into Sonnets by Tottel, in his _Miscellany_, 1557, see Mr. Austin
Dobson's Note in the _Athenæum_.]
#The Ballade, The Double Ballade, and The Chant Royal.#
_Ballade en huitains d' octosyllabes._
Chant de May.
_En ce beau mois delicieux,_
_Arbres, fleurs et agriculture,_
_Qui, durant l' yver soucieux,_
_Avez esté en sepulture,_
_Sortez pour servir de pasture_
_Aux troupeaux du plus grand Pasteur:_
_Chacun de vous en sa nature,_
_Louez le nom de Createur._
_Les servans d' amour furieux_
_Parlent de l' amour vaine et dure,_
_Où vous, vrays amans curieux_
_Parlez de l' amour sans laidure._
_Allez aux champs sur la verdure_
_Ouir l' oyseau, parfait chanteur;_
_Mais du plaisir, si peu qu'il dure_
_Louez le nom de Createur._
_Quand vous verrez rire les Cieux_
_Et la terre en sa floriture,_
_Quand vous verrez devant vos yeux_
_Les eaux lui bailler nourriture,_
_Sur peine de grand forfaiture_
_Et d' estre larron et menteur,_
_N' en louez nulle creature,_
_Louez le nom de Createur._
Envoy.
_Prince, pensez, veu la facture,_
_Combien est puissant le facteur;_
_Et vous aussi, mon escriture,_
_Louez le nom de Createur._
--CLEMENT MAROT.
WHERE ARE THE PIPES OF PAN?
In these prosaic days
Of politics and trade,
Where seldom fancy lays
Her touch on man or maid,
The sounds are fled that strayed
Along sweet streams that ran;
Of song the world's afraid;
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Within the busy maze
Wherein our feet are stayed,
There roam no gleesome fays
Like those which once repaid
His sight who first essayed
The stream of song to span,
Those spirits are all laid.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
Dry now the poet's bays;
Of song-robes disarrayed
He hears not now the praise
Which erst those won who played
On pipes of rushes made,
Before dull days began
And love of song decayed.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
_Envoy._
Prince, all our pleasures fade;
Vain all the toils of man;
And fancy cries dismayed,
Where are the Pipes of Pan?
OSCAR FAY ADAMS.
A BALLADE OF EVOLUTION.
In the mud of the Cambrian main
Did our earliest ancestor dive:
From a shapeless albuminous grain
We mortals our being derive.
He could split himself up into five,
Or roll himself round like a ball;
For the fittest will always survive,
While the weakliest go to the wall.
As an active ascidian again
Fresh forms he began to contrive,
Till he grew to a fish with a brain,
And brought forth a mammal alive.
With his rivals he next had to strive,
To woo him a mate and a thrall;
So the handsomest managed to wive
While the ugliest went to the wall.
At length as an ape he was fain
The nuts of the forest to rive;
Till he took to the low-lying plain,
And proceeded his fellow to knive.
Thus did cannibal men first arrive,
One another to swallow and maul;
And the strongest continued to thrive
While the weakliest went to the wall.
_Envoy._
Prince, in our civilised hive
Now money's the measure of all;
And the wealthy in coaches can drive
While the needier go to the wall.
GRANT ALLEN.
BALLADE OF SOLITUDE.
Thank Heaven, in these despondent days,
I have at least one faithful friend,
Who meekly listens to my lays,
As o'er the darkened downs we wend.
Nay, naught of mine may him offend;
In sooth he is a courteous wight,
His constancy needs no amend--
My shadow on a moonlight night.
Too proud to give me perjured praise,
He hearkens as we onward tend,
And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase,
Nor says he cannot comprehend.
Might God such critics always send!
He turns not to the left or right,
But patient follows to the end--
My shadow on a moonlight night.
And if the public grant me bays,
On him no jealousies descend;
But through the midnight woodland ways,
He velvet-footed will attend;
Or where the chalk cliffs downward bend
To meet the sea all silver-bright,
There will he come, most reverend--
My shadow on a moonlight night.
