Chapter VI: Preface (5)

What have we done with meadow and lane?
Where are the flowers and the hawthorn snow?
Acres of brick in the pitiless rain,----
These are our gardens for thorpe and stow!
Summer has left us long ago,
Gone to the lands where the turtles mate
And the crickets chirp in the wild rose row;
_Songs and singers are out of date._

V.

We sit and sing to a world in pain,
Our heartstrings quiver sadly and slow;
But, aye and anon, the murmurous strain
Swells up to a clangour of strife and throe,
And the folks that hearken, or friend or foe,
Are ware that the stress of the time is great
And say to themselves, as they come and go,
_Songs and singers are out of date._

VI.

Winter holds us, body and brain:
Ice is over our being's flow;
Song is a flower that will droop and wane,
If it have no heaven toward which to grow.
Faith and beauty are dead, I trow
Nothing is left but fear and fate:
Men are weary of hope; and so
_Songs and singers are out of date._

JOHN PAYNE.

A BALLAD OF LOST LOVERS.

Beyond the end of Paradise
Where never mortal may repair,
A phantom-haunted forest lies
With twisted branches always bare,
And here unhappy lovers fare
And ever more complain their lot,
Ah! pity them that wander there,
_Half-remembered and half-forgot._

There Orpheus leaves his lute and cries
No more on Eurydice the fair,
There silent Sappho sits and sighs,
Sad as the violets in her hair,
And pale Francesca's heart-strings stir
(She knows not why) if Launcelot
Look round, and dead days call to her
_Half-remembered and half-forgot._

There Jason walks with coward eyes
Bent down yet seeing everywhere
How fiery vested Glaucé dies,
And white Medea's wild despair,
Fair Rosamond and French Heaulmière,
And he who sang the queenly Scot,
Meet many another wanderer,
_Half-remembered and half-forgot._

Alas! they never shall arise
Nor leave this lonely limbo where
They share not in our common skies,
And know not of our sunlit air;
They had their time for work and prayer,
For hope and help, but used them not,
Or if they dreamed that such things were,
_Half-remembered and half-forgot._

_Envoy._

Lovers, I pray ye mind whene'er
Your youth is proud and passion-hot,
How Love itself may turn a care
_Half-remembered and half-forgot._

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

A BALLAD OF HEROES.

O conquerors and heroes, say-
Great Kings and Captains tell me this,
Now that you rest beneath the clay
What profit lies in victories?
Do softer flower-roots twine and kiss
The whiter bones of Charlemain?
Our crownless heads sleep sweet as his,
_Now all your victories are in vain._

All ye who fell that summer's day
When Athens lost Amphipolis,
Who blinded by the briny spray
Fell dead i' the sea at Salamis,
You captors of Thyreatis,
Who bear yourselves a heavier chain,
With your young brother, Bozzaris,
_Now all your victories are in vain._

And never Roman armies may
Rouse Hannibal where now he is,
When Cæsar makes no king obey,
And fast asleep lies Lascaris;
Who fears the Goths or Khan-Yenghiz?
Not one of all the paynim train
Can taunt us with Nicopolis,
_Now all your victories are in vain._

What reck you Spartan heroes, pray,
Of Arcady or Argolis?
When one barbarian boy to-day
Would fain be king of all of Greece.
Brave knights, you would not stir I wis,
Altho' the very Cross were ta'en;
Not Rome itself doth Cæsar miss,
_Now all your victories are in vain._

_Envoy._

O kings, bethink how little is
The good of battles or the gain--
Death conquers all things with his peace
_Now all your victories are in vain._

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

A BALLAD OF FRANÇOIS VILLON,

PRINCE OF ALL BALLAD-MAKERS.

Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn
Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,
First of us all and sweetest singer born
Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears
Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;
When song new-born put off the old world's attire
And felt its tune on her changed lips expire,
Writ foremost on the roll of them that came
Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre,
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn,
That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,
And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn
And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers
Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;
Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,
When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire
Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame
Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar,
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn!
Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!
Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn,
That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers
Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!
What far delight has cooled the fierce desire
That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire
On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,
But left more sweet than roses to respire,
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?

