Chapter IV: Preface (3)

In the French example the form is seen to be composed of couplets of five syllable lines, all on the same rhyme, separated by single lines of two syllables, also on one rhyme throughout the stanza, which therefore employs but two rhymes. The number of lines in each verse was not fixed, nor the number of verses in the complete poem. The LAI has preserved a curious old tradition in the form it appears either in writing or print. As in the verse quoted, the first letter of each line begins exactly under the preceding one; not with the short line indented--that is coming under the middle of the larger ones--usual in other poems composed of lines of irregular length. This detail was called _Arbre fourchu_ (a forked tree), from the fanciful resemblance of a trunk with bare branches projecting, found by imaginative persons in its appearance on paper.

In the Lai each fresh stanza of the poem has its own two rhyme sounds, without reference to the preceding ones. By curtailing this liberty, and compelling each succeeding stanza to take the rhyme for its longer lines, from the short line of the preceding verse the Virelai is produced.

The VIRELAI (ancien) is a lai that preserves a sequence of rhymes throughout. For example, in a twelve-line stanza the rhymes are A. A. b. A. A. b. A. A. b. A. A. b. (the long lines being marked by capital letters, and the shorter by small ones). Therefore, to follow the rules of the virelai, the next verse must have its rhymes B. B. c. B. B. c. B. B. c. B. B. c., and the next C. C. d. C. C. d., and so on until the last verse (taking seven verses for an example) would have G. G. a. G. G. a. G. G. a. G. G. a., its short lines rhyming with the two first lines of the poem. Thus each rhyme appears twice, once in its longer couplets, once in the short single lines. In the English examples this rule is preserved, but the length of the lines are frequently varied.

The VIRELAI (Rhythme d'Alain Chartier) by Boulmier may be quoted as a form yet unused (I believe) in England.

Triste remembrance!
Hé! Dieu! quand i'y pense
Ce m'est grand penance:
Las! de ma iouuence
A passé la flour.

Sanz doubter meschance,
Bercé d'esperance
Plain de desirance
Auecq Oubliance
Ay faict long seiour.

Nice troubadour
Assoty pastour
Serf ie feus d' Amour
Mais de ma folour
Ie n' ay repentance.

Ouyl, maugré Doulour
Bel Aage engignour
En moy fay retour,
Ne fust-ce qu'vng iour...
Et ie recommence.

The rhymes are a, a, a, a, b; a, a, a, b; b, b, b, b, a; b, b, b, b, a. As but one example has come to notice, so it must speak for itself, for it would be unfair to deduce rules from a single specimen. Before leaving this heading there is another form, the _Virelai nouveau_, singularly unlike its name. It is curious that both the Rondeau Redoublé and this one, masquerading under the names of well-known forms, should be each unlike their unqualified title, and yet so nearly akin to the other.

The _Virelai nouveau_ is written throughout in two rhymes. Like the _rondeau redoublé_, its first stanza serves as refrain for the later ones, but its initial verse is but a couplet, and the two lines close each stanza alternately until the last, where they appear both together, but in inverse order. Unfortunately, space forbids an example being quoted in its complete length. The one usually chosen is "Le Rimeur Rebuté;" this commences with the couplet--

Adieu vous dy, triste Lyre,
C'est trop apprêter à rire.

Then follows a five-line stanza, rhyming a, a, b, a, a, with "Adieu vous dy," etc., for its last line; then an eight-lined one rhymed a, b, a, a, b, a, b, a, the last line being "_C'est trop_," etc.; that is followed by a four-line one closing with first line; then a sixteen-line one, using the second line for its refrain; then a seventeen-line one, with first line ending it; and finally a five-line stanza, its last lines being--

C'est trop apprêter à rire,
Adieu vous dy, triste lyre.

If this description conveys its intended meaning, it will be seen that the verses are singularly irregular in form, and choose both the order of the rhymes and the length of the verses exactly at the will of the poet; but each paragraph must not only use its proper refrain to close with, but must bring it in naturally and easily as an inherent part of the verse. The last two lines in the inverted order must also be worked in with equal skill. Excepting one by Mr. Austin Dobson, that appeared in _Evening Hours_ about 1878, this form has been unused, or at least unpublished, in English verse.