_Envoy._
O wise companion, I commend
Your grace in being silent quite;
And envy with approval blend--
My shadow on a moonlight night.
WILLIAM BLACK.
A BALLADE OF BOTHERS.
From country, from coast and from city,
From nowhere and goodness knows where,
The visitors come without pity,
There is not a corner to spare;
And students with work to prepare
Must charter a captive balloon
And study aloft in the air,
For the May Week has fallen in June.
The grinding of feet that are gritty
So ceaseless on landing and stair;
The notes of some drawing-room ditty
Disturb the recluse in his lair
And cause him to clutch at his hair
As he toils in the hot afternoon;
But nobody hears if he swear,
For the May Week has fallen in June.
Then the damsels supposing its pretty
Their art-curtain patterns to wear,
And the youths who conceive they are witty,
Came round to be stared at, and stare.
And amateur buglers that blare,
And singers that howl to the moon,
Are more than the system can bear;
For the May Week has fallen in June.
_Envoi._
Friend, do not be caught in the snare,
And strive not to sing or to spoon,
Your tripos is all your affair,
For the May Week has fallen in June.
From the '_Cambridge Meteor._'
BALLADE OF BELIEF.
Says Herbert: Pray, list to my notion,
All ye who the truth would invite;
Be Agnostics, and spurn the emotion
That ghosts and the gospels excite.
In th' Unknown do I find all delight,
And in Infinite Energy see
All casual cravings unite--
And that's the religion for me.
Says Frederic: Pray list to _my_ notion,
Away with Impersonal Might,
To Humanity tender promotion,
And worship the idëal wight.
Though from stock that is Simian hight
He may trace out a pure pedigree,
Yet to Man will I anthems recite--
And that's the religion for me.
Says Wilfrid: Pray, list to _my_ notion,
On the hip I will infidels smite;
'Tis only through Christian devotion
That virtues with vices can fight.
Whate'er may Theology write,
Whatever the Church may decree,
My soul shall acknowledge as right--
And that's the religion for me.
_Envoi._
(_Voice of the bewildered one._)
O faith full of riddle and rite,
O philosophies deep as the sea,
In this posse of problems polite,
Prithee, where's the religion for me?
COTSFORD DICK.
BALLADE OF BURIAL.
The sunlight sways the summer sky,
Quivers with breath each quicken'd blade,
The birds with one another vie
To move to mirth the grove and glade,
While yonder solemn cavalcade
Winds o'er the glebe in gloom august,
Chanting a dead man's serenade,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
A smile is mated to a sigh,
One flashes ere the other fade,
Farce arm-in-arm with tragedy,
So struts the motley masquerade.
Youth deems for joy the world is made,
Till disappointment deals disgust,
Disease defiles the last decade,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dast.
Within the grave our earnest eye
Beholds a brother's body laid,
Around us sombre hirelings ply
The unctuous usage of their trade.
Beneath the hedgerow laughs a maid,
Held in a lover's arm robust;
One day for her it shall be said,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
_Envoi._
Life, dost thou still possess the shade
Of him in earth so rudely thrust?
Canst thou the sentence yet evade,
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?
COTSFORD DICK.
A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Of the Spanish Armada.
King Philip had vaunted his claims;
He had sworn for a year he would sack us;
With an army of heathenish names
He was coming to fagot and stack us;
Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,
And shatter our ships on the main;
But we had bold Neptune to back us,--
And where are the galleons of Spain?
His carackes were christened of dames
To the kirtles whereof he would tack us;
With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,
He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us:
Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,
And Drake to his Devon again,
And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,--
For where are the galleons of Spain?
Let his Majesty hang to St. James
The axe that he whetted to hack us;
He must play at some lustier games
Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;
To his mines of Peru he would pack us
To tug at his bullet and chain;
Alas that his Greatness should lack us!--
But where are the galleons of Spain?