_Envoi._

Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,
A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire;
Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame.
But from thy feet now death has washed the mire,
Love reads out first at head of all our quire,
Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD

Which Villon made for himself and his comrades, expecting to be
hanged along with them.

Men, brother men, that after us yet live,
Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
For if some pity of us poor men ye give,
The sooner God shall take of you pity.
Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;
Let no man laugh at us discomforted,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,
Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive
Have not wit alway to walk righteously;
Make therefore intercession heartily
With him that of a virgin's womb was bred,
That his grace be not as a dry well-head
For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;
We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

The rain has washed and laundered us all five,
And the sun dried and blackened; yea, per die,
Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive,
Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee
Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free,
Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,
Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led,
More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall.
Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,
Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;
We have nought to do in such a master's hall.
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A BALLAD OF BATH.

Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep,
Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours,
Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creep
Soft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep,
Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers.
Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers,
Touch thee not, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears,
Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace,
Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres:
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap,
Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers;
Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steep
Whence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs leap,
Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian powers.
Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres,
All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears;
Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace,
Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears,
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep:
Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers,
Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep,
Here than memory whispers of days our memories keep
Fast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours.
Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endears
Still the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears,
Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we trace
Still the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers:
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years,
Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers;
Only love and lovely remembrance here have place.
Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears;
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A BALLAD OF SARK.

High beyond the granite portal arched across,
Like the gateway of some godlike giant's hold
Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss
East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold.
Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold.
Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark
Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark
Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree,
None would dream that grief even here may disembark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal boss
Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.
None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss
Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold,
Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold
Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark,
Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark
Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,
While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss
On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.
Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss
Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold
Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,
Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,
Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,
Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,
Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,
Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,
Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.
Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

(_Chant Royal, after Holbein._)

"_Contra vim_ MORTIS
_Non est medicamen in hortis._"

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith--
"Let be, Sweetheart, to junket and to play...."
There is no king more terrible than Death.

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
He beckons the grave Elder from debate,
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay....
There is no king more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,--the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller hurryeth:--
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay....
There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity,--nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:--
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,--at the sinking ray,--
In the last furrow,--feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray....
There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The maid half-won, the Lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness or decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and grey,--
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,--
All these he leadeth by the lonely way....
There is no king more terrible than Death.

_Envoy._

YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,
Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,--
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,--
When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,--
There is no king more terrible than Death.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS.

(Chant Royal.)

Behold, above the mountains there is light,
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire,
And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright
With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher
The lurid mists that, of the night aware,
Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare;
Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose,
And down the vales a lyric people flows,
Who dance to music, and in dancing fling
Their frantic robes to every wind that blows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,
The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire;
Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair,
With ivy circling their abundant hair,
Onward, with even pace, in stately rows,
With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows,
And all the while their tribute songs they bring,
And newer glories of the past disclose,
And deathless praises to their vine-god sing.

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white,
And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher,
Bathed in an air of infinite delight,
Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire,
Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare,
Leading the van to conquest, on they fare;
Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes,
These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close,
Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring,
And forests grim forget their ancient woes,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

And youths are there for whom full many a night
Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,
Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,
And wandered forth through many a scourging briar,
And waited shivering in the icy air,
And wrapped their leopard-skins about them there,
Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze,
The time must come, that every poet knows,
When he shall rise and feel himself a king,
And follow, follow where the ivy grows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
But oh! within the heart of this great flight,
What ivory arms held up the golden lyre?
What form is this of more than mortal height
What matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire?
The brindled panthers know the prize they bear,
And harmonise their steps with stately care;
Bent to the morning like a living rose,
The immortal splendour of his face he shows,
And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing
Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

_Envoi._

Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes
Record the bounty that thy grace bestows,
But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling;
And with no frigid lips our songs compose,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

EDMUND GOSSE.

THE GOD OF LOVE.

(Chant Royal.)

I.