* * * * *

The poems in the following collections have been chosen for several reasons--some for their intrinsic excellence, some as examples of pure form, some for their bold attempts to produce variations from the typical models. There has been no limit to the subjects, since the purpose was to give a representative group of the rhythms, treated in the most diverse ways. Even burlesque and diatribe of the use of the forms, masquerading in guise of the enemy they professed to attack, have been welcomed, as the points of the construction of the verse are often seen more clearly in such examples. For similar reasons the parody of the pioneer Ballade, Mr. Austin Dobson's _Prodigals_, is quoted, since the doubtful honour of parody is at least a proof of wide popularity, the only others marked in this way being Mr. Swinburne's '_Dreamland_' and Mr. Lang's '_Primitive Man_.' Here, too, in default of a better place, it may be noted that Mr. Henley's 'Villonism' is not an imitation of the incomprehensible ballades in 'Jargon' or 'Jobelin,' but a paraphrase in thieves' patter of to-day of Villon's _Ballade of Good Counsel_.

It may be that such a medley of themes handled in so many different ways, was never of set purpose grouped side by side before, but is to be hoped that a method in the madness will be found. While conscious of a few noteworthy examples, Rossetti's _Translations from Villon_ to wit, being not included for reasons beyond my control, so it may be that one or two here inserted would have been replaced by later comers, had they not gone to the printer's eternity of stereotype. Started as a collection, but turned perforce to a selection, from the increasing number available, they yet do not aim so much at being a selection of the best work solely, as of the best and least-accessible examples. This explanation of the progress and purpose of the volume is offered in common fairness both to its readers and to those authors who have permitted their works to be included, also to those who by oversight or too late discovery on my part have no examples of their poetry included herein.

* * * * *

[Note to page xxxvi.--For Wyatt's Rondeaus, and alteration of the same into Sonnets by Tottel, in his _Miscellany_, 1557, see Mr. Austin Dobson's Note in the _Athenæum_.]

#The Ballade, The Double Ballade, and The Chant Royal.#

_Ballade en huitains d' octosyllabes._

Chant de May.

_En ce beau mois delicieux,_
_Arbres, fleurs et agriculture,_
_Qui, durant l' yver soucieux,_
_Avez esté en sepulture,_
_Sortez pour servir de pasture_
_Aux troupeaux du plus grand Pasteur:_
_Chacun de vous en sa nature,_
_Louez le nom de Createur._

_Les servans d' amour furieux_
_Parlent de l' amour vaine et dure,_
_Où vous, vrays amans curieux_
_Parlez de l' amour sans laidure._
_Allez aux champs sur la verdure_
_Ouir l' oyseau, parfait chanteur;_
_Mais du plaisir, si peu qu'il dure_
_Louez le nom de Createur._

_Quand vous verrez rire les Cieux_
_Et la terre en sa floriture,_
_Quand vous verrez devant vos yeux_
_Les eaux lui bailler nourriture,_
_Sur peine de grand forfaiture_
_Et d' estre larron et menteur,_
_N' en louez nulle creature,_
_Louez le nom de Createur._

Envoy.

_Prince, pensez, veu la facture,_
_Combien est puissant le facteur;_
_Et vous aussi, mon escriture,_
_Louez le nom de Createur._

--CLEMENT MAROT.

WHERE ARE THE PIPES OF PAN?

In these prosaic days
Of politics and trade,
Where seldom fancy lays
Her touch on man or maid,
The sounds are fled that strayed
Along sweet streams that ran;
Of song the world's afraid;
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Within the busy maze
Wherein our feet are stayed,
There roam no gleesome fays
Like those which once repaid
His sight who first essayed
The stream of song to span,
Those spirits are all laid.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Dry now the poet's bays;
Of song-robes disarrayed
He hears not now the praise
Which erst those won who played
On pipes of rushes made,
Before dull days began
And love of song decayed.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

_Envoy._

Prince, all our pleasures fade;
Vain all the toils of man;
And fancy cries dismayed,
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

OSCAR FAY ADAMS.

A BALLADE OF EVOLUTION.

In the mud of the Cambrian main
Did our earliest ancestor dive:
From a shapeless albuminous grain
We mortals our being derive.
He could split himself up into five,
Or roll himself round like a ball;
For the fittest will always survive,
While the weakliest go to the wall.

As an active ascidian again
Fresh forms he began to contrive,
Till he grew to a fish with a brain,
And brought forth a mammal alive.
With his rivals he next had to strive,
To woo him a mate and a thrall;
So the handsomest managed to wive
While the ugliest went to the wall.

At length as an ape he was fain
The nuts of the forest to rive;
Till he took to the low-lying plain,
And proceeded his fellow to knive.
Thus did cannibal men first arrive,
One another to swallow and maul;
And the strongest continued to thrive
While the weakliest went to the wall.

_Envoy._

Prince, in our civilised hive
Now money's the measure of all;
And the wealthy in coaches can drive
While the needier go to the wall.

