Chapter V: Preface (4)

Can one so dead be harmed by lies,
Tortured by wounds smiles ill conceal?
Can love bring loss, or desire devise
Vain visions, or grim fate's iron heel
Brand both on brow and soul its seal,
Till, wretched as He of Nazareth,
Man loathes the life he yet prays to steal
From battle, murder and sudden death?

_Envoi._

Waifs that on life's tide sink and rise,
Chaff that each chance wind winnoweth,
Why dread God's rest that comes, a prize
From battle, murder and sudden death?

JOHN MORAN.

IN WINTER.

Oh, to go back to the days of June,
Just to be young and alive again,
Hearken again to the mad, sweet tune
Birds were singing with might and main:
South they flew at the summer's wane,
Leaving their nests for storms to harry,
Since time was coming for wind and rain
Under the wintry skies to marry.

Wearily wander by dale and dune
Footsteps fettered with clanking chain--
Free they were in the days of June,
Free they never can be again:
Fetters of age, and fetters of pain,
Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry--
Youth is over, and hopes were vain
Under the wintry skies to marry.

Now we chant but a desolate rune--
Oh to be young and alive again!
But never December turns to June,
And length of living is length of pain:
Winds in the nestless trees complain,
Snows of winter about us tarry,
And never the birds come back again
Under the wintry skies to marry.

_Envoi._

Youths and maidens, blithesome and vain,
Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry;
Mate in season, for who is fain
Under the wintry skies to marry?

LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON.

BALLADE OF HIS LADY.

My lady's heart 'twere hard to touch,
And sighs and vows she'd soon repel;
But if she liked one twice as much,
One would not like her half as well;
She careth not for sage or swell,
For guardsman stout or poet lean,
Who haunt Parnassus or Pall Mall;
My lady-love is just thirteen.

She loves a rabbit in a hutch
(A fat Aquinas in his cell),
She loves an aged cat, whose clutch
At breakfast-time exerts a spell,
A most ungracious Florizel.
In fact it's easy to be seen,
Were she at all averse to tell,
My lady-love is just thirteen.

Although she reads the Higher Dutch,
On culture's peaks apart to dwell,
She feigns not; nor of things 'as such'
Does she discourse, nor parallel
Dante and Dante Gabriel;
Yet she has 'views' advanced and keen,
On chocolate and caramel,--
My lady-love is just thirteen.

_Envoy._

Madam, just homage you compel,
Mature, self-conscious, and serene,
One heart alone you cannot quell;
_My_ lady-love is just thirteen.

J. B. B. NICHOLS.

BALLADE OF EXMOOR.

Fly westward, westward, gentle wind,
Where erst we trod the windy ways;
And wake within her wayward mind
The memory of forgotten days.
The stars step forth aslant the bays,
The still moon silvers tower and tree,
And never sound the silence frays
Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

So soft, so strange the light that lined
The ferny moors, the forest maze,
Till all the west was smitten blind
With glamour of the golden haze;
What time we watch'd the stag upraise
His lordly brow by linn and lea,
To fright the morris of the fays
Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

O'er the dim passes flung behind
The dying daylight all ablaze,
About those dainty tresses twined
One aureole of dreamy rays,
And many a winged lamp that strays
Darkling his weird in heaven to dree,
Lit the rare eyne downdrops to gaze
Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

_Envoy._

O westward wind, whose low breath sways
Her locks, whereto night's shadows flee,
Bear hence a lilt of summer lays
Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

F. S. P.

BALLAD OF PAST DELIGHT.

Where are the dreams of the days gone by,
The hopes of honour, the glancing play
Of fire-new fancies that filled our sky--
The songs we sang in the middle May,
Carol and ballad and roundelay?
Where are the garlands our young hands twined?
Life's but a memory, well-away!
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

Where are the ladies fair and high--
Marie and Alice and Maud and May
And merry Madge with the laughing eye--
And all the gallants of yesterday
That held us merry--ah, where are they?
Under the mould we must look to find
Some; and the others are worn and grey.
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

I know of nothing that lasts, not I,
Save a heart that is true to its love alway--
A love that is won with tear and sigh
And never changes or fades away,
In a breast that is oftener sad than gay;
A tender look and a constant mind--
These are the only things that stay:
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

_Envoy._

Prince, I counsel you, never say,
Alack for the years that are left behind!
Look you keep love when your dreams decay;
All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE PIXIES.

The frost hath spread a shining net
Where late the autumn roses blew,
On lake and stream a seal is set
Where floating lilies charmed the view;
So silently the wonder grew
Beneath pale Dian's mystic light,
I know my fancies whisper true,
The Pixies are abroad to-night.