O most fair God, O Love both new and old,
That wast before the flowers of morning blew,
Before the glad sun in his mail of gold
Leapt into light across the first day's dew;
That art the first and last of our delight,
That in the blue day and the purple night
Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,
Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,
That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key
And Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

II.

What thing rejects thy mastery? who so bold
But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?
Even the strait pale goddess, silver-stoled,
That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new,
To thee did homage in her own despite,
When in the shadow of her wings of white
She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring
To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,
And in that kiss put off cold chastity.
Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,
"Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?"

III.

Master of men and gods, in every fold
Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew
The labouring earth, tranced with the winter's cold,
Lie hid--the quintessential charms that woo
The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might
Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.
Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;
Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling
Their spells of healing over land and sea,
One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,
"Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!"

IV.

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold
Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:
Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,
And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue:
But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright,
The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight.
Thou are not only fair and sweet as spring;
Terror and beauty, fear and wondering
Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see:
All men do praise thee, ay, and everything;
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

V.

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold
The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,
What while the noontide over hill and wold
Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view
Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight
Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.
Thy visage haunts me in the wavering
Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening,
I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.
Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

_Envoy._

God above Gods, High and Eternal King,
To whom the spheral symphonies do sing,
I find no whither from thy power to flee,
Save in thy pinions vast o'ershadowing.
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE CHANT OF THE CHILDREN OF THE MIST.

(Chant Royal.)

I waited on a mountain's midmost side,
The lifting of a cloud, and standing there,
Keeping my soul in patience far and wide
Beheld faint shadows wandering, felt the air
Stirred as with voices which in passing by
Still dulled its weary weight with many a sigh.
No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they--
These children of the mist--who took their way,
Each one aloof, perplexed and pondering
With steps untimed to music grave or gay;--
This was a people that had lost its king.

In happier days of old it was their pride
To serve him on their knee and some were 'ware
E'en of his voice or presence as they plied
Their daily task, or ate their simple fare.
Now in new glory shrouded, far and nigh
He had withdrawn himself from ear and eye;
Scorning such service as they knew to pay,
His ministers were as the golden ray
Shot from the sun when he would wake the spring,--
Swift to perform and pliant to obey--
This was a people that had lost its king.

Single as beasts, or if allied, allied
But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair
To hound for common need, which scarce supplied,
He lone returns with his disputed share,--
Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,
Each man of these pursued his way on high,
Still high and higher, seeking through the grey
Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.
Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowing
Shadows continuing never in one stay;--
This was a people that had lost its king.

Then as the day wore on, and none descried
The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare,
As strength declined, and hope within them died
A sad new birth,--the fruit of their despair,--
Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry
Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry
Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play
Broke up the hard cold barriers of their clay,
Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to cling
In fealty that was only joined to pray;
This was a people that had lost its king.

So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,
With gathering power and ever lessening care,
The veiled beguilements of the way defied
They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair;
Till lo upon its crown at last they vie
In songs of rapture as they hail the sky,
And trace their lost one through the vast array
Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay
Their questing love, but help to waft and wing;
And over all a voice which seems to say,
This is a people that has found its king!

_Envoy._

Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that day
When at thy feet a scattered host we lay.
Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring,
Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway.
This was the people that had lost its king!

EMILY PFEIFFER.

KING BOREAS.

(Chant Royal.)

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar,
Beyond the level land of endless snow,
For months I see the brilliant polar star
Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know.
Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,--
My realms are boundless as the realms of Night.
Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey
My many minions from the isles of Day;
And when my heralds sound aloud, behold
My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am the god of the winds that are!
I blow where'er I list,--I come, I go.
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car
I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright
To hear my clarion on the mountain height.
The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray,
"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?"
I am as aged as the earth is old,
Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I loose my chains, and then with awful jar
And presage of disaster and dire woe,
Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war
'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow.
I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight
Toward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light
Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray,
They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay.
They turn green meadows to a desert wold,
And naught for rulers of the earth care they;--
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,
In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow,
When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar
The peace of nature, when the rivers flow
Is soft and musical, and when the sprite
Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight
With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,
And seize upon whate'er I will for prey.
I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,
And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am in league with Death. When I unbar
My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow
Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar
The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row,
They breathe on every bower a deadly blight,
And all is sere and withered in their sight.
Unheeded now, Apollo's warming ray
Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play
Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,
And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,--
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

_Envoy._

O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say!--
"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye;
His might hath empire only of the mold,"
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE NEW EPIPHANY.