GRANT ALLEN.

BALLADE OF SOLITUDE.

Thank Heaven, in these despondent days,
I have at least one faithful friend,
Who meekly listens to my lays,
As o'er the darkened downs we wend.
Nay, naught of mine may him offend;
In sooth he is a courteous wight,
His constancy needs no amend--
My shadow on a moonlight night.

Too proud to give me perjured praise,
He hearkens as we onward tend,
And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase,
Nor says he cannot comprehend.
Might God such critics always send!
He turns not to the left or right,
But patient follows to the end--
My shadow on a moonlight night.

And if the public grant me bays,
On him no jealousies descend;
But through the midnight woodland ways,
He velvet-footed will attend;
Or where the chalk cliffs downward bend
To meet the sea all silver-bright,
There will he come, most reverend--
My shadow on a moonlight night.

_Envoy._

O wise companion, I commend
Your grace in being silent quite;
And envy with approval blend--
My shadow on a moonlight night.

WILLIAM BLACK.

A BALLADE OF BOTHERS.

From country, from coast and from city,
From nowhere and goodness knows where,
The visitors come without pity,
There is not a corner to spare;
And students with work to prepare
Must charter a captive balloon
And study aloft in the air,
For the May Week has fallen in June.

The grinding of feet that are gritty
So ceaseless on landing and stair;
The notes of some drawing-room ditty
Disturb the recluse in his lair
And cause him to clutch at his hair
As he toils in the hot afternoon;
But nobody hears if he swear,
For the May Week has fallen in June.

Then the damsels supposing its pretty
Their art-curtain patterns to wear,
And the youths who conceive they are witty,
Came round to be stared at, and stare.
And amateur buglers that blare,
And singers that howl to the moon,
Are more than the system can bear;
For the May Week has fallen in June.

_Envoi._

Friend, do not be caught in the snare,
And strive not to sing or to spoon,
Your tripos is all your affair,
For the May Week has fallen in June.

From the '_Cambridge Meteor._'

BALLADE OF BELIEF.

Says Herbert: Pray, list to my notion,
All ye who the truth would invite;
Be Agnostics, and spurn the emotion
That ghosts and the gospels excite.
In th' Unknown do I find all delight,
And in Infinite Energy see
All casual cravings unite--
And that's the religion for me.

Says Frederic: Pray list to _my_ notion,
Away with Impersonal Might,
To Humanity tender promotion,
And worship the idëal wight.
Though from stock that is Simian hight
He may trace out a pure pedigree,
Yet to Man will I anthems recite--
And that's the religion for me.

Says Wilfrid: Pray, list to _my_ notion,
On the hip I will infidels smite;
'Tis only through Christian devotion
That virtues with vices can fight.
Whate'er may Theology write,
Whatever the Church may decree,
My soul shall acknowledge as right--
And that's the religion for me.

_Envoi._

(_Voice of the bewildered one._)

O faith full of riddle and rite,
O philosophies deep as the sea,
In this posse of problems polite,
Prithee, where's the religion for me?

COTSFORD DICK.

BALLADE OF BURIAL.

The sunlight sways the summer sky,
Quivers with breath each quicken'd blade,
The birds with one another vie
To move to mirth the grove and glade,
While yonder solemn cavalcade
Winds o'er the glebe in gloom august,
Chanting a dead man's serenade,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

A smile is mated to a sigh,
One flashes ere the other fade,
Farce arm-in-arm with tragedy,
So struts the motley masquerade.
Youth deems for joy the world is made,
Till disappointment deals disgust,
Disease defiles the last decade,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dast.

Within the grave our earnest eye
Beholds a brother's body laid,
Around us sombre hirelings ply
The unctuous usage of their trade.
Beneath the hedgerow laughs a maid,
Held in a lover's arm robust;
One day for her it shall be said,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

_Envoi._

Life, dost thou still possess the shade
Of him in earth so rudely thrust?
Canst thou the sentence yet evade,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

COTSFORD DICK.

A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Of the Spanish Armada.

King Philip had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,--
And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us:
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,--
For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas that his Greatness should lack us!--
But where are the galleons of Spain?

_Envoy._

GLORIANA!--the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us, ...
And where are the galleons of Spain?

AUSTIN DOBSON.

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty _frou-frou_!
Picture above if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the _OEil de Boeuf_ through,
Courtiers as butterflies bright,
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
_Talon-rouge_, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke,--to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, _voyez vous_!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew
Those in whose brains they began;
Here was the sign and the cue,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!