When at the midnight chime are met
Together elves of every hue,
I trow the gazer will regret
That peers upon their retinue;
For limb awry and eye askew
Have oft proclaimed a fairy's spite-
Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue,
The Pixies are abroad to-night.

'Tis said their forms are tiny, yet
All human ills they can subdue,
Or with a wand or amulet
Can win a maiden's heart for you;
And many a blessing know to strew
To make the way to wedlock bright;
Give honour to the dainty crew,
The Pixies are abroad to-night.

_Envoy._

Prince, e'en a prince might vainly sue,
Unaided by a fairy's might;
Remember Cinderella's shoe,
The Pixies are abroad to-night.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

A BALLADE OF THE THUNER-SEE.

Soft on the lake's soft bosom we twain
Float in the haze of a dim delight,
While the wavelets cradle the sleepless brain,
And the eyes are glad of the lessening light,
And the east with a fading glory is bright--
The lingering smile of a sun that is set,--
And the earth in its tender sorrow is dight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Oh, the mellow beam of the suns that wane,
Oh the joys, ah me! that are taking flight,
Oh, the sting of a rapture too near to pain,
And of love that loveth in death's despite.
But the hour is ours, and its beauty's might
Subdues our souls to a still regret,
While the Blumlis-alp unveils to the night,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Now we set our prow to the land again,
And our backs to those splendours ghostly white,
But a mirrored star with a watery train
We hold in our wake as a golden kite;
When we near the shore with its darkening height,
And its darker shade on the waters set,
Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

_Envoy._

From the jewelled circles where I indite
This song which my faithless tears make wet,
We trail the light till its gemmed rings smite
The shadow--that falleth! and spares us yet.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

GRANDMOTHER.

Another new gown, as I declare!
How many more is it going to be?
And your forehead all hid in a cloud of hair--
'Tis nothing but folly, that I can see!
The maidens of nowaday make too free;
To right and to left is the money flung;
_We_ used to dress as became our degree--
But things have altered since I was young.

Stuff, in my time, was made to wear;
Gowns we had never but two or three;
Did we fancy them spoilt, if they chanced to tear?
And shrink from a patch, or a darn? not we!
For pleasure, a gossiping dish of tea,
Or a mushroom hunt, while the dew yet hung,
And no need, next day, for the doctor's fee--
But things have altered since I was young.

The yellow gig, and a drive to the fair;
A keepsake bought in a booth on the lea;
A sixpence, perhaps, to break and share--
That's how your grandfather courted me.
Did your grandmother blush, do you think--not she!
When he found her, the churn and the pails among?
Or your grandfather like her the less? not he!
But things have altered since I was young.

_Envoi._

Child! you pout, and you urge your plea--
Better it were that you held your tongue!
Maids should learn at their elders' knee--
But things have altered since I was young.

MAY PROBYN.

A BALLADE OF PHILOMELA.

From gab of jay and chatter of crake
The dusk wood covered me utterly.
And here the tongue of the thrush was awake.
Flame floods out of the low bright sky
Lighted the gloom with gold-brown dye,
Before dark; and a manifold chorussing
Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

Midmost a close green covert of brake
A brown bird listening silently
Sat; and I thought--"She grieves for the sake
Of Itylus,--for the stains that lie
In her heritage of sad memory."
But the thrushes were hushed at evening.
Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

And I said--"The thought of the thrushes will shake
With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy
Tongue of the dear times dead will take
To make her a living song, when sigh
The soft night winds disburthened by.
Hark now!" for the upraised quivering wing,
The throat exultant, I could descry,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

_L'Envoi._

But the bird dropped dead with only a cry:
I found its tongue was withered, poor thing!
Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I
That the heart of the singer will break or sing.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

A BALLADE OF CALYPSO.

The loud black flight of the storm diverges
Over a spot in the loud mouthed main,
Where, crowned with summer and sun, emerges
An isle unbeaten of wind or rain.
And here, of its sweet queen grown full fain,
By whose kisses the whole broad earth seems poor,
Tarries the wave-worn prince, Troy's bane,
In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges.
She gives him all things, counting it gain.
Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges,
How could Fate dissever these twain?
But him no loves nor delights retain;
New knowledge, new lands, new loves allure;
Forgotten the perils, and toils, and pain,
In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urges
His weak skiff over the wind-vext plain,
Till the grey of the sky in the grey sea merges,
And nights reel round, and waver and wane.
He sits once more in his own domain.
No more the remote sea-walls immure.-
But ah, for the love he shall clasp not again
In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

_L'Envoi._

Princes, and ye whose delights remain,
To the one good gift of the gods hold sure,
Lest ye, too, mourn, in vain, in vain,
Your green Ogygian Isle secure.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

A BALLAD OF FORGOTTEN TUNES.

TO V. L.