(Chant Royal.)

Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep!
Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night,
From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep
Of formless being, comes a gracious light,
Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round
A golden glory on the enchanted ground;--
Awake, O souls of harmony, and ye
That greet the dayspring with your jubilee
Of lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bring
Your well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep
Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight
Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep;
Hasting the while his summoning notes invite
Where riper grasses and green herbs abound:--
But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound!
He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he!
Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly flee
To him who makes once more new growths upspring;
Oh, quit your ancient glebes,--oh, joyfully
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Too long ye till exhausted lands and reap
Thin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite:
Too long your laggard oxen labouring creep
Up the wide furrows, and full idly smite
The weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound:
Will ye not quit these fields now barren found?
Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to be
Brave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary;--
Then each, let each his robe around him fling,
And with his little one, his child, set free,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep
Their creamy ripples up the sandy bight,
Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap,
The faery infant of the infinite!
Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crowned
He'll turn to thee to fathom and expound;
Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee
To solve the universe, its destiny;--
And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling,
Asking, enquiring,--whispering, may not we
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weep
O'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite;
Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keep
Watch on this guiding star that beams so bright
Around your brows be this phylacter bound,--
_Let Truth be king and let his praise resound!_
Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea,
To sound his praises let all hearts agree;
Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring,
Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

_Envoy._

Thou art the king, O Truth! we bend the knee
To thee; we own thy wondrous sovranty;
And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing,
Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

THE GLORY OF THE YEAR.

When Spring came softly breathing o'er the land,
With warmer sunshine and sweet April shower;
Bidding the silken willow leaves expand;
Calling to hill and meadow, bee and flower,
Bright with new life and beauty; on light wing
Bringing the birds again to love and sing;
And waking in the heart its joy amain,
With old fond hopes and memories in its train;
Childishly glad mid universal cheer,
How oft we sang the half-forgotten strain:
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned,
With footstep free and proud in restless power,
With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned,
In blooming loveliness came to her bower,
Her golden tresses loosely wandering
In wild luxuriance,--then pretty Spring
Seemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain.
How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign!
How day by day our empress grew more dear!
"Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain?
_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous hand
Poured round our feet the riches of her dower:
The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland,
The largess free to gleaner and to plower,
And all the Summer sought in vain to bring;
When stood the hills in glorious garmenting;
Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain,
No more could our ennobled thoughts sustain
Regretful memory of Summer sere,--
"What of the past!" we cried in quick disdain;
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

Then before mighty Winter, stern and grand,
We saw defenceless Autumn shivering, cower,
Changed to Duessa by his potent wand,
Shorn of her loveliness, in Fortune's lower
Naked for Winter's scourge to smite and sting.
How godlike came the world's new sceptered King!
He fettered fast her torrents with his chain,
Bound with his manacles the moaning main,
Yea, wrought his will with all things far and near.
"At last," we said, "what more can Time attain?
_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

Neglected Spring, despised, insulted, banned!
Poor weakling! came again one April hour,
The tyrant struck his tent at her command;
She laughed,--down tumbling fell his frosty tower;
At one light finger-touch his captives fling
Their shackles off and make the valleys ring
With praises to the conqueror of pain.
All the lost lives that languishing have lain,
Leaves, grasses, buds, and birds again appear,
"O now!" we cried again and yet again,
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

Prince, while Spring sports with sunbeam, flower, and rain,--
While wanton Summer riots on the plain,--
'Neath Autumn's calm, or Winter's frown severe,
Change only clearer chants the old refrain,
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

ERNEST WHITNEY.

