a season the breadth of the seas that throng,
Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old they bore us
Across and along.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE ROUNDEL.

A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere,
With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought,
That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear
A roundel is wrought.

Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught--
Love, laughter, or mourning--remembrance of rapture or fear--
That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought.

As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear--
Pause answers to pause, and again the same strain caught,
So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear,
A roundel is wrought.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

NOTHING SO SWEET.

Nothing so sweet in all the world there is
Than this-to stand apart in Love's retreat
And gaze at Love. There is as that, ywis,
Nothing so sweet.

Yet surely God hath placed before our feet
Some sweeter sweetness and completer bliss,
And something that shall prove more truly meet.

Soothly I know not:-when the live lips kiss
There is no more that our prayers shall entreat,
Save only Death. Perhaps there is as this
Nothing so sweet.

CHARLES SAYLE.

THE TRYSTING-TREE.

Meet me, love, where the woodbines grow
And where the wild rose smells most sweet;
And the breezes, as they softliest blow,
Meet;

Passing along through the field of wheat,
By the hedge where in spring the violets glow,
And the blue-bells blossom around one's feet;

Where latest lingers the drifted snow,
And the fir-tree grows o'er our trysting-seat,
Come-and your love, as long ago,
Meet.

CHARLES SAYLE.

A ROUNDEL OF REST.

If rest is sweet at shut of day
For tired hands and tired feet,
How sweet at last to rest for aye,
If rest is sweet!

We work or work not through the heat:
Death bids us soon our labours lay
In lands where night and twilight meet.

When the last dawns are fallen on grey
And all life's toils and ease complete,
They know who work, not they who play,
If rest is sweet.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

MORS ET VITA.

We know not yet what life shall be,
What shore beyond earth's shore be set;
What grief awaits us, or what glee,
We know not yet.

Still, somewhere in sweet converse met,
Old friends, we say, beyond death's sea
Shall meet and greet us, nor forget

Those days of yore, those years when we
Were loved and true,-but will death let
Our eyes the longed-for vision see?
We know not yet.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

RONDELS OF CHILDHOOD.

I.-WHEN CLARICE DIED.

When Clarice died, and it was told to me,
I only covered up my face, and sighed
To lose the world and cease to breathe or see,
When Clarice died.

She was my playmate, sweet, and thoughtful-eyed,
With curls, gold curls, that fluttered wild and free;
My child companion and most tender guide.

When Clarice died I wandered wearily
Down the mute grove where she was wont to hide,
And cast myself beneath her favourite tree,
When Clarice died.

BERNARD WELLER.

II.-IN A FAIRY BOAT.

In a fairy boat on a fairy sea,
All amber and gold, I used to float
When never a wind rose stormily;
In a fairy boat.

And sweet and sad like a white dove's note
Strange voices wakened my soul to glee,
And soft scents strayed from the violets' throat.

In a fairy boat I shall no more be,
For gloom has fallen on creek and moat,
And my tired soul's too heavy to flee
In a fairy boat.

BERNARD WELLER.

#The Sestina.#

"_La sextine en général sera l'expression d'une rêverie, dans
laquelle la même idée, les mêmes objets se représenteront
successivement à l'esprit avec des nuances diverses jouant et se
transformant par d'harmonieuses gradations._"

--DE GRAMONT.

SESTINA.

When from the portals of her paradise
Sweet Eve went forth an exile with sad heart,
She lingered at the thrice-barred gate in tears,
And to the guardian of that Eden fair,
As on her cheeks there came and went the rose,
She weeping mourned the harshness of her fate.

"O angel," cried she, "bitter is the fate
That drives me from this fairest paradise,
And bids me wear life's rue and not its rose!
Give me one flower to lay upon my heart
Before I wander through far lands less fair,
And drown all visions of my past in tears."

She ceased, but still flowed fast her silent tears
At memory of the waywardness of fate.
"Ah," thought she, "young I am, 'tis true, and fair,
But shall I find another paradise?"
Then turning once again with trembling heart,
She spake: "O angel, but a rose-one rose!"

Within the angel's breast compassion rose
At sight of her sad face and falling tears,
The while her beauty touched his tender heart,
And knowing well the misery of her fate,
He gave the flower, a rose of paradise,
Because she was so very young and fair.