_Envoy._

Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
--But where is the Pompadour, too?
_This_ was the Pompadour's _Fan_!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.

"_C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux._"

--ALFRED DE MUSSET.

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played
Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;
That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed"
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score,
That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew;"
Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more--
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore;
That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"--
You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;
That (however the writer the truth may deplore),
Twas Gainsborough painted _your_ "Little Boy Blue;"
Smile only serenely--though cut to the core--
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed
If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d' Or"--
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;
That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore
That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;
Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore--
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTSCRIPTUM.--And you, whom we all so adore,
Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!--
One word in your ear. There were Critics before ...
And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLADE OF PROSE AND RHYME.

(Ballade à double refrain.)

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;--
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;--
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"--
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;--
But whenever a soft glance softer grows,
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

_Envoy._

In the work-a-day world,--for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES.

To A. L.

Where are the cities of the plain?
And where the shrines of rapt Bethel?
And Calah built of Tubal-Cain?
And Shinar whence King Amraphel
Came out in arms, and fought, and fell,
Decoyed into the pits of slime
By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell;
Where are the cities of old time?

Where now is Karnak, that great fane
With granite built, a miracle?
And Luxor smooth without a stain,
Whose graven scriptures still we spell?
The jackal and the owl may tell,
Dark snakes around their ruins climb,
They fade like echo in a shell;
Where are the cities of old time?

And where is white Shusan, again,
Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell,
And all the Jewish oil and grain
Were brought to Mithridath to sell,
Where Nehemiah would not dwell,
Because another town sublime
Decoyed him with her oracle?
Where are the cities of old time?

_Envoi._

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell,
Above their wasted toil and crime
The waters of oblivion swell:
Where are the cities of old time?

EDMUND GOSSE.

BALLADE.

Love thou art sweet in the spring-time of sowing
Bitter in reaping and salt as the seas,
Lovely and soft when the young buds are growing
Harsh when the fruitage is ripe on the trees:
Yet who that hath plucked him thy blossom e'er flees
Who that hath drunk of thy sweetness can part,
Tho' he find when thy chalice is drained to the lees
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart?

'Tis myself that I curse at, the wild thoughts flowing
Against myself built up of the breeze
Like mountainous waves to my own o'erthrowing
Strike and I tremble, my shivering knees
Sink thro' the quicksands that round them freeze,
From their treacherous hold I am loth to start:--
In my breast laid bare, had you only the keys,
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

The world wide over young hearts are glowing
With high held hopes we believed with ease,
And have them still, but the saddest knowing
Is the knowledge of how by slow degrees
They slip from our side like a swarm of bees
Bearing their sweetness away, and depart
Leaving their stings in our bosom, with these
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

_Envoi._

Love, free on the uplands, the lawns, and leas;
Priced and sold in the World's base mart:
But the same in the end; tho' at first it please,
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

BALLADE.--LILITH.

Lady, around thy throat
Gleameth the one gold hair;
And none that hath taken note
Of the first that he looked on fair,
The moment his boyish air
Was moved by that mystic breeze,
But hath felt the spell of thy presence there,
Lilith, the first Love sees!

We sail in an open boat,
'Mid breakers that rage and tear,
And ply the oars by rote
As over the waves we fare,
But never a moment dare
Gaze down at the Form by our knees,
For her eyes that thro' Self and thro' Soul do stare,
Lilith, the first Love sees!

Circle of wall and moat,
Vain as the thought to wear
Cunning of knightly coat
Steely and tempered rare,
Against her mute despair;
For none there is who frees
His soul from her spell, who hath all in care,
Lilith, the first Love sees!

_L' Envoi._

Maid without mate or pair,
From the Past's pale Presences,
Who is there but next his heart doth bear
Lilith, the first Love sees!

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

BALLADE OF ANTIQUE DANCES.

Before the town had lost its wits,
And scared the bravery from its beaux,
When money-grubs were merely cits,
And verse was crisp and clear as prose,
Ere Chloë and Strephon came to blows
For votes, degrees, and cigarettes,
The world rejoiced to point its toes
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

The solemn fiddlers touch their kits;
The twinkling clavichord o'erflows
With contrapuntal quirks and hits;
And, with all measure and repose,
Through figures grave as royal shows,
With noble airs and pirouettes,
They move, to rhythms HANDEL knows,
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

O Fans and Swords, O Sacques and Mits,
That was the better part you chose!
You know not how those gamesome chits
Waltz, Polka, and Schottische arose,
Or how Quadrille--a kind of doze
In time and tune--the dance besets;
You aired your fashion till the close
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

_Envoy._

Muse of the many-twinkling hose,
TERPSICHORE, O teach your pets
The charm that shines, the grace that glows
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS.

Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?--
Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours--friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?--
Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The Thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low?
The clashing swords? The lover's call?
The dancers gleaming row on row?--
Into the night go one and all.

_Envoy._

Prince, in one common overthrow
The hero tumbles with the thrall:
As dust that drives, as straws that blow,
Into the night go one and all.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF JUNE.

Lilacs glow, and jasmines climb,
Larks are loud the livelong day.
O the golden summer-prime!
June takes up the sceptre of May,
And the land beneath her sway
Glows, a dream of flowerful closes,
And the very wind's at play
With Sir Love among the roses.

Lights and shadows in the lime
Meet in exquisite disarray.
Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme
Of the blackbird's roundelay!
Where he carols, frank and gay,
Fancy no more glooms or proses;
Joyously she flits away
With Sir Love among the roses.

O the cool sea's slumbrous chime!
O the links that beach the bay,
Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme,
Where the brown bees murmur and stray!
Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay!
Many a maiden, binding posies,
Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay
With Sir Love among the roses.

_Envoi._

Boys and girls, be wise, I pray!
Do as dear Queen June proposes,
For she bids you troop and stay
With Sir Love among the roses.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF LADIES' NAMES.

Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia,
Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows,
Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia.
The glamour stays if the reason goes!
Every lover the years disclose
Is of a beautiful name made free.
One befriends, and all others are foes.
Anna's the name of names for me.

Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia;
Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose;
Courtly memories glitter in Celia;
Rosalind savours of quips and hose,
Araminta of wits and beaux,
Prue of puddings, and Coralie
All of sawdust and spangled shows;
Anna's the name of names for me.

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia--
These I reckon the essence of prose!--
Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia,
Portia's masterful Roman nose,
Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes,
Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea,
Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes!
Anna's the name of names for me.

_Envoy._

Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows,
Sylvia prattles of Arcadee,
Sybil mystifies, Connie crows,
Anna's the name of names for me!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF SPRING.

There's a noise of coming, going,
Budding, waking, vast and still.
Hark, the echoes are yeo-hoing
Loud and sweet from vale and hill!
Do you hear it? With a will,
In a grandiose lilt and swing,
Nature's voices shout and trill ...
'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Rains are singing, clouds are flowing,
Ocean thunders, croons the rill,
And the West his clarion's blowing,
And the sparrow tunes his quill,
And the thrush is fluting shrill,
And the skylark's on the wing,
And the merles their hautboys fill--
'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Lambs are bleating, steers are lowing,
Brisk and rhythmic clacks the mill.
Kapellmeister April, glowing
And superb with glee and skill,
Comes, his orchestra to drill
In a music that will ring
Till the grey world yearn and thrill.
'Tis the symphony of Spring!

_Envoy._

Princes, though your blood he chill,
Here's shall make you leap and fling,
Fling and leap like Jack and Jill!
'Tis the symphony of Spring.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS.

(Double refrain.)

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams
The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,
And the winds are one with the clouds and beams-
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,
While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,
Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams,
The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,
The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams-
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,
All secret shadows and mystic lights,
Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

There's a music of bells from the trampling teams,
Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,
The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams--
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
A soul from the honeysuckle strays,
And the nightingale as from prophet heights,
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

_Envoy._

And its O! for my dear and the charm that stays-
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
Its O! for my Love and the dark that plights-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF YOUTH AND AGE.

(Double refrain.)

Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball-
These are a type of the world of Age.

Bells that clash in a gorgeous chime,
Swords that clatter in outsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Old hymnals prone in a dusty stall,
A bald blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival-
These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral-
These are a type of the world of Age.

_Envoy._

Struggle and sacrifice, revel and brawl-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage-
These are a type of the world of Age.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE.

The sun across the meads glows bright;
The river shines a silver sheet,
And mirrors back the pearly light.
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet,
Earth seems in joy the heaven to greet;
Heaven's love illumes the deep blue skies,
And birds and flowers and streams repeat,
'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'

Beneath the hedge with May-bloom white
An old man and a child, whose feet
In cadence move to love's fond might;
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Like op'ning flowers in morn's soft heat.
A youth and maid whose beaming eyes
Flash forth the thought their hearts secrete,
'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'

Within the minster's fane the rite
Is breathed; down-pours His own to meet
The glory of the Infinite:
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Faith falls before the mercy-seat,
And knows, though veiled to mortal eyes,
There, there in loveliness complete,
Where True Love dwells is Paradise.