Forgotten seers of lost repute
That haunt the banks of Acheron,
Where have you dropped the broken lute
You played in Troy or Calydon?
O ye that sang in Babylon
By foreign willows cold and grey,
Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon,
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

De Coucy, is your music mute,
The quaint old plain-chant woe-begone
That served so many a lover's suit?
Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron!
Then, sweet De Caurroy, try upon
Your virginals a virelay;
Or play Orlando, one pavonne--
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

But ye whose praises none refute,
Who have the immortal laurel won;
Trill me your quavering close acute,
Astorga, dear unhappy Don!
One air, Galuppi! Sarti one
So many fingers used to play!-
Dead as the ladies of Villon,
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

_Envoy._

Vernon, in vain you stoop to con
The slender, faded notes to-day-
The Soul that dwelt in them is gone:
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

BALLADE OF A GARDEN.

With plash of the light oars swiftly plying,
The sharp prow furrows the watery way;
The ripples' reach as the bank is dying,
And soft shades slender, and long lights play
In the still dead heat of the drowsy day,
As on I sweep with the stream that flows
By sleeping lilies that lie astray
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

There ever a whispering wind goes sighing,
Filled with the scent of the new-mown hay,
Over the flower hedge peering and prying,
Wooing the rose as with words that pray;
And the waves from the broad bright river bay
Slide through clear channels to dream and doze,
Or rise in a fountain's silver spray
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

The sweet white rose with the red rose dying,
Blooms where the summer follows the May,
Till the streams be hid by the lost leaves lying,
That autumn shakes where the lilies lay.
But now all bowers and beds are gay
And no rain ruffles the flower that blows,
And still on the water soft dreams stay
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

_Envoi._

Before the blue of the sky grows grey
And the frayed leaves fall from the faded rose,
Love's lips shall sing what the day-dreams say
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

ARTHUR REED ROPES.

BALLADE OF THE BARD.

Though through the cloudy ranks of morn
The Sun-god sends no golden ray,
Though swift along the air are borne
The feathery shafts that none may stay;
Though wrathful storm-blasts pangless slay,
And wan the patient plodder rues
His lonely lot each dagging day-
He's gay who courts the merry muse!

When down the fields the tender corn
Upsprings, and sees blue skies in May,
When budding blooms the boughs adorn,
And flowers bespangle sprig and spray,
When torrid summer's regnant sway
Has dimmed the foliage's fairest hues,
And bronzèd reapers house the hay--
He's gay who courts the merry muse!

And when the hollow harvest horn
O'erflows with autumn's rich display,
When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn,
Is piled each lofty granary,
When, like dark moons amid the gray
Of cornfields, where the red ear woos,
The pumpkins lie in long array-
He's gay who courts the merry muse!

_Envoy._

Prince, e'en though Fortune go astray
And lost is wealth's bright-shining cruse,
Though dark and drear the weary way-
He's gay who courts the merry muse.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE OF DEAD POETS.

Theocritus, who bore
The lyre where sleek herds graze
On the Sicilian shore,
(There yet the shepherd strays)--
And Horace, crowned with bays,
Who dwelt by Tiber's flow,
Sleep through the silent days--
For God will have it so!

The bard, whose requiem o'er
And o'er the sad sea plays,
Who sang of classic lore,
Of Mab, the queen of fays--
And Keats, fair Adonais,
The child of song and woe,
No longer thread life's maze--
For God will have it so!

Your voices, sweet of yore,
With honied word and phrase,
Are heard by men no more,
They list to other lays--
New poets now have praise,
But all in turn must go
To follow in your ways--
For God will have it so!

_Envoy._

Poets, the thrones ye raise
Are not a "fleeting show;"
Fame lives, though dust decays--
For God will have it so!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE TO VILLON.

Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold,
With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow,
Who, in the merry days of old,
Made light of all but red wine's flow?
Where now are cavalier and beau
Who joyed with thee in that bright clime?
Ah! dust to dust!--and none may know--
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

Where now are they whom gleaming gold
Led on to many a bandit blow,
Who roamed with thee the widening wold
And vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe?
Where they, who, in the sunset glow,
With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime?
Ah! they are gone!--and still men go--
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

And where are they, those maids untold,
Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe?
They too are now but loathsome mould,
With earth above and earth below.
And she who won, aside to throw
Thy love, the promise of thy prime,
Doth any seek her name? Ah! no--
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

_Envoy._

Poet of ballade and rondeau,
Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme,
Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow;
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE.

Of all the songs that dwell
Where softest speech doth flow,
Some love the sweet rondel,
And some the bright rondeau,
With rhymes that tripping go
In mirthful measures clad;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!

O'er some, the villanelle,
That sets the heart aglow,
Doth its enchanting spell
With lines' recurring throw;
Some weighed with wasting woe,
Gay triolets make them glad;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!