#The Kyrielle, Pantoum, and Rondeau Redouble.#

_Qui voudra sçavoir la pratique_
_De cette rime juridique,_
_Je dis que bien mise en effet_
_La Kyrielle ainsi se fait._
_De plante de sillabes huit_
_Usez en donc si bien vous duit;_
_Pour faire le couplet parfait_
_La Kirielle ainsi si fait._

--THEODORE DE BANVILLE.

KYRIELLE.

A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine,
A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,
A fly in the sunshine,--such is man.
All things must end, as all began.

A little pain, a little pleasure,
A little heaping up of treasure;
Then no more gazing upon the sun.
All things must end that have begun.

Where is the time for hope or doubt?
A puff of the wind, and life is out;
A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.
All things must end that have begun.

Golden morning and purple night,
Life that fails with the failing light;
Death is the only deathless one.
All things must end that have begun.

Ending waits on the brief beginning;
Is the prize worth the stress of winning?
E'en in the dawning the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.

Weary waiting and weary striving,
Glad outsetting and sad arriving;
What is it worth when the goal is won?
All things must end that have begun.

Speedily fades the morning glitter;
Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter.
Two are parted from what was one.
All things must end that have begun.

Toil and pain and the evening rest;
Joy is weary and sleep is best;
Fair and softly the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE PAVILION.

In the tent the lamps were bright;
Out beyond the summer night
Thrilled and quivered like a star:
_We beneath were left so far._

From the depths of blue profound
Never any sight or sound
Came our loneliness to mar:
_We beneath were left so far._

But against the summer sky
Only you stood out and I;
From all other things that are
_We beneath were left so far._

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

KYRIELLE.

In spring Love came, a welcome guest,
And tarried long at my behest;
Now autumn wanes, the skies are grey
But loyal Love flees not away.

I charmed him with melodious lays
Through long rose-scented summer days;
My songs no more are clear and gay
But loyal Love flees not away.

We plucked and twined the myrtle flowers,
Made joyance in the sylvan bowers;
The blooms have died, wild winds hold sway,
But loyal Love flees not away.

Gone are the fifing crickets, gone
The feathered harbingers of dawn,
And gone the woodland's bright display,
But loyal Love flees not away.

With intermingled light and shade
The shifting seasons come and fade;
Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray,
But loyal Love flees not away!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

IN TOWN.

"The blue fly sung in the pane."--_Tennyson._

Toiling in Town now is "horrid"
(There is that woman again!)--
June in the zenith is torrid,
Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again:
"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"
Thought gets dry in the brain;
Ink gets dry in the bottle.

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"
Oh for the green of a lane!--
Ink gets dry in the bottle;
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane,
Where one might lie and be lazy!
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;
Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy,
Careless of Town and all in it!--
Bluebottles drive me crazy:
I shall go mad in a minute!

Careless of Town and all in it,
With some one to soothe and to still you;
I shall go mad in a minute,
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still you,
As only one's feminine kin do,--
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:
There now! I've broken the window!

As only one's feminine kin do,--
Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!--
There now! I've broken the window!
Bluebottle's off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,
To dash one with eau de Cologne;--
Bluebottle's off and away,
And why should I stay here alone?

To dash one with eau de Cologne,
All over one's eminent forehead;
And why should I stay here alone?
Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

AUSTIN DOBSON.

MONOLOGUE D'OUTRE TOMBE.

(Pantoum.)

Morn and noon and night,
Here I lie in the ground;
No faintest glimmer of light,
No lightest whisper of sound.

Here I lie in the ground;
The worms glide out and in;
No lightest whisper of sound,
After a life-long din.

The worms glide out and in;
They are fruitful and multiply;
After a life-long din,
I watch them quietly.

They are fruitful and multiply,
My body dwindles the while;
I watch them quietly;
I can scarce forbear a smile.

My body dwindles the while,
I shall soon be a skeleton;
I can scarce forbear a smile
They have had such glorious fun.