_Envoy._
GLORIANA!--the Don may attack us
Whenever his stomach be fain;
He must reach us before he can rack us, ...
And where are the galleons of Spain?
AUSTIN DOBSON.
ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.
Chicken-skin, delicate, white,
Painted by Carlo Vanloo,
Loves in a riot of light,
Roses and vaporous blue;
Hark to the dainty _frou-frou_!
Picture above if you can,
Eyes that could melt as the dew,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!
See how they rise at the sight,
Thronging the _OEil de Boeuf_ through,
Courtiers as butterflies bright,
Beauties that Fragonard drew,
_Talon-rouge_, falbala, queue,
Cardinal, Duke,--to a man,
Eager to sigh or to sue,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!
Ah! but things more than polite
Hung on this toy, _voyez vous_!
Matters of state and of might,
Things that great ministers do;
Things that, maybe, overthrew
Those in whose brains they began;
Here was the sign and the cue,--
This was the Pompadour's fan!
_Envoy._
Where are the secrets it knew?
Weavings of plot and of plan?
--But where is the Pompadour, too?
_This_ was the Pompadour's _Fan_!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.
"_C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux._"
--ALFRED DE MUSSET.
If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played
Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;
That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed"
From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;
That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score,
That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew;"
Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more--
That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade
Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore;
That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"--
You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;
That (however the writer the truth may deplore),
Twas Gainsborough painted _your_ "Little Boy Blue;"
Smile only serenely--though cut to the core--
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed
If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d' Or"--
Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed
In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;
That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore
That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;
Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore--
For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
POSTSCRIPTUM.--And you, whom we all so adore,
Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!--
One word in your ear. There were Critics before ...
And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
THE BALLADE OF PROSE AND RHYME.
(Ballade à double refrain.)
When the roads are heavy with mire and rut,
In November fogs, in December snows,
When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;--
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,
And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,
When the reason stands on its squarest toes,
When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;--
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,
And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"--
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"
In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;--
But whenever a soft glance softer grows,
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
_Envoy._
In the work-a-day world,--for its needs and woes,
There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,
Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
AUSTIN DOBSON.
THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES.
To A. L.
Where are the cities of the plain?
And where the shrines of rapt Bethel?
And Calah built of Tubal-Cain?
And Shinar whence King Amraphel
Came out in arms, and fought, and fell,
Decoyed into the pits of slime
By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell;
Where are the cities of old time?
Where now is Karnak, that great fane
With granite built, a miracle?
And Luxor smooth without a stain,
Whose graven scriptures still we spell?
The jackal and the owl may tell,
Dark snakes around their ruins climb,
They fade like echo in a shell;
Where are the cities of old time?
And where is white Shusan, again,
Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell,
And all the Jewish oil and grain
Were brought to Mithridath to sell,
Where Nehemiah would not dwell,
Because another town sublime
Decoyed him with her oracle?
Where are the cities of old time?
_Envoi._
Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell,
Above their wasted toil and crime
The waters of oblivion swell:
Where are the cities of old time?
EDMUND GOSSE.
BALLADE.
Love thou art sweet in the spring-time of sowing
Bitter in reaping and salt as the seas,
Lovely and soft when the young buds are growing
Harsh when the fruitage is ripe on the trees:
Yet who that hath plucked him thy blossom e'er flees
Who that hath drunk of thy sweetness can part,
Tho' he find when thy chalice is drained to the lees
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart?
'Tis myself that I curse at, the wild thoughts flowing
Against myself built up of the breeze
Like mountainous waves to my own o'erthrowing
Strike and I tremble, my shivering knees
Sink thro' the quicksands that round them freeze,
From their treacherous hold I am loth to start:--
In my breast laid bare, had you only the keys,
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.
The world wide over young hearts are glowing
With high held hopes we believed with ease,
And have them still, but the saddest knowing
Is the knowledge of how by slow degrees
They slip from our side like a swarm of bees
Bearing their sweetness away, and depart
Leaving their stings in our bosom, with these
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.
