Chapter VII: Preface (6)

His calendar he taught
To youths and virgins cold;
This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold.

This priceless book is bought
With sighs and tears untold,
Of votaries who sought
His countenance of old--
This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold.

WALTER CRANE.

RONDEL.

When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies,
Love-birds forget to sing
Beneath the lucent skies.

For now belated spring
With her last blossom hies,
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies.

What summer hope shall bring
To wistful dreaming eyes?
What fateful forecast fling
Before life's last surprise?
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies.

WALTER CRANE.

THE WANDERER.

(Rondel.)

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,--
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
We see him stand by the open door
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling,
He fain would lie as he lay before;--
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,--
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!

Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling,
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!
E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

RONDEL.

When love is in her eyes
What need of Spring for me?
A brighter emerald lies
On hill and vale and lea.

The azure of the skies
Holds nought so sweet to me;
When love is in her eyes
What need of spring for me?

Her bloom the rose outvies,
The lily dares no plea,
The violet's glory dies,
No flower so sweet can be;
When love is in her eyes
What need of spring for me?

ANNA MARIA FAY.

RONDEL.

[After Anyte of Tegea.]

Underneath this tablet rest,
Grasshopper by autumn slain,
Since thine airy summer nest
Shivers under storm and rain.

Freely let it be confessed
Death and slumber bring thee gain
Spared from winter's fret and pain,
Underneath this tablet rest.

Myro found thee on the plain,
Bore thee in her lawny breast,
Reared this marble tomb amain
To receive so small a guest!
Underneath this tablet rest,
Grasshopper by autumn slain.

EDMUND GOSSE.

RONDEL.

How is it you and I
Are always meeting so?
I see you passing by
Whichever way I go.

I cannot say I know
The spell that draws us nigh.
How is it you and I
Are always meeting so?

Still thoughts to thoughts reply,
And whispers ebb and flow;
I say it with a sigh
But half confessed and low,
How is it you and I
Are always meeting so?

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

VARIATIONS.

I.

"Alons au bois le may cueillir."--CHARLES D'ORLÉANS.

We'll to the woods and gather may
Fresh from the footprints of the rain;
We'll to the woods, at every vein
To drink the spirit of the day.

The winds of spring are out at play,
The needs of spring in heart and brain.
We'll to the woods and gather may
Fresh from the footprints of the rain.

The world's too near her end, you say?--
Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain!
It waits for her, the vast Inane?--
Then, girls, to help her on the way
We'll to the woods and gather may.

W. E. HENLEY.

II.

"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse,
Fera ternir votre beauté."--RONSARD.

And lightly, like the flowers,
Your beauties Age will dim,
Who makes the song a hymn,
And turns the sweets to sours!

Alas! the chubby Hours
Grow lank and grey and grim,
And lightly, like the flowers,
Your beauties Age will dim.

Still rosy are the bowers,
The walks yet green and trim.
Among them let your whim
Pass sweetly, like the showers,
And lightly, like the flowers.

W. E. HENLEY.

III.

"Hic habitat Felicitas."

"Felicity. Enquire within.
The genial goddess is at home!"
So read and thought the rakes of Rome,
Some frail one's lintel fain to win.

And now it blares thro' bronze and tin,
Thro' clarion, organ, catcall, comb:--
"Felicity. Enquire within.
The genial goddess is at home!"

For, tent or studio, bank or bin,
Platonic porch, Petræan dome,
Where'er our hobbies champ and foam,
Thero'er the brave old sign we pin--
"Felicity. Enquire within."

W. E. HENLEY.

IV.

"And sweet girl graduates in their golden hair."--TENNYSON.

Sweet girl graduates, golden-haired,
You for whom has been prepared
Love's fair university,
Dons and double-firsts to be-
Why are you so quickly scared?

When the prudes their worst have glared,
When the dowagers have stared,
What has passed they might not see,
Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired,
You for whom has been prepared
Love's fair university?

Most is won when most is dared.
Let your dainty lore be aired.
Love and thought and fun are free.
All must flirt in their degree.
Books alone have never reared
Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired.

W. E. HENLEY.

RONDEL.

The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
From camp and church, the fireside and the street,
She signs to come, and strife and song have been.

A summer night descending, cool and green
And dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat,
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet

O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien
And hopeful faces look upon and greet
This last of all your lovers, and to meet
Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean....
The ways of Death are soothing and serene.

W. E. HENLEY.

RONDEL.

I love you dearly, O my sweet!
Although you pass me lightly by,
Although you weave my life awry,
And tread my heart beneath your feet.

I tremble at your touch; I sigh
To see you passing down the street;
I love you dearly, O my sweet!
Although you pass me lightly by.

You say in scorn that love's a cheat,
Passion a blunder, youth a lie.
I know not. Only when we meet
I long to kiss your hand and cry,
"I love you dearly, O my sweet,
Although you pass me lightly by."

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

TWO RONDELS.

I.

When on the mid sea of the night,
I waken at thy call, O Lord.
The first that troop my bark aboard
Are darksome imps that hate the light,
Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight--
Of wraths and cares a pirate horde--
Though on the mid sea of the night
It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight--
Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
The words of him who is thy word:
Nor cease till they are put to flight:--
Then in the mid sea of the night
I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II.