I shall soon be a skeleton,
The worms are wriggling away;
They have had such glorious fun,
They will fertilise my clay.

The worms are wriggling away,
They are what I have been,
They will fertilise my clay.
The grass will grow more green.

They are what I have been.
I shall change, but what of that?
The grass will grow more green,
The parson's sheep grow fat.

I shall change, but what of that?
All flesh is grass, one says,
The parson's sheep grow fat,
The parson grows in grace.

All flesh is grass, one says,
Grass becomes flesh, one knows,
The parson grows in grace;
I am the grace he grows.

Grass becomes flesh, one knows,
He grows like a bull of Bashan.
I am the grace he grows;
I startle his congregation.

He grows like a bull of Bashan,
One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,
I startle his congregation:
One day I shall preach to the Q--n.

One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,
One of those science-haters;
One day I shall preach to the Q--n.
To think of my going in gaiters!

One of those science-haters,
Blind as a mole or bat;
To think of my going in gaiters,
And wearing a shovel hat!

Blind as a mole or bat,
No faintest glimmer of light,
And wearing a shovel hat,
Morning and noon and night.

"_Love in Idleness._"

PANTOUM.

(Song in the Malay manner.)

The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath.
The sweet airs ripple up the lake:
My soul, my soul is sick to death,
My heart, my heart is like to break.

The sweet airs ripple up the lake,
I hear the thin woods' fluttering:
My heart, my heart is like to break;
What part have I, alas! in spring?

I hear the thin woods' fluttering;
The brake is brimmed with linnet-song:
What part have I, alas! in spring?
For me, heart's winter is life-long.

The brake is brimmed with linnet song;
Clear carols flutter through the trees;
For me heart's winter is life-long;
I cast my sighs on every breeze.

Clear carols flutter through the trees;
The new year hovers like a dove:
I cast my sighs on every breeze;
Spring is no spring, forlorn of love.

The new year hovers like a dove
Above the breast of the green earth:
Spring is no spring, forlorn of love;
Alike to me are death and birth.

Above the breast of the green earth
The soft sky flutters like a flower:
Alike to me are death and birth;
I dig Love's grave in every hour.

The soft sky flutters like a flower
Along the glory of the hills:
I dig Love's grave in every hour,
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.

Along the glory of the hills
Flowers slope into a rim of gold:
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills;
Sad singings haunt me as of old.

Flowers slope into a rim of gold
Along the marges of the sky:
Sad singings haunt me as of old;
Shall Love come back to me to die?

Along the marges of the sky
The birds wing homeward from the East:
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?

The birds wing homeward from the East;
I smell spice-breaths upon the air:
Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?
It would lie black on my despair.

I smell spice-breaths upon the air;
The golden Orient savours pass:
Hope would lie black on my despair,
Like a moon-shadow on the grass.

The golden Orient savours pass:
The full spring throbs in all the shade:
Like a moon-shadow on the grass,
My hope into the dusk would fade.

The full spring throbs in all the shade;
We shall have roses soon, I trow;
My hope into the dusk would fade;
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.

We shall have roses soon I trow;
Soon will the rich red poppies burn:
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow:
My hope is fled beyond return.

Soon will the rich red poppies burn;
Soon will blue iris star the stream:
My hope is fled beyond return;
Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?

Soon will blue iris star the stream;
Summer will turn the air to wine:
Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?
Can songs come from these lips of mine?

Summer will turn the air to wine,
So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers:
Can songs come from those lips of mine?
My thoughts are grey as winter hours.

So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers.
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath;
My thoughts are grey as winter hours;
My soul, my soul is sick to death.

JOHN PAYNE.

EN ROUTE.

(Pantoum.)

Here we are riding the rail,
Gliding from out of the station;
Man though I am, I am pale,
Certain of heat and vexation.

Gliding from out of the station,
Out from the city we thrust;
Certain of heat and vexation,
Sure to be covered with dust.

Out from the city we thrust:
Rattling we run o'er the bridges:
Sure to be covered with dust,
Stung by a thousand of midges.