And since that time there may be flowers as fair,
But they must all yield fealty to the rose,
The red, red rose that bloomed in paradise,
That Eve in exile watered with her tears,
The only blossom in her cheerless fate,
The one flower in the desert of her heart.

And into every mortal's life and heart
There come some time, in cloudy days or fair,
It matters not, to bless and light his fate
For one short space, the perfume of the rose;
And though the after years may bring but tears,
That moment's pleasure is of paradise.

O wondrous rose of love most passing fair,
Whate'er our fate in earthly paradise,
Grant that our tears be dewdrops in thy heart.

FLORENCE M. BYRNE.

LOVE'S GOING.

(Sestina.)

Love lies a-sleeping: maiden, softly sing,
Lest he should waken; pluck the falling rose
A-brushing 'gainst his cheek, her glowing heart
Ope'd to the sun's hot kisses-foolish thing,
To list the tale oft told!-but summer goes,
And all the roses' petals fall apart.

Love lies a-sleeping: let the curtains part
So that the breeze may lightly to him sing
A lullaby-the changeful breeze that goes
A-whispering through the grass, where'er it rose,
Where'er it listeth bound, a wilful thing,
Low murmuring sweets from an inconstant heart.

Love lies a-sleeping: press the pulsing heart
That beats against thy bosom: stand apart
And stay thine eager breath, lest anything
Should mar his rest-the songs that lovers sing,
The tale the butterfly tells to the rose,
The low wind to the grass, and onward goes.

Love lies a-sleeping: ah, how swiftly goes
The sweet delusion he hath taught thy heart,
Fair maiden, pressing to thy breast the rose
Whose sun-kiss'd petals sadly fall apart
With thy quick breath! That rhyme wouldst hear him sing
Which yesterday seem'd such a foolish thing?

Love lies a-sleeping: nay, for such a thing
Break not his slumber. See how sweetly goes
That smile across his lips, that will not sing
For very wilfulness. Love hath no heart!
If he should wake, these red-ripe lips would part
In laughter low to see this ravish'd rose.

Love lies a-sleeping: so the full-blown rose
Falls to the earth a dead unpitied thing;
The grasses 'neath the breeze deep-sighing part
And sway; and as thy warm breath comes and goes
In motion with the red tides of thy heart,
The song is hush'd which Love was wont to sing.

Love lies a-sleeping: thus in dreams he goes;
Strive not to waken him, but tell thy heart,
"Love lies a-sleeping, and he may not sing."

CHARLES W. COLEMAN, JUN.

SESTINA.

To F. H.

"'_Fra tutte il primo Arnoldo Daniello
Grand maestro d'amor._'"-PETRARCH.

In fair Provence, the land of lute and rose,
Arnaut, great master of the lore of love,
First wrought sestines to win his lady's heart;
For she was deaf when simpler staves he sang,
And for her sake he broke the bonds of rhyme,
And in this subtler measure hid his woe.

'Harsh be my lines,' cried Arnaut, 'harsh the woe,
My lady, that enthron'd and cruel rose,
Inflicts on him that made her live in rhyme!'
But through the metre spake the voice of Love,
And like a wild-wood nightingale he sang
Who thought in crabbed lays to ease his heart.

It is not told if her untoward heart
Was melted by her poet's lyric woe,
Or if in vain so amorously he sang.
Perchance through crowd of dark conceits he rose
To nobler heights of philosophic love,
And crowned his later years with sterner rhyme.

This thing alone we know: the triple rhyme,
Of him who bared his vast and passionate heart
To all the crossing flames of hate and love,
Wears in the midst of all its storm of woe,-
As some loud morn of March may bear a rose,-
The impress of a song that Arnaut sang.

'Smith of his mother-tongue,' the Frenchman sang
Of Lancelot and of Galahad, the rhyme
That beat so bloodlike at its core of rose,
It stirred the sweet Francesca's gentle heart
To take that kiss that brought her so much woe,
And sealed in fire her martyrdom of love.

And Dante, full of her immortal love,
Stayed his drear song, and softly, fondly sang
As though his voice broke with that weight of woe;
And to this day we think of Arnaut's rhyme
Whenever pity at the labouring heart
On fair Francesca's memory drops the rose.

Ah! sovereign Love, forgive this weaker rhyme!
The men of old who sang were great at heart,
Yet have we too known woe, and worn thy rose.

EDMUND GOSSE.

PULVIS ET UMBRA.

(A Sestina.)