On chant of stately swell
With measured feet and slow,
At grave as minster bell
As vesper tolling low,
Do some their praise bestow;
Some on sestinas sad;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!

_Envoy._

Prince, to these songs a-row
The Muse might endless add;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

O LADY MINE.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair,
The birds are caroling blithe and gay
In the bourgeoning boughs that sway in air
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The mock-bird pipes to the busy jay:
There's a gleam of white on the vines that twine
Where your casement opes to the golden day,
O lady mine.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair,
The rills are glad that the month is May;
The dawns are bright and the eves are fair
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The dales have doffed their gowns of grey,
The sending buttercups spill their wine,
There is joy in the heart of faun and fay,
O lady mine.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair
The bees, like ruthless bandits, prey
On the blooms that part their lips in prayer
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
From the sunny shores where the nereids play
The breezes blow o'er the foamy brine,
And I dream I hear them softly say,
"O lady mine!"

_Envoy._

O lady mine, wilt thou not stray
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way,
And list to Love where the wind-flowers shine,
O lady mine?

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

WHERE ARE THE SHIPS OF TYRE?

Hark, how the surges dash
On Tyrian beaches hoar!
With far-resounding crash,
And unremitting roar,
The white foam squadrons pour
Their ranks with sullen ire
Along the sandy floor;
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"

Within her walls the clash
Of arms is heard no more;
No supple bough of ash
Is hewn for mast or oar;
Through no tall temple's door
Now gleams the altar fire,
But winds and waves deplore,
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"

By night no torches flash
From porches as of yore;
'Neath sword or stinging lash
No slave now lies in gore;
No voice that men adore
Lifts song to lute or lyre;
With all the freight they bore,
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"

_Envoy._

Prince, with these "gone before,"
We, whom these days inspire,
Must seek that unknown shore
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE OF VAIN HOPES.

O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that stand
Upon the marge of yonder shore
Where by the pale feet-trampled sand
(Though none is seen to walk that floor)
The Stygian wave flows evermore:
We fain would buy what ye can tell,
Speak! Speak! And thrill to each heart's core--
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

O spectral Hours that throng this land--
Where no sweet floods of sunshine pour,
But vast, tenebriously grand,
Dense glooms abide, wind-swept or frore--
O ye who thus have gone before,
Break silence--break your charmëd spell!
Heed not our negligence of yore!
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

O sombre, sad-eyed, shadowy band,
Speak, speak, and wave not o'er and o'er
Each wan phantasmal shadow-hand;
O say, if when with battling sore
We cross the flood and hear the roar
O' the world like a sighed farewell,
What waits beyond the Grave's last door?
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

_Envoy._

O coming Hours, O unspent store,
_Your_ promise breathe--as in sea-shell
Imprison'd Echo sings her lore--
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

WILLIAM SHARP.

BALLADE OF THE SONG OF THE SEA-WIND.

What is the song the sea-wind sings--
The old, old song it singeth for aye?
When abroad it stretcheth its mighty wings
And driveth the white clouds far away,--
What is the song it sings to-day?
_From fire and tumult the white world came,_
_Where all was a mist of driven spray_
_And the whirling fragments of a frame!_

What is the song the sea-wind sings--
The old, old song it singeth for aye?
It seems to breathe a thousand things
Ere the world grew sad and old and grey--
Of the dear gods banished far astray--
Of strange wild rumours of joy and shame!
_The Earth is old, so old, To-day--_
_Blind and halt and weary and lame._

What is the song the sea-wind sings--
The old, old song it singeth for aye?
Like a trumpet blast its voice out-rings,
_The world spins down the darksome way!_
It crieth aloud in wild dismay,
_The Earth that from fire and tumult came_
_Draws swift to her weary end To-day,_
_Her fires are fusing for that last Flame!_

_Envoy._

What singeth the sea-wind thus for aye--
_From fire and tumult the white world came!_
What is the sea-wind's cry To-day--
_Her central fires make one vast flame!_

WILLIAM SHARP.

BALLADE OF THE SEA-FOLK.

Where are the creatures of the deep,
That made the sea-world wondrous fair?
The dolphins that with royal sweep
Sped Venus of the golden-hair
Through leagues of summer sea and air?
Are they all gone where past things be?
The merman in his weedy lair?
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

O singing syrens, do ye weep
That now ye hear not anywhere
The swift oars of the seamen leap,
See their wild, eager eyes a-stare?
O syrens, that no more ensnare
The souls of men that once were free,
Are ye not filled with cold despair--
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

O Triton, on some coral steep
In green-gloom depths, dost thou forbear
With wreathëd horn to call thy sheep,
The wandering sea-waves, to thy care?
O mermaids, once so debonnair,
Sport ye no more with mirthful glee?
The ways of lover-folk forswear?--
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

_Envoy._

Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware!
They wait a day that yet must be,
When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir--
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

WILLIAM SHARP.