_Envoi._
Love, free on the uplands, the lawns, and leas;
Priced and sold in the World's base mart:
But the same in the end; tho' at first it please,
Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.
JOHN CAMERON GRANT.
BALLADE.--LILITH.
Lady, around thy throat
Gleameth the one gold hair;
And none that hath taken note
Of the first that he looked on fair,
The moment his boyish air
Was moved by that mystic breeze,
But hath felt the spell of thy presence there,
Lilith, the first Love sees!
We sail in an open boat,
'Mid breakers that rage and tear,
And ply the oars by rote
As over the waves we fare,
But never a moment dare
Gaze down at the Form by our knees,
For her eyes that thro' Self and thro' Soul do stare,
Lilith, the first Love sees!
Circle of wall and moat,
Vain as the thought to wear
Cunning of knightly coat
Steely and tempered rare,
Against her mute despair;
For none there is who frees
His soul from her spell, who hath all in care,
Lilith, the first Love sees!
_L' Envoi._
Maid without mate or pair,
From the Past's pale Presences,
Who is there but next his heart doth bear
Lilith, the first Love sees!
JOHN CAMERON GRANT.
BALLADE OF ANTIQUE DANCES.
Before the town had lost its wits,
And scared the bravery from its beaux,
When money-grubs were merely cits,
And verse was crisp and clear as prose,
Ere Chloë and Strephon came to blows
For votes, degrees, and cigarettes,
The world rejoiced to point its toes
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.
The solemn fiddlers touch their kits;
The twinkling clavichord o'erflows
With contrapuntal quirks and hits;
And, with all measure and repose,
Through figures grave as royal shows,
With noble airs and pirouettes,
They move, to rhythms HANDEL knows,
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.
O Fans and Swords, O Sacques and Mits,
That was the better part you chose!
You know not how those gamesome chits
Waltz, Polka, and Schottische arose,
Or how Quadrille--a kind of doze
In time and tune--the dance besets;
You aired your fashion till the close
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.
_Envoy._
Muse of the many-twinkling hose,
TERPSICHORE, O teach your pets
The charm that shines, the grace that glows
In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS.
Where are the passions they essayed,
And where the tears they made to flow?
Where the wild humours they portrayed
For laughing worlds to see and know?
Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe?
Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall?
And Millamant and Romeo?--
Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?
The plumes, the armours--friend and foe?
The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,
The mantles glittering to and fro?
The pomp, the pride, the royal show?
The cries of war and festival?
The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?--
Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played:
The Beggar packs beside the Beau;
The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;
The Thunder huddles with the Snow.
Where are the revellers high and low?
The clashing swords? The lover's call?
The dancers gleaming row on row?--
Into the night go one and all.
_Envoy._
Prince, in one common overthrow
The hero tumbles with the thrall:
As dust that drives, as straws that blow,
Into the night go one and all.
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF JUNE.
Lilacs glow, and jasmines climb,
Larks are loud the livelong day.
O the golden summer-prime!
June takes up the sceptre of May,
And the land beneath her sway
Glows, a dream of flowerful closes,
And the very wind's at play
With Sir Love among the roses.
Lights and shadows in the lime
Meet in exquisite disarray.
Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme
Of the blackbird's roundelay!
Where he carols, frank and gay,
Fancy no more glooms or proses;
Joyously she flits away
With Sir Love among the roses.
O the cool sea's slumbrous chime!
O the links that beach the bay,
Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme,
Where the brown bees murmur and stray!
Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay!
Many a maiden, binding posies,
Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay
With Sir Love among the roses.
_Envoi._
Boys and girls, be wise, I pray!
Do as dear Queen June proposes,
For she bids you troop and stay
With Sir Love among the roses.
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF LADIES' NAMES.
Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia,
Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows,
Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia.
The glamour stays if the reason goes!
Every lover the years disclose
Is of a beautiful name made free.
One befriends, and all others are foes.
Anna's the name of names for me.
Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia;
Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose;
Courtly memories glitter in Celia;
Rosalind savours of quips and hose,
Araminta of wits and beaux,
Prue of puddings, and Coralie
All of sawdust and spangled shows;
Anna's the name of names for me.
Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia--
These I reckon the essence of prose!--
Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia,
Portia's masterful Roman nose,
Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes,
Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea,
Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes!
Anna's the name of names for me.
_Envoy._
Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows,
Sylvia prattles of Arcadee,
Sybil mystifies, Connie crows,
Anna's the name of names for me!
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF SPRING.
There's a noise of coming, going,
Budding, waking, vast and still.
Hark, the echoes are yeo-hoing
Loud and sweet from vale and hill!
Do you hear it? With a will,
In a grandiose lilt and swing,
Nature's voices shout and trill ...
'Tis the symphony of Spring!
Rains are singing, clouds are flowing,
Ocean thunders, croons the rill,
And the West his clarion's blowing,
And the sparrow tunes his quill,
And the thrush is fluting shrill,
And the skylark's on the wing,
And the merles their hautboys fill--
'Tis the symphony of Spring!
Lambs are bleating, steers are lowing,
Brisk and rhythmic clacks the mill.
Kapellmeister April, glowing
And superb with glee and skill,
Comes, his orchestra to drill
In a music that will ring
Till the grey world yearn and thrill.
'Tis the symphony of Spring!
_Envoy._
Princes, though your blood he chill,
Here's shall make you leap and fling,
Fling and leap like Jack and Jill!
'Tis the symphony of Spring.
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS.
(Double refrain.)
With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams
The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,
And the winds are one with the clouds and beams-
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,
While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,
Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams,
The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,
The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams-
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,
All secret shadows and mystic lights,
Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
There's a music of bells from the trampling teams,
Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,
The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams--
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
A soul from the honeysuckle strays,
And the nightingale as from prophet heights,
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
_Envoy._
And its O! for my dear and the charm that stays-
Midsummer days! midsummer days!
Its O! for my Love and the dark that plights-
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF YOUTH AND AGE.
(Double refrain.)
Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball-
These are a type of the world of Age.
Bells that clash in a gorgeous chime,
Swords that clatter in outsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Old hymnals prone in a dusty stall,
A bald blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival-
These are a type of the world of Age.
Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral-
These are a type of the world of Age.
_Envoy._
Struggle and sacrifice, revel and brawl-
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage-
These are a type of the world of Age.
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE.
The sun across the meads glows bright;
The river shines a silver sheet,
And mirrors back the pearly light.
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet,
Earth seems in joy the heaven to greet;
Heaven's love illumes the deep blue skies,
And birds and flowers and streams repeat,
'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'
Beneath the hedge with May-bloom white
An old man and a child, whose feet
In cadence move to love's fond might;
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Like op'ning flowers in morn's soft heat.
A youth and maid whose beaming eyes
Flash forth the thought their hearts secrete,
'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'
Within the minster's fane the rite
Is breathed; down-pours His own to meet
The glory of the Infinite:
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Faith falls before the mercy-seat,
And knows, though veiled to mortal eyes,
There, there in loveliness complete,
Where True Love dwells is Paradise.
Past sounding brass are love's tones sweet,
Than gold or gems more rare its price;
In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;
Where true love dwells is Paradise.
W. H. JEWITT.
BALLADE DES PENDUS. (GRINGOIRE.)
Where wide the forest boughs are spread,
When Flora wakes with sylph and fay,
Are crowns and garlands of men dead,
All golden in the morning gay;
Within this ancient garden grey
Are clusters such as no man knows,
Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway:
_This is King Louis' orchard close._
These wretched folk wave overhead,
With such strange thoughts as none may say;
A moment still, then sudden sped,
They swing in a ring and waste away.
The morning smites them with her ray;
They toss with every breeze that blows,
They dance where fires of dawning play:
_This is King Louis' orchard close._