Along the crowded streets I walk and think
How I, a shadow, pace among the shades,
For I and all men seem to me unreal:
Foam that the seas of God, which cover all
Cast on the air a moment, shadows thrown
In moving westward by the Moon of Death.

Oh, shall it set at last, that orb of Death?
May any morning follow? As I think,
From one surmise upon another thrown,
My very thoughts appear to me as shades-
Shades, like the prisoning self that bounds them all,
Shades, like the transient world, and as unreal.

But other hours there be when I, unreal,
When only I, vague in a conscious Death,
Move through the mass of men unseen by all;
I move along their ways, I feel and think,
Yet am more light than echoes, or the shades
That hide me, from their stronger bodies thrown.

And better moments come, when, overthrown
All round me, lie the ruins of the unreal
And momentary world, as thin as shades;
When I alone, triumphant over Death,
Eternal, vast, fill with the thoughts I think,
And with my single soul the frame of all.

Ah, for a moment could I grasp it all!
Ah, could but I (poor wrestler often thrown)
Once grapple with the truth, oh then, I think,
Assured of which is living, which unreal,
I would not murmur, though among the shades
My lot were cast, among the shades and Death.

"One thing is true," I said, "and that is Death,"
And yet it may be God disproves it all;
And Death may be a passage from the shades,
And films on our beclouded senses thrown;
And Death may be a step beyond the Unreal
Towards the Thought that answers all I think.

In vain I think. O moon-like thought of Death,
All is unreal beneath thee, uncertain all,
Dim moon-ray thrown along a world of shades.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

CUPID AND THE SHEPHERD.

(Sestina.)

One merry morn when all the earth was bright,
And flushed with dewy dawn's encrimsoning ray
A shepherd youth, o'er whose fair face the light
Of rosy smiles was ever wont to stray,
Roamed through a level grassy mead, bedight
With springtime blossoms, fragrant, fresh and gay.

But now, alas! his mood was far from gay;
And musing how the dark world would be bright
Could he but win his maiden's love, and stray
With her forever, basking in its light,
He saw afar, in morn's bright beaming ray,
A lissome boy with archer's arms bedight.

The boy shot arrows at a tree bedight
With red-winged songsters warbling sweet and gay
Amid the leaves and blossoms blooming bright.
He seemed an aimless, wandering waif astray,
And so the shepherd caught him, stealing light,
While from his eyes he flashed an angry ray.

The fair boy plead until a kindly ray
Shone o'er the shepherd's clouded brow, bedight
With clustering locks, and he said, smiling gay,
"I prithee promise, by thy face so bright,
To ne'er again, where'er thou mayest stray,
Slay the sweet birds that make so glad the light."

While yet he spake, from out those eyes a light
Divine shot forth, before whose glowing ray
The shepherd quailed, it was so wondrous bright;
Then well he knew 'twas Cupid coy and gay,
With all his arts and subtle wiles bedight,
And knelt in homage lest the boy should stray.

"Rise," said the God, "and e'er thy footsteps stray
Know that within her eyes where beamed no light
Of love for thee, I will implant a ray.
She shall be thine with all her charms bedight."
The shepherd kissèd Love's hand and bounded gay
To gain his bliss,--and all the world was bright.

When naught is bright to these that sadly stray,
Oftimes a single ray of Eros' light
Will make all earth bedight with radiance gay.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

SESTINA.

I saw my soul at rest upon a day
As a bird sleeping in the nest of night,
Among soft leaves that give the starlight way
To touch its wings but not its eyes with light;
So that it knew as one in visions may,
And knew not as men waking, of delight.

This was the measure of my soul's delight;
It had no power of joy to fly by day,
Nor part in the large lordship of the light;
But in a secret moon-beholden way
Had all its will of dreams and pleasant night,
And all the love and life that sleepers may.

But such life's triumph as men waking may
It might not have to feed its faint delight
Between the stars by night and sun by day,
Shut up with green leaves and a little light;
Because its way was as a lost star's way,
A world's not wholly known of day or night.

All loves and dreams and sounds and gleams of night
Made it all music that such minstrels may,
And all they had they gave it of delight;
But in the full face of the fire of day
What place shall be for any starry light,
What part of heaven in all the wide sun's way?

Yet the soul woke not, sleeping by the way,
Watched as a nursling of the large eyed night,
And sought no strength nor knowledge of the day,
Nor closer touch conclusive of delight,
Nor mightier joy nor truer than dreamers may,
Nor more of song than they, nor more of light.