TO AUSTIN DOBSON.

From the sunny climes of France,
Flying to the west,
Came a flock of birds by chance,
There to sing and rest:
Of some secrets deep in quest,--
Justice for their wrongs,--
Seeking one to shield their breast,
One to write their songs.

Melodies of old romance,
Joy and gentle jest,
Notes that made the dull heart dance
With a merry zest;--
Maids in matchless beauty drest,
Youths in happy throngs;--
These they sang to tempt and test
One to write their songs.

In old London's wide expanse
Built each feathered guest,--
Man's small pleasure to entrance,
Singing him to rest,--
Came, and tenderly confessed,
Perched on leafy prongs,
Life were sweet if they possessed
One to write their songs.

_Envoy._

Austin, it was you they blest:
Fame to you belongs!
Time has proven you're the best
One to write their songs.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

BALLADE OF RHYME.

When blossoms born of balmy spring
Breathe fragrance in the pleasant shade
Of branches where the blue-birds sing,
Their hearts with music overweighed;
When brooks go babbling through the glade,
And over rocks the grasses climb
To greet the sunshine, half-afraid,-
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

When invitations are a-wing
For gay Terpsichore's parade;
When dreamy waltzes stir the string
And jewels flash on rich brocade,
Where Paris dresses are displayed,
And slippered feet keep careful time;-
In winter, when the roses fade,
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

When by your side, with graceful swing,
Some fair-faced, gentle girl has strayed,
Willing and glad to have you bring
Your claims for love and get them paid
In kisses, smiles, and words that aid
The bells of bliss to better chime;-
When Cupid's rules are first obeyed,
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

_Envoy._

Reader, forgive me, man or maid,
Against Calliope this crime;
And let this brief ballade persuade
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND.

I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.

_Envoi._

In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A BALLADE OF KINGS.

Where are the mighty kings of yore
Whose sword-arm cleft the world in twain?
And where are they who won and wore
The empire of the land and main?
Where's Alexander, Charlemain?
Alone the sky above them brings
Their tombs the tribute of the rain.
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!

Where now is Rome's old emperor,
Who gazed on burning Rome full fain;
And where, at one for evermore,
The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain?
What of Napoleon's lightning brain,
Grim Fritz's iron hammerings,
Forging the links of Europe's chain?
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!

Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore,
Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain?
Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore
The spears toward Zion's gate again?
And can so little space contain,
Quiet from all his wanderings,
The world-demanding Tamburlaine?
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!

_Envoy._

O Kings, bethink ye then how vain
The pride and pomp of earthly things:
A little pain, a little gain,
Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

BALLADE OF ACHERON.

Between the Midnight and the Morn,
The under-world my soul espied;
I saw the shades of men out-worn,
The Heroes fallen in their pride;
I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide,
And many a ghost that strayed thereon;
"Still must I roam," a maiden sighed,
"The sunless marsh of Acheron."

"And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn?"
"Yea, even so," the shade replied,
"For one I wronged in life hath sworn
In hatred ever to abide:
The lover seeketh not the bride,
But aye, with me, his heart dreams on,
Asleep in these cold mists that hide
The sunless marsh of Acheron.

"And still for me will Lacon mourn,
And still my pardon be denied:
Ah, never shall I cross the bourne
That Dead from Living doth divide;
Yet I repent me not!" she cried,
"Nay--only that mine hour is gone;
One memory hath glorified
The sunless marsh of Acheron."

_Envoy._

Ah, Princess! when _thy_ ghost shall glide
Where never star nor sunlight shone,
See thou she tarry not beside
The sunless marsh of Acheron.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF ASPHODEL.

~Kat' asphodelon leimôna.~

Now who will thread the winding way,
Afar from fervid summer heat,
Beyond the sunshafts of the day,
Beyond the blast of winter sleet?
In the green twilight, dimly sweet,
Of poplar shades, the shadows dwell,
Who found erewhile a fair retreat
Along the mead of Asphodel.

There death and birth are one, they say;
Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat;
No sound doth rise of mortal fray,
Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat:
Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat;
Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell;
But lovers one another greet
Along the mead of Asphodel.

I would that there my soul might stray;
I would my phantom, fair and fleet,
Might cleave the burden of the clay,
Might leave the murmur of the street,
Nor with half-hearted prayer entreat
The half-believed-in Gods; too wel
I know the name I shall repeat
Along the mead of Asphodel.

_Envoy._

Queen Proserpine, at whose white feet
In life my love I may not tell,
Wilt give me welcome when we meet
Along the mead of Asphodel?

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF THE BOURNE.