Past sounding brass are love's tones sweet,
Than gold or gems more rare its price;
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Where true love dwells is Paradise.

W. H. JEWITT.

BALLADE DES PENDUS. (GRINGOIRE.)

Where wide the forest boughs are spread,
When Flora wakes with sylph and fay,
Are crowns and garlands of men dead,
All golden in the morning gay;
Within this ancient garden grey
Are clusters such as no man knows,
Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway:
_This is King Louis' orchard close._

These wretched folk wave overhead,
With such strange thoughts as none may say;
A moment still, then sudden sped,
They swing in a ring and waste away.
The morning smites them with her ray;
They toss with every breeze that blows,
They dance where fires of dawning play:
_This is King Louis' orchard close._

All hanged and dead, they've summoned
(With Hell to aid that hears them pray)
New legions of an army dread,
Now down the blue sky flames the day;
The dew dries off; the foul array
Of obscene ravens gathers and goes,
With wings that flaps and beaks that flay:
_This is King Louis' orchard close._

_Envoi._

Prince, where leaves murmur of the May,
A tree of bitter clusters grows;
The bodies of men dead are they,
This is King Louis' orchard close.

ANDREW LANG.

VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.

The soft wind from the south land sped,
He set his strength to blow,
O'er 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-time raised her drowsy head,
Besprent with drifted snow,
"I'll send an April Day," she said,
"To lands of wintry woe."
He came; wan 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.

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

(To J. A. Farrer.)

He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
But his list of forbidden degrees
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose.
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,
He worshipped the river that flows,
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his State had a queen, like the bees
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke it was never in prose,
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

_Envoy._

MAX, proudly your Aryans pose,
But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,
For, as every Darwinian knows,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF SUMMER.

(To Constance 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 moonlight 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, or a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

_Envoi._

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And Summer runs out like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF YULE.

"Heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly."

_This life's most jolly_, Amiens said
Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he
As the good duke was comforted
By these reflections, so may we!
The years may darken as they flee,
And Christmas bring his melancholy;
But round the old mahogany tree
We drink, we sing _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!

Though some are dead and some are fled
To lands of summer over sea,
The holly berry keeps his red,
The merry children keep their glee;
They hoard with artless secresy,
This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,
And Santa Claus he turns the key
On Christmas Eve, _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!

Amid the snow the birds are fed,
The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,
The skies are shining overhead,
The robin's tame that was so free.
Far North, at home, the "barley bree"
They brew; they give the hour to folly.
How "Rab and Allen cam' to prie"
They sing; we sing _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!

_Envoi._

Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,
The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!
It is a duty so to be,
Though half we sigh, _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!

ANDREW LANG.

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!

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE FOR THE LAUREATE.

(After Theodore de Banville.)

Rhyme, in a late disdainful age,
Hath many and many an eager knight,
Each man of them, to print his page,
From every quarter wings his flight!
What tons of manuscript alight
Here in the Row, how many a while
For all can rhyme, when all can write--
The master's yonder in the Isle!

Like Otus some, with giant rage,
But scarcely with a giant's might,
Ossa on Pelion engage
To pile, and scale Parnassus' height!
And some, with subtle nets and slight,
Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,[8]
And wond'rous adjectives unite--
The master's yonder in the Isle!

Alas, the Muse they cannot cage
These poets in a sorry plight!
Vain is the weary war they wage,
In vain they curse the Critic's spite!
While grammar some neglect outright,
While others polish with the file,
The Fates contrive their toil to blight--
The master's yonder in the Isle!

_Envoy._

Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright,
And Browning, in his iron style,
Doth gold on his rude anvil smite--
The master's yonder in the Isle!

ANDREW LANG.

[8] For example 'dawning' and 'warning.'

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!

Aye, _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!

ANDREW LANG.

A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS.

(To M. C.)

Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers
When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,
And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers
As she croons the runes of the blossoming?
For the same old blooms do the new years bring.
But not to our lives do the years come so,
New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

Ah! me for a breath of those morning hours
When Alice and I went awandering
Through the shining fields, and it still was ours
To kiss and to feel we were shuddering--
Ah! me, when a kiss was a holy thing.--
How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!
With Phyllis once more to be whispering.--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

But it cannot be that old Time devours
Such loves as was Annie's and mine we sing,
And surely beneficent heavenly powers
Save Muriel's beauty from perishing;
And if in some golden evening
To a quaint old garden I chance to go,
Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

In these lives of ours do the new years bring
Old loves as old flowers again to blow?
Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

R. LE GALLIENNE.

BALLADE.