For who sleeps once and sees the secret light
Whereby sleep shows the soul a fairer way
Between the rise and rest of day and night,
Shall care no more to fare as all men may,
But be his place of pain or of delight,
There shall he dwell, beholding night as day.

Song, have thy day and take thy fill of light
Before the night be fallen across thy way;
Sing while he may, man hath no long delight.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

#The Triolet.#

_TRIOLET._

_Le premier jour du mois de mai_
_Fut le plus heureux de ma vie:_
_Le beau dessein que je formai,_
_Le premier jour du mois de mai!_
_Je vous vis et je vous aimai._
_Si ce dessein vous plut, Sylvie,_
_Le premier jour du mois de mai_
_Fut le plus heureux de ma vie._

--RANCHIN.

_LECON DE CHANT._

_Moi, je regardais ce cou-là._
_Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule._
_Avec des mines d'Attila_
_Moi, je regardais ce cou-là._
_Puis, un peu de temps s' écoula ..._
_Moi, je regardais ce cou-là;_
_Maintenant chantez, me dit Paule._

--THEODORE DE BANVILLE.

* * * * *

_"Mon fils, Absalon_
_Absalon, mon fils,_
_Las! perdu l'avon_
_Mon fils Absalon;_
_Il faut que soyon_
_En grief deuil confis_
_Mon fils Absalon_
_Absalon, mon fils!"_

--OLD FRENCH PLAY.

MY SWEETHEART.

She's neither scholarly nor wise,
But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender,
And love lies laughing in her eyes.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,
And yet above all else I prize
The right from evil to defend her.
She's neither scholarly nor wise,
But, oh, her heart is wondrous tender.

GRIFFITH ALEXANDER.

* * * * *

When first we met, we did not guess
That Love would prove so hard a master;
Of more than common friendliness
When first we met we did not guess.
Who could foretell the sore distress,
This irretrievable disaster,
When first we met?-we did not guess
That Love would prove so hard a master.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

* * * * *

All women born are so perverse,
No man need boast their love possessing,
If nought seem better, nothing's worse;
All women born are so perverse,
From Adam's wife that proved a curse,
Though God had made her for a blessing.
All women born are so perverse
No man need boast their love possessing.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

A ROSE.

'Twas a Jacqueminot rose
That she gave me at parting;
Sweetest flower that blows,
'Twas a Jacqueminot rose.
In the love garden close,
With the swift blushes starting,
'Twas a Jacqueminot rose
That she gave me at parting.

If she kissed it, who knows-
Since I will not discover,
And love is that close,
If she kissed it, who knows?
Or if not the red rose
Perhaps then the lover!
If she kissed it, who knows,
Since I will not discover.

Yet at least with the rose
Went a kiss that I'm wearing!
More I will not disclose,
Yet at least with the rose
Went _whose_ kiss no one knows,-
Since I'm only declaring,
"Yet at least with the rose
Went a kiss that I'm wearing."

ARLO BATES.

* * * * *

Wee Rose is but three,
Yet coquettes she already.
I can scarcely agree
Wee Rose is but three,
When her archness I see!
Are the sex born unsteady?-
Wee Rose is but three,
Yet coquettes she already.

ARLO BATES.

* * * * *

A pitcher of mignonette
In a tenement's highest casement;
Queer sort of a flower-pot-yet
That pitcher of mignonette
Is a garden in heaven set
To the little sick child in the basement,-
The pitcher of mignonette
In the tenement's highest casement.

H. C. BUNNER.

* * * * *

In the light, in the shade,
This is time and life's measure:
With a heart unafraid,
In the light, in the shade,
Hope is born and not made,
And the heart finds its treasure
In the light, in the shade;
This is time and life's measure.

WALTER CRANE.

TRIOLETS FOR "THE TWELFTH."

Away from city chafe and care,
At forty miles an hour flying,
Nor let the train me, _blasé_, bear
Away from city chafe and care.
To breezy braes, from street and square,
Who would not, an he could, be hieing;
Away from city chafe and care,
At forty miles an hour flying?

How nice a month on moors to pass
Mid purling becks and purpling heather,
To give the grouse their _coup de grâce_,
How nice a month on moors to pass!
If Fortune prove a liberal lass,
If but auspicious be the weather,
How nice a month on moors to pass,
Mid purling brooks and purpling heather.