What goal remains for pilgrim feet
Now all our gods are banishèd?
Afar, where sea and sunrise meet,
Tall portals bathed in gold and red,
From either door a carven head
Smiles down on men full drowsilie
'Mid mystic forms of wings outspread
Between the Gates of Ivorie.

Now if beyond lie town or street
I know not nor hath any said,
Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet;
Some say that there men meet the dead,
Or filmy phantoms in their stead,
And some "it leads to Arcadie,"
In sooth I know not, yet would tread
Between the Gates of Ivorie.

For surely there sounds music sweet
With fair delights and perfumes shed,
And all things broken made complete,
And found again things forfeited;
All this for him who scorning dread
Shall read the wreathen fantasie,
And pass, where no base soul had sped
Between the Gates of Ivorie.

_Envoy._

Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread,
Rise up and follow fearlesslie,
By high desire and longing led
Between the Gates of Ivorie.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF FAIRY GOLD.

A goblin trapped in netted skein,
Did bruise his wings with vain essay;
"Now who will rend this hempen chain?
Let that man ask me what he may,
I shall not, surely, say him nay:
The shadows wane, the day grows old,
Meseems this mesh will keep for aye
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!"

These echoes of the creature's pain,
As in the fowler's net he lay,
Drew soon anigh a surly swain
Who cut the cords and freed the fay:
"Now what fair gift shall well repay
Thy service done?--for words are cold--
Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?"
"The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold."

"Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain,
Lo! here is treasure good and gay:"
The goat-herd grasped his golden gain
And bore the shining store away;
He oped his chest, at break of day,
To find--no talents, bright and cold,
But soft, dead cowslips--nowhere lay
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!

_Envoy._

Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray,
We twain, where nought is bought or sold,
And find in every woodland way,
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF MIGHT-BE.

Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing,
Full fast he flies for woe or weal,
And some do bear his grievous sting
Too deep for any leech to heal;
I scorn to swell their sad appeal,
False phantom, fled from our embrace!
And yet--I doubt me I might kneel
Should you but chance to turn your face.

Of days long done our praises ring
Right loud and full, a valorous peal,
For life was then a lusty thing:
Ah! then were mighty blows to deal.
Brave days, my masters!--still, I feel
In sooth I could not deem him base
Who'd shun your stare, O age of steel!
Should you but chance to turn your face.

"Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing,
"That sorrow sets unbroken seal
On saint and sinner, clown and king."
They beg death's boon with busy zeal.
They'll do you homage warm and leal,
Death! while you pass their dwelling-place
But lips would gape and senses reel,
Should you but chance to turn your face.

_Envoy._

Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel,
We bow to find you full of grace,
We would not turn on sullen heel
Should _you_ but chance to turn your face.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST.

Heed not the folk who sing or say
In sonnet sad or sermon chill,
"Alas, alack, and well-a-day,
This round world's but a bitter pill."
Poor porcupines of fretful quill!
Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:
We, too, are sad and careful; still
We'd rather be alive than not.

What though we wish the cats at play
Would some one else's garden till;
Though Sophonisba drop the tray
And all our worshipped Worcester spill,
Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill,
Though May be cold and June be hot,
Though April freeze and August grill,
We'd rather be alive than not.

And, sometimes, on a summer's day
To self and every mortal ill
We give the slip, we steal away,
To lie beside some sedgy rill;
The darkening years, the cares that kill,
A little while are well forgot;
Deep in the broom upon the hill
We'd rather be alive than not.

Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil
The task thy braggart tongue begot.
We eat our leek with better will,
We'd rather be alive than not.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF OLD INSTRUMENTS.

So quaintly sadly mute they hang,
We ask in vain what fingers played,
What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,
What songs in life's brief masquerade,--
What old-world catch or serenade,
What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs
Found voice when maid or ruffling blade
Sang long-forgot familiar airs.

We only know that once they rang
In oaken room and forest glade,
Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;
When earth and heaven itself were made
For roistering off a Spanish raid,
To drown in such life's shallower cares,
Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,
To long-forgot familiar airs.

Dead all--a pun for every pang
(So Shakespeare then the race portrayed
That fought and revelled, danced and sprang
Half-way to meet death undismayed);
About them gather mist and shade,
Yet Time ironically spares
These strings on which their fingers strayed
To long-forgot familiar airs.

_Envoy._

Ah! child, so soon the colours fade
From Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs,
You yet may seek in notes decayed
_Our_ long-forgot familiar airs.

MORTIMER WHEELER.

BALLADE OF SEA-MUSIC.

Sink, sun, in crimson far away,
Float out, pale moon, above the roar,
While brown and silver, flame and grey,
Round rock and sand, the waters pour;
For night hath clue to all the store,
Of wild wave-harmony that rings,
And earth hath not in all her lore,
The legends that sea-music brings.