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid sea of the night!
I lift my voice and cry with might:
If thou keep silent, soon a horde
Of imps again will swarm aboard,
And I shall be in sorry plight
If no voice come from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid sea of the night.

There comes no voice; I hear no word!
But in my soul dawns something bright:--
There is no sea, no foe to fight!
Thy heart and mine beat one accord:
I need no voice from thee, O Lord,
Across the mid sea of the night.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

RONDELS.

I.

The lilacs are in bloom,
All is that ever was,
And Cupids peep and pass
Through the curtains of the room.

Season of light perfume,
Hide all beneath thy grass.
The lilacs are in bloom,
All is that ever was.

Dead hopes new shapes assume;
Town belle and country lass
Forget the word "Alas,"
For over every tomb
The lilacs are in bloom.

II.

Summer has seen decay
Of roses white and red,
And Love with wings outspread
Speeds after yesterday.

Blue skies have changed to grey,
And joy has sorrow wed:
Summer has seen decay
Of roses white and red.

May's flowers outlast not May;
And when the hour has fled,
Around the roses dead
The mournful echoes say--
Summer has seen decay.

GEORGE MOORE.

TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.

Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?
Shall I of fate complain,
Or shall I laugh to-night?

Shall it be hopes that are bright?
Shall it be hopes that are vain?
Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?

A dear little hand so light,
A moment in mine hath lain;
Kind was its pressure again--
Ah, but it was so slight!

Paper, inviolate, white,
Shall it be joy or pain?

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

RONDEL.

Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here
And Love is Lord of you and me.
The blue-bells beckon each passing bee;
The wild wood laughs to the flowered year:
There is no bird in brake or brere,
But to his little mate sings he,
"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me!"

The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear,
The missel-thrush upon the tree
Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free;
And I go singing to my dear,
"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,
And Love is Lord of you and me."

JOHN PAYNE.

"BEFORE THE DAWN."

Before the dawn begins to glow,
A ghostly company I keep;
Across the silent room they creep,
The buried forms of friend and foe.
Amid the throng that come and go,
There are two eyes that make me weep;
Before the dawn begins to glow,
A ghostly company I keep.

Two dear dead eyes. I love them so!
They shine like starlight on the deep;
And often when I am asleep
They stoop and kiss me, bending low,
Before the dawn begins to glow.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

RONDEL.

Oh, say not ye that summer's over
When birds within the wood stop singing!
While hands still touch in desperate clinging,
Some ghost of hope in hearts must hover;
Though died the dream of loved and lover,
While yet the marriage bells were ringing.
Oh, say not ye that summer's over
When birds within the wood stop singing!

Their vanished hopes may none recover
In some new day, new morrow bringing?
And shall we see no buds fresh springing
Upon the stalks of last year's clover?
Oh, say not ye that summer's over
When birds within the wood stop singing!

MAY PROBYN.

FROM THEODORE DE BANVILLE.

I.

NIGHT.

We bless the coming of the Night,
Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free,
Life's clamour and anxiety
Her mantle covers out of sight.
All eating cares have taken flight,
The scented air is wine to me;
We bless the coming of the Night,
Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free.
Rest now, O reader, worn and white,
Driven by some divinity,
Aloft, like sparkling hoar frost see,
A starry ocean throb in light,
We bless the coming of the Night.

II.

THE MOON.

The moon, with all her tricksy ways,
Is like a careless young coquette,
Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet,
And flies or follows or delays.
By night, along the sand-hills' maze,
She leads and mocks you till you fret.
The moon with all her tricksy ways,
Is like a careless young coquette.
As oft she veils herself in haze,
A cloak before her splendour set;
She is a silly charming pet,
We needs must give her love and praise,
The moon with all her tricksy ways.

ARTHUR REED ROPES.

RONDEL.

Oh, modern singers! ye who vote
Our times for song unfit,
Your Pegasus is smooth of coat,
And patient of the bit;

But lost the freedom of his throat,
And dulled his prairie wit,
Oh, modern singers, ye who vote
Our times for song unfit,

If kin, fame, critics, age, you quote
As fain to thwart and twit,
Just try to feel your wings, and float
Above the scornful kit:-
Oh, modern singers, ye who vote
Our times for song unfit!

EMILY PFEIFFER.

COME, LOVE, ACROSS THE SUNLIT LAND.

(Rondel.)

Come, Love, across the sunlit land,
As blithe as dryad dancing free,
While time slips by like silvery sand
Within the glass of memory.

Ere Winter, in his reckless glee,
Blights all the bloom with ruthless hand,
Come, Love, across the sunlit land,
As blithe as dryad dancing free.

And all the years of life shall be
Like peaceful vales that wide expand
To meet a bright, untroubled sea
By radiant azure arches spanned;
Come, Love, across the sunlit land
As blithe as dryad dancing free.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

UPON THE STAIR I SEE MY LADY STAND.

(Rondel.)

Upon the stair I see my lady stand,
Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn,
And, like the laughing sunbeam on the lawn,
The radiant smile by which her lips are spanned.

A chiselled marvel seems her slender hand
What time she waves it ere my steps are gone;
Upon the stair I see my lady stand,
Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.

Through the green covert that the breeze has fanned
She fleets as graceful as the flexile fawn;
She is the star to which my soul is drawn
When shadows drive the daylight from the land.
Upon the stair I see my lady stand,
Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.