Rattling we dash o'er the bridges,
Rushing we dash o'er the plain;
Stung by a thousand of midges,
Certain precursors of rain.

Rushing we dash o'er the plain,
Watching the clouds darkly lowering,
Certain precursors of rain:
Fields about here need a showering.

Watching the clouds darkly lowering,--
Track here is high on a bank--
Fields about here need a showering,
Boy with the books needs a spank.

Track here is high on a bank,
Just by a wretched old hovel:
Boy with the books needs a spank--
"No! I don't want a new novel!"

Just by a wretched old hovel,
Small speck of dust in my eye.
"No! I don't want a new novel!"
--Babies beginning to cry.--

Small speck of dust in my eye,
"I will not buy papers or candy!"
--Babies beginning to cry--.
Oh, for a tomahawk handy!

"I will not buy papers or candy!"
Train boys deserve to be slain;
Oh, for a tomahawk handy!
Oh, for the cool of the rain!

Train boys deserve to be slain,
Heat and the dust--they are choking
Oh, for the cool of the rain!
--"Gent" just behind me is joking.

Heat and the dust, they are choking,
Clogging and filling my pores;
--"Gent" just behind me is joking,
"Gent" just in front of me snores.

Clogging and filling my pores,
Ears are on edge at the rattle;
"Gent" just in front of me snores,
Sounds like the noise of a battle.

Ears are on edge at the rattle,
Man tho' I am, I am pale,
Sounds like the noise of a battle,
Here we are riding the rail.

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

IN THE SULTAN'S GARDEN.

(Pantoum.)

She oped the portal of the palace,
She stole into the garden's gloom;
From every spotless snowy chalice
The lilies breathed a sweet perfume.

She stole into the garden's gloom,
She thought that no one would discover;
The lilies breathed a sweet perfume,
She swiftly ran to meet her lover.

She thought that no one would discover,
But footsteps followed ever near;
She swiftly ran to meet her lover
Beside the fountain crystal clear.

But footsteps followed ever near;
Ah, who is that she sees before her
Beside the fountain crystal clear?
'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer.

Ah, who is that she sees before her,
His hand upon his scimitar?
'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer,
It is her lord of Candahar!

His hand upon his scimitar--
Alas, what brought such dread disaster!
It is her lord of Candahar,
The fierce Sultan, her lord and master.

Alas, what brought such dread disaster!
"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries--
The fierce Sultan, her lord and master--
"'Neath yonder tree his body lies."

"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries--
(A sudden, ringing voice behind him);
"'Neath yonder tree his body lies--"
"Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!"

A sudden, ringing voice behind him,
A deadly blow, a moan of hate,
"Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!
Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"

A deadly blow, a moan of hate,
His blood ran red as wine in chalice;
"Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"
She oped the portal of the palace.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

My soul is sick of nightingale and rose,
The perfume and the darkness of the grove;
I weary of the fevers and the throes,
And all the enervating dreams of love.

At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove
The meadows, where the simple daisy shows
Her guiltless bosom to the skies above--
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose.

The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose,
But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move.
I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze,
The perfume and the darkness of the grove.

I love to hear at eve the gentle dove
Contented coo the day's delightful close.
She sings of love and all the calm thereof,--
I weary of the fevers and the throes.

I love the night, who like a mother throws
Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove,
As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes
And all the enervating dreams of love.

Because my soul is sick of fancies wove
Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows;
Because the taste of cinnamon and clove
Palls on my palate--let no man suppose
My soul is sick.

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

My day and night are in my lady's hand;
I have no other sunrise than her sight;
For me her favour glorifies the land;
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.

Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white,
When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand;
While she is kind, I know of no affright;
My day and night are in my lady's hand.

All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned;
Her smile is softer than the summer's night,
Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand;
I have no other sunrise than her sight.

Her silver speech is like the singing flight
Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand;
Her kiss a dream of delicate delight;
For me her favour glorifies the land.

What if the Winter chase the Summer bland!
The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright.
If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned;
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.

Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight
And in her service every ill withstand;
Love is my Lord in all the world's despite
And holdeth in the hollow of his hand
My day and night.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE PRAYER OF DRYOPE.

(Rondeau Redoublé.)

O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer.
Come with thy doves across the briny sea,
Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare,
From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!

Ah how my heart would joy again to be
Like chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air,
Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy;
O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer!

That I am innocent hast thou no care
Of crime against celestial deity?
Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share?--
Come with thy doves across the briny sea!

I hear no waters' silvern melody,
And yet the rippling water once was there,
And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee;--
Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare!

Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair,
Could I but kiss my sister Iole,
Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair,
From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!

I, who was once the blithesome Dryope,
Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare;
Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony,
Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair,
O goddess sweet.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love;
All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way,
There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above,
The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.

The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay,
That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove;
So sweet _she_ was, she will not say me nay--
I will go hence and seek her, my old Love.

Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove,
Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay;
His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove,
"All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!"

With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway,
Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he strove
Their spectral arms, and filmy green array;
There was no sun, nor broad red moon above.

Here lies her lute--and here her slender glove;
(Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day);
But her he saw not, vanished was his Love,
The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.

The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove
(He flung him down upon the weeping clay),
And now I find her flown--ah wellaway!
The house is desolate that held my Love,
I will go hence.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

THE SICILIAN OCTAVE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED.

To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite,
Italian harps their native measures lend;
Yet, wooing sweet diversity, not quite
Thy octaves with Italia's octaves blend.
Six streaming lines amass the arrowy might
In hers, one cataract couplet doth expend;
Thine lake-wise widens, level in the light,
And like to its beginning is its end.

* * * * *

To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have brought
Home precious ware from China or Japan;
And thine, when keen and long pursuit hath caught
Strange bird, or Psyche gay with veinèd fan--
And thine, to spell some sentence wisdom-fraught
In palimpest or Arab alcoran;
And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thought
And cage it in my verse Sicilian.

RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D.

Although this shape is not actually akin to the group of forms in
this book, yet for examples of another variety of strict verse,
the author has kindly allowed two specimens to be quoted.

#The Rondel, Rondeau, and Roundel.#

_RONDEL._

_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_
_Soussy, soing et merencolie:_
_Me cuidez-vous toute ma vie_
_Gouverner, comme fait avez?_
_Je vous promets que non ferez_
_Rayson aura sur vous maistrie_
_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_
_Soussy, soing et merencolie._

_Si jamais plus vous retournez_
_Avecques vostre compaignie_
_Je prye à Dieu qu' il vous mauldie_
_Et le jour que vous reviendrez:_
_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_
_Soussy, soing et merencolie._

--CHARLES D'ORLÉANS.

_RONDEAU._

_Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car Isabeau_
_M'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau._
_Cela me met en peine extrême_
_Quoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en eme!_
_Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau._

_En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau._
_Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,_
_Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:_
_Ma foi, c'est fait._

_Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau_
_Tirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau;_
_Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième:_
_Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;_
_En voilà treize ajustés au niveau._
_Ma foi, c'est fait._

--VOITURE.

O HONEY OF HYMETTUS HILL.

O honey of Hymettus Hill,
Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste,
Wert here for the soft amorous bill
Of Aphrodite's courser placed?

Thy musky scent what virginal chaste
Blossom was ravished to distil,
O honey of Hymettus Hill,
Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

What upturned calyx drank its fill
When ran the draught divine to waste,
That her white hands were doomed to spill--
Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced--
O honey of Hymettus Hill,
Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

H. C. BUNNER.

READY FOR THE RIDE--1795.

Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her,
With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride,
One year ago had made her pulses stir.

Now shall no wish with any day recur
(For Love and Death part year and year full wide),
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.

No ghost there lingers of the smile that died
On the sweet pale lip where his kisses were--
... Yet still she turns her delicate head aside,
If she may hear him come with jingling spur--
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.

H. C. BUNNER.

RONDEL.

This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold;
Each page with art and thought,
And colours manifold.