Here singing silver shallows fray
The ruby-tufted golden floor,
Here wondrous twilight forests sway
Round coral porch and corridor
Where lurk----but ah; why yet implore
The splendid dream that round them clings?...
Where lie the dead who heard of yore
The legends that sea-music brings.

This is the sea that could not stay,
The tides of men that evermore
Rolled westward still and cleft its spray,
With hollowed trunk, and dauntless oar.
Here Grecian trireme reeled before,
Rome's purple galley; here sea kings,
Left red on wave and blackened shore
The legends that sea-music brings.

_Envoy._

Earth keeps not now the face she wore
The smoke-trails dusk the wide white wings;
No longer as of old shall soar,
The legends that sea-music brings.

MORTIMER WHEELER.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE LARK.

When the fairies are all for their dances drest,
When day's discords in the distance fail,
When the robin and wren are asleep in the nest,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale,
When star-fires are fading spark by spark,
And the little birds all the dawning hail,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!

When over the hills the silver crest
Is pouring enchantment on mere and vale,
And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But when the bright sun dight in golden mail
Flames over the tree-tops in the park,
And the world goes again on its busy trail,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!

When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast,
And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale,
As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale,
And Phillis is met where no one may mark,
And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!

_Envoi._

If Il Penseroso's mood prevail,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But whenever L'Allegro woos, then hark,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!

ERNEST WHITNEY.

MY GRANDCHILDREN AT CHURCH.

Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue,
And serious Dickie, brave as fair,
Crossing to Church you oft may view
When no one but myself is there:
First to the belfry they repair,
And while to the large ropes they cling,
And make believe to call to prayer,
For angels' ears the bells they ring!

Next seated gravely in a pew,
A pulpit homily they share,
Meet for my little flock of two,
Pointed and plain as they can bear:
Then venture up the pulpit's stair,
Pray at the desk or gaily sing:
O sweet Child-life without a care-
For angels' ears the bells they ring!

Dear little ones, the early dew
Of holy infancy they wear,
And lift to Heaven a face as true
As flowers that breathe the morning air:
Whate'er they do, where'er they fare,
They can command an angel's wing
Their voices have a music rare,
For angels' ears the bells they ring!

O parents, of your charge beware:
Their angels stand before the King:
In work, play, sleep, and everywhere
For angels' ears the bells they ring!

RICHARD WILTON.

BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER.

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Grass that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds-
To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the tinkle,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow, at will
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds-
To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds-
To live, I think of these!

_Envoy._

Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF ASPIRATION.

O to be somewhere by the sea,
Far from the city's dust and shine,
From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's shrine,
From the stony street, and the grim decree
That over an inkstand crooks my spine,
From the books that are and the books to be,
And the need that makes of the sacred Nine
A school of harridans!--sweetheart mine,
O to be somewhere by the sea!

Under a desk I bend my knee,
Whether the morn be foul or fine.
I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine,
Or footing it over the sunlit lea.
But I struggle and write and make no sign,
For a labouring ox must earn his fee,
And even a journalist has to dine;
But O for a breath of the eglantine!
O to be somewhere by the sea!

Out on the links, where the wind blows free,
And the surges gush, and the rounding brine
Wanders and sparkles, an air like wine
Fills the senses with pride and glee.
In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine,
A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee:
Life, love, and laziness are a trine
Worshipful, wonderful, dear, divine....
O to be somewhere by the sea!

_Envoy._

Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne,
When I was rich in a certain key--
The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine,
Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline,
O to be somewhere by the Sea!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF TRUISMS.

Gold or silver every day,
Dies to grey.
There are knots in every skein.
Hours of work and hours of play
Fade away
Into one immense Inane.
Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,
Are as vain
As the foam or as the spray.
Life goes crooning, faint and fain,
One refrain--
"If it could be always May!"

Though the earth be green and gay,
Though, they say,
Man the cup of heaven may drain;
Though his little world to sway.
He display
Hoard on hoard of pith and brain,
Autumn brings a mist and rain
That constrain
Him and his to know decay,
Where undimmed the lights that wane
Would remain,
If it could be always May.

_Yea_, alas, must turn to _Nay_,
Flesh to clay.
Chance and Time are ever twain.
Men may scoff and men may pray,
But they pay
Every pleasure with a pain.
Life may soar and Fortune deign
To explain
Where her prizes hide and stay;
But we lack the lusty train
We should gain
If it could be always May.

_Envoy._

Time the pedagogue his cane
Might retain,
But his charges all would stray
Truanting in every lane--
Jack with Jane!--
If it could be always May.

W. E. HENLEY.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE.

Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics jibe and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and faint hearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
'Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale--
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the East will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail--
"Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance."