O Love, whom I have never seen,
Yet ever hope to see;
The memory that might have been
The hope that yet may be;
The passion that persistently
Makes all my pulses beat
With unassuaged desire that we
Some day may come to meet:

This August night outspread serene,
The scent of flower and tree,
The fall of water that unseen
Moans on incessantly,
That line of fire, where breaks the sea
In ripples at my feet;
What mean they all, if not that we
Some day may come to meet?

About your window bowered in green
The night wind wanders free,
While out into the night you lean,
And dream, but not of me,
As now I dream of you who flee
Before my dream complete
The shadow of the day when we
Some day may come to meet.

_Envoy._

Princess, while yet on lawn and lea
The harvest moon is sweet,
Ere August die, who knows but we
Some day may come to meet?

"_Love in Idleness._"

BALLADE OF DEAD THINKERS.

Where's _Heraclitus_ and his Flux
Of Sense that never maketh stay?
Or _Thales_, with whom water sucks
Into itself both Clod and Clay?
Or He, who in an evil Day
~Nomos~ and ~physis~ first employ'd;
And of the Sum of Things doth say,
They all are Atoms in the Void?

Where's grave _Parmenides_? Death plucks
His Beard: and by the _Velian_ Bay
Sleeps _Zeno_; _Plato's_ Pen their Crux
Of _One and Many_ doth portray.
_Empedocles_ too, well-away,
His taste for climbing, unalloy'd
By Prudence, led him far astray:
They all are Atoms in the Void.

Where's _Socrates_ himself, who chucks
Up _Physics_, makes of _Sophists_ hay,
Into _Induction_ briskly tucks,
And _Definitions_ frames alway?
The good _Athenians_ him did slay,
His _Dialectic_ them annoy'd;
And his Disciples, where are they?
They all are Atoms in the Void.

_Envoy._

Prince, tho' with these old names and grey
Our peace of mind be half destroyed,
Take comfort; say they what they may,
They all are Atoms in the Void.

"_Love in Idleness._"

A BALLADE OF ROSES.

~To rhodon to tôn erôtôn.~

When Venus saw Ascanius sleep
On sweet Cythera's snow-white roses
His face like Adon's made her weep,
And long to kiss him where he dozes;
But fearing to disturb the boy,
She kissed the pallid blooms instead,
Which blushed and kept their blush for joy,
When Venus kissed white roses red.

Straight of these roses she did reap
Sufficient store of pleasant posies,
And coming from Cythera's steep
Where every fragrant flower that grows is,
She tossed them for the winds to toy
And frolic with till they were dead.
Heaven taught the earth a fair employ
When Venus kissed white roses red.

For each red rose the symbol deep
In its sad, happy heart encloses
Of kisses making love's heart leap,
And every summer wind that blows is
A prayer that ladies be not coy
Of kisses ere brief life be sped.
There gleamed more gold in earth's alloy
When Venus kissed white roses red.

_Envoy._

All lovers true since windy Troy
Flamed for a woman's golden head,
You gained surcease from life's annoy
When Venus kissed white roses red.

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

A BALLADE OF DEATH.

The furious storm takes wing;
Quenched is the fiery ray;
And broken the frosty air's sting,
For these hold mutable sway:
Pain puts an end to its stay;
Ills have a time to endure;
One thing will not heal nor allay:
For death there is no cure!

For the good that the future may bring,
We strive to exist to-day.
With the veering vane we swing,
When fate sweeps fortune away:
Seldom will misery slay;
And ever will hope allure;
Yet one thing endureth for aye,
For death there is no cure!

Though life be an exquisite thing,
Death shatters the curious clay;
Though in frenzy we cry and we cling,
There is none who can save us that day:
So life is devoured as a prey,
And in darkness for aye will immure;
And silence for ever hath sway:
For death there is no cure!

_Envoi._

O man, be ye sad, be ye gay,
In the end there is one thing sure:
Make out of life what ye may,
For death there is no cure!

HUNTER MACCULLOCH.

THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.

When verdant youth sees life afar,
And first sets out wild oats to sow,
He puffs a stiff and stark cigar,
And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co.
He likes not smoking yet; but though
Tobacco makes him sick indeed,
Cigars and wine he can't forego:--
A slave is each man to the weed.

In time his tastes more dainty are,
And delicate. Become a beau,
From out the country of the Czar
He brings his cigarettes, and lo!
He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.
Thus keener relish shall succeed
The baser liking we outgrow:--
A slave is each man to the weed.