Plague take the rain! upon my word,
These mountain mists, how they do hover!
I wish from town I'd never stirred.
Plague take the rain! upon my word,
'Tis just my luck, and not a bird
My guileless gun contrives to cover.
Plague take the rain! upon my word,
These mountain mists, how they _do_ hover.

COTSFORD DICK.

ROSE-LEAVES.

(Triolets.)

A KISS.

Rose kissed me to-day,
Will she kiss me to-morrow?
Let it be as it may,
Rose kissed me to-day.
But the pleasure gives way
To a savour of sorrow;--
Rose kissed me to-day,--
_Will_ she kiss me to-morrow?

CIRCE.

In the School of Coquettes
Madam Rose is a scholar:-
O, they fish with all nets,
In the School of Coquettes!
When her brooch she forgets,
'Tis to show her new collar;
In the School of Coquettes
Madam Rose is a scholar!

A TEAR.

There's a tear in her eye,-
Such a clear little jewel!
What _can_ make her cry?
There's a tear in her eye.
"Puck has killed a big fly,--
And it's _horribly_ cruel;"
There's a tear in her eye,--
Such a clear little jewel!

A GREEK GIFT.

Here's a present for Rose,
How pleased she is looking!
Is it verse? Is it prose?
Here's a present for Rose!
"_Plats_," "_Entrees_" and "_Rôts_,"--
Why, its "Gouffé on Cooking!"
_Here's_ a present for Rose,
How _pleased_ she is looking!

"URCEUS EXIT."

I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet,
It began _à la mode_,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose crossed the road
In her latest new bonnet.
I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.

* * * * *

Oh, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!
See the couples advance,--
Oh! Love's but a dance!
A whisper, a glance,--
'Shall we twirl down the middle?'
Oh, Love's but a dance,
Where Time plays the fiddle!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

TRIOLET, AFTER CATULLUS.

"Jucundum, mea vita."

Happy, my Life, the love you proffer,
Eternal as the gods above;
With such a wealth within my coffer,
Happy my life. The love you proffer,--
If your true heart sustains the offer,-
Will prove the Koh-i-noor of love;
Happy my life! The love you proffer,
Eternal as the gods above!

EDMUND GOSSE.

* * * * *

Easy is the Triolet,
If you really learn to make it!
Once a neat refrain you get,
Easy is the Triolet.
As you see!-I pay my debt
With another rhyme. Deuce take it,
Easy is the Triolet,
If you really learn to make it!

W. E. HENLEY.

* * * * *

Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"
Falls a faded violet.
Sweet and faint as its fragrance, steal
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"
Tender memories, and I feel
A sense of longing and regret.
Out from the leaves of my "Lucille"
Falls a faded violet.

WALTER LEARNED.

TRIOLETS.

In the days of my youth
I wooed woman with sonnets.
My ideas were uncouth
In the days of my youth.
Now I know that her ruth
Is best reached by new bonnets;
In the days of my youth
I wooed woman with sonnets.

* * * * *

Here's a flower for your grave,
Little love of last year;
Since I once was your slave,
Here's a flower for your grave;
Since I once used to rave
In the praise of my dear,
Here's a flower for your grave,
Little love of last year.

* * * * *

Lo, my heart, so sound asleep,
Lady! will you wake it?
For lost love I used to weep,
Now my heart is sound asleep,
If it once were yours to keep,
I fear you'd break it.
Lo! my heart, so sound asleep,
Lady, will you wake it?

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

TRIOLETS.

A CORSAGE BOUQUET.

Myrtilla, to-night,
Wears Jacqueminot roses,
She's the loveliest sight!
Myrtilla, to-night:-
Correspondingly light
My pocket-book closes.
Myrtilla, to-night
Wears Jacqueminot roses.

TO AN AUTUMN LEAF.

Wee shallop of shimmering gold!
Slip down from your ways in the branches.
Some fairy will loosen your hold-
Wee shallop of shimmering gold
Spill dew on your bows and unfold
Silk sails for the fairest of launches!
Wee shallop of shimmering gold,
Slip down from your ways in the branches.

A KISS.

You ask me what's a kiss?
'Tis Cupid's keenest arrow!
A thing to take a "miss"-
(You ask me what's a kiss?)
The brink of an abyss!
A lover's pathway, narrow.
You ask me what's a _kiss_?
'Tis Cupid's _keenest_ arrow!