Idle shot or coming bill,
Hapless love or broken bail,
Gulp it (never chew your pill!)
And if Burgundy should fail,
Try a humble pot of ale!
Over all is heaven's expanse.
Gold exists among the shale.
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,
Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,
Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,
Hard Sir Æger dints his mail;
And the while, by hill and dale,
Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,
And his blithe horn tells its tale....
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

Araminta's grand and shrill,
Delia's passionate and frail,
Doris drives an earnest quill,
Athanasia takes the veil;
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,
At the heart of all romance
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail--
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

Every Jack must have his Jill,
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!)
Forward, couples--with a will!
This, the world, is not a jail.
Hear the music, sprat and whale!
Hands across, retire, advance!
Though the doomsman's on your trail,
Fate's a Fiddler, Life's a dance.

_Envoy._

Boys and girls, at slug and snail
And their compeers look askance.
Pay your footing on the nail:
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

W. E. HENLEY.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS.

The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The weed of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The isms and the anities,
Magnificence and shame,
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain;
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!

We sound the sea for pearls,
Or lose them in the drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

Here at the wine one birls,
There someone clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:--
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
_She_ has a glorious aim,
_He_ lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!

Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls,
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

_Envoi._

Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the sage exclaim:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF SLEEP.

The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower, and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep,
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow,
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

What cause hast thou to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labourèd
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red
Where thy still gardens grow
And Lethe's waters weep,
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

_Envoi._

Prince, ere the dark be sped
By golden shafts, ere low
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft-footed as the snow,
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

ANDREW LANG.

THE BALLADE OF LOVELACE.

My days for singing and loving are over
And stark I lie in my narrow bed,
I care not at all if roses cover
Or if above me the snow is spread;
I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead--
Vera and Lily and Annie and May,
And my soul is set on the present fray,
Its piercing kisses and subtle snares:
So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway,
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

O happy moths that now flit and hover
From the blossom of white to the blossom of red,
Take heed, for I was a lordly lover
Till the little day of my life had sped;
As straight as a pine tree, a golden head,
And eyes as blue as an austral bay.
Ladies when loosing your satin array,
Reflect, in my years had you lived my prayers
Might have won you from weakly lovers away.
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover
Sweet voices come down through the binding lead;
O queens that every age must discover
For men, that Man's delight may be fed;
Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed
For the space of a year, a month, a day,
No thirst but mine could your thirst allay;
And oh, for an hour of life, my dears,
To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay,--
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

_Envoi._

Prince was I ever of festival gay,
And time never silvered my locks with grey;
The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs,
So think of me sometimes dear ladies I pray,
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

GEORGE MOORE.

BALLAD.

I.

What do we here who, with reverted eyes,
Turn back our longing from the modern air
To the dim gold of long-evanished skies,
When other songs in other mouths were fair?
Why do we stay the load of life to bear,
To measure still the weary, worldly ways,
Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,
That ushers in another waste of days,
Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?
Why, but because our task is yet undone?

II.

Were it not thus, could but our high emprise
Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear
To seek that haven where contentment lies?
Who would not doff at once life's load of care,
To be at peace amid the silence there?
Ah, who alas?--Across the heat and haze
Death beckons to us in the shadow dun--
Favouring and fair--"My rest is sweet," he says;
But we reluctantly avert our gaze:
Why, but because our task is yet undone?

III.

Songs have we sung, and many melodies
Have from our lips had issue rich and rare;
But never yet the conquering chant did rise,
That should ascend the very heaven's stair,
To rescue life from anguish and despair.
Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,
"Lo!" have we cried, "this is the golden one
That shall deliver us!"--Alas! Hope's rays
Die in the distance, and Life's sadness stays.
Why, but because our task is yet undone?

_Envoy._

Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,
Grant that the aim of rest for us be won;
Let the light shine upon our life that strays
Disconsolate within the desert maze;
Why, but because our task is yet undone?

JOHN PAYNE.

DOUBLE BALLAD. OF THE SINGERS OF THE TIME.

I.

Why are our songs like the moan of the main,
When the wild winds buffet it to and fro,
(Our brothers ask us again and again),
A weary burden of hope laid low?
Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow?
Is life cast down from its fair estate?
This I answer them, nothing mo',
_Songs and singers are out of date._

II.

What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain,
Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow.
Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain
For shameful honour, for wealth and woe,
Hunger and luxury--weeds that throw
Up from one seeding their flowers of hate?
Can we tune our lute to these themes? ah no!
_Songs and singers are out of date._

III.

Our songs should be of faith without stain,
Of haughty honour and deaths that sow
The seeds of life on the battle-plain,
Of loves unsullied and eyes that show
The fair white soul in the deeps below.
Where are they, these that our songs await,
To wake to joyance? Doth any know?
_Songs and singers are out of date._

IV.