When age and his own lucky star
To him perfected wisdom show,
The schooner glides across the bar,
And beer for him shall freely flow,
A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;
To which he turns in direst need,
To seek in smoke surcease of woe:--
A slave is each man to the weed.

_Envoi._

Smokers! who doubt or con or pro,
And ye who dare to drink, take heed!
And see in smoke a friendly foe:--
A slave is each man to the weed.

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

THE BALLADE OF ADAPTATION.

The native drama's sick and dying,
So say the cynic critic crew:
The native dramatist is crying--
"Bring me the paste! Bring me the glue!
Bring me the pen, and scissors, too!
Bring me the works of E. Augier!
Bring me the works of V. Sardou!
I am the man to write a play!"

For want of plays the stage is sighing,
Such is the song the wide world through:
The native dramatist is crying--
"Behold the comedies I brew!
Behold my dramas not a few!
On German farces I can prey,
And English novels I can hew;
_I_ am the man to write a play!"

There is, indeed, no use denying
That fashion's turned from old to new:
The native dramatist is crying--
"Molière, good-bye! Shakespeare adieu!
I do not think so much of you.
Although not bad, you've had your day,
And for the present you won't do.
I am the man to write a play!"

_Envoi._

Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue,
A native dramatist, I say
To every cynic critic, "Pooh!
I am the man to write a play!"

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

A BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER.

The heat wave sweeps along the street,
And torrid ripples mark its flow;
Successive billows follow fleet,
And blister all things with their glow.
No puff of air swings to and fro;
No gentle zephyr stirs the trees.
O for the winds that o'er ocean blow!
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

Along the shadeless ways you greet
No damsel fair, no buckramed beau--
The solitude is ruled by heat--
A sultry, sullen, scorching woe.
The blazing sun rides high and slow,
As if with laziness to tease
The melting, sweltering world below--
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

The laggard steed with aching feet
Must stagger on; for him is no
Surcease of labour, no retreat
Before his stint is done. And so
Must man still labour on, although
He hopeless longs to take his ease,
Or to the ocean fain would go--
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

_Envoi._

Princes or peasants, friend and foe,
No man may have all that he please;
Midsummer heat shall lay him low--
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

RAIN AND SHINE.

(Ballade à double refrain.)

The clouds are thick and darkly lower;
The sullen sodden sky would fain
Pour down a never-ending shower:
I hear the pattering of the rain,
I hear it rattle on the pane.--
And then I see the mist entwining,
Nor one position long retain.
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

As though exulting in its power,
The storm beats down with steady strain;
Upon the ivy of the tower
I hear the pattering of the rain;
It swiftly sweeps across the plain.--
And then I see the sky refining,
And molten with a golden stain.
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

Beneath the storm the cattle cower;
It beats upon the growing grain,
And as it breaks both bud and flower,
I hear the pattering of the rain,--
From where the clouds too long have lain
They turn, and show a silver lining,
A splendid glory comes again.
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

_Envoy._

Although like some far, faint refrain,
I hear the pattering of the rain,
The storm is past. No more repining--
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

AN AMERICAN GIRL.

She's had a Vassar education,
And points with pride to her degrees;
She's studied household decoration;
She knows a dado from a frieze,
And tells Corots from Boldonis;
A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden,
A Whistler, too, perchance might please
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

She does not care for meditation;
Within her bonnet are no bees;
She has a gentle animation,
She joins in singing simple glees.
She tries no trills, no rivalries
With Lucca (now Baronin Räden),
With Nilsson or with Gerster; she's
A frank and free young Yankee maiden.

I'm blessed above the whole creation,
Far, far, above all other he's;
I ask you for congratulation
On this the best of jubilees:
I go with her across the seas
Unto what Poe would call an Aiden,--
I hope no serpent's there to tease
A frank and free young Yankee maiden.

_Envoy._

Princes, to you the western breeze
Bears many a ship and heavy laden,
What is the best we send in these?
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

"FROM BATTLE, MURDER AND SUDDEN DEATH, GOOD LORD, DELIVER US."

What of this prayer which myriad skies
Hear from the shrines where tired men kneel,
Godward upturning anguished eyes,
Clasping gaunt hands in strong appeal?
What of this fear that worn lives feel?
Why should some strain their labouring breath,
Since they must gain not woe but weal,
From battle, murder and sudden death!

Is it not well with him who dies
Flushed amid smoke and flash of steel;
Stabbed by some traitor's swift surprise;
Stricken by doom no signs reveal?
Ruin and wrong can no more deal
Blows beneath which (man's record saith)
Men ask deliverance, while they reel,
From battle, murder and sudden death!