(With Hell to aid that hears them pray)
New legions of an army dread,
Now down the blue sky flames the day;
The dew dries off; the foul array
Of obscene ravens gathers and goes,
With wings that flaps and beaks that flay:
_This is King Louis' orchard close._
_Envoi._
Prince, where leaves murmur of the May,
A tree of bitter clusters grows;
The bodies of men dead are they,
This is King Louis' orchard close.
ANDREW LANG.
VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.
The soft wind from the south land sped,
He set his strength to blow,
O'er forests where Adonis bled
And lily flowers a-row.
He crossed the straits like streams that flow
The ocean dark as wine
To my true love to whisper low
To be your Valentine.
The spring-time raised her drowsy head,
Besprent with drifted snow,
"I'll send an April Day," she said,
"To lands of wintry woe."
He came; wan winter's overthrow
With showers that sing and shine
Pied daisies round your path to strow,
To be your Valentine.
Where sands of Egypt swart and red
'Neath suns Egyptian glow,
In places of the princely dead
By the Nile's overflow,
The swallow preened her wings to go,
And for the North did pine,
And fain would brave the frost, her foe,
To be your Valentine.
_Envoy._
Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so
Their various voice combine,
But that they crave on me bestow
To be your Valentine.
ANDREW LANG.
BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.
(To J. A. Farrer.)
He lived in a cave by the seas,
He lived upon oysters and foes,
But his list of forbidden degrees
An extensive morality shows;
Geological evidence goes
To prove he had never a pan,
But he shaved with a shell when he chose.
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,
He worshipped the river that flows,
And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,
And bogies, and serpents, and crows;
He buried his dead with their toes
Tucked up, an original plan,
Till their knees came right under their nose,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
His communal wives, at his ease,
He would curb with occasional blows;
Or his State had a queen, like the bees
(As another philosopher trows):
When he spoke it was never in prose,
But he sang in a strain that would scan,
For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
_Envoy._
MAX, proudly your Aryans pose,
But their rigs they undoubtedly ran,
For, as every Darwinian knows,
'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!
ANDREW LANG.
BALLADE OF SUMMER.
(To Constance Arkcoll.)
When strawberry pottles are common and cheap,
Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,
When midnight dances are murdering sleep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And far from Fleet Street, far from here
The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,
And moonlight nights they are soft and clear,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.
When clamour that doves in the lindens keep,
Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And better a crust and a beaker of beer,
With rose-hung hedges on either hand,
Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!
When big trout late in the twilight leap,
When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
Where kine knee-deep in the water stand,
On a Highland loch, or a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.
_Envoi._
Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And Summer runs out like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.
ANDREW LANG.
BALLADE OF YULE.
"Heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly."
_This life's most jolly_, Amiens said
Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he
As the good duke was comforted
By these reflections, so may we!
The years may darken as they flee,
And Christmas bring his melancholy;
But round the old mahogany tree
We drink, we sing _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!
Though some are dead and some are fled
To lands of summer over sea,
The holly berry keeps his red,
The merry children keep their glee;
They hoard with artless secresy,
This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,
And Santa Claus he turns the key
On Christmas Eve, _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!
Amid the snow the birds are fed,
The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,
The skies are shining overhead,
The robin's tame that was so free.
Far North, at home, the "barley bree"
They brew; they give the hour to folly.
How "Rab and Allen cam' to prie"
They sing; we sing _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!
_Envoi._
Friend, let us pay the wonted fee,
The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly!
It is a duty so to be,
Though half we sigh, _Heigh-ho, the Holly_!
ANDREW LANG.
BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE.
Our youth began with tears and sighs
With seeking what we could not find;
Our verses all were threnodies,
In elegiacs still we whined;
Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,
We sought and knew not what we sought.
We marvel, now we look behind:
Life's more amusing than we thought!
Oh! foolish youth, untimely wise!
Oh! phantoms of the sickly mind!
What? not content with seas and skies,
With rainy clouds and southern wind,
With common cares and faces kind,
With pains and joys each morning brought?
Ah, old and worn, and tired we find
Life's more amusing than we thought!
Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies,"
To mourn for youth we're not inclined;
We set our souls on salmon-flies,
We whistle where we once repined.
Confound the woes of human-kind!
By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot;
Who hum, contented or resigned,
"Life's more amusing than we thought!"
_Envoy._
_O nate mecum_, worn and lined
Our faces show, but that is naught;
Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind--
Life's more amusing than we thought!
ANDREW LANG.
BALLADE FOR THE LAUREATE.
(After Theodore de Banville.)
Rhyme, in a late disdainful age,
Hath many and many an eager knight,
Each man of them, to print his page,
From every quarter wings his flight!
What tons of manuscript alight
Here in the Row, how many a while
For all can rhyme, when all can write--
The master's yonder in the Isle!
Like Otus some, with giant rage,
But scarcely with a giant's might,
Ossa on Pelion engage
To pile, and scale Parnassus' height!
And some, with subtle nets and slight,
Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,[8]
And wond'rous adjectives unite--
The master's yonder in the Isle!
Alas, the Muse they cannot cage
These poets in a sorry plight!
Vain is the weary war they wage,
In vain they curse the Critic's spite!
While grammar some neglect outright,
While others polish with the file,
The Fates contrive their toil to blight--
The master's yonder in the Isle!
_Envoy._
Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright,
And Browning, in his iron style,
Doth gold on his rude anvil smite--
The master's yonder in the Isle!
ANDREW LANG.
[8] For example 'dawning' and 'warning.'
BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS.
Fair islands of the silver fleece,
Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,
Whose havens are the haunts of Peace,
Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;
_Our_ bolt is shot, our tale is told,
Our ship of state in storms may toss,
But ye are young if we are old,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
Aye, _we_ must dwindle and decrease,
Such fates the ruthless years unfold;
And yet we shall not wholly cease,
We shall not perish unconsoled;
Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold
Within the sea's inviolate fosse,
And boast her sons of English mould,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
All empires tumble--Rome and Greece--
Their swords are rust, their altars cold!
For us, the Children of the Seas,
Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled,
For us, in Fortune's books enscrolled,
I read no runes of hopeless loss;
Nor--while _ye_ last--our knell is tolled,
Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!
_Envoy._
Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold,
When o'er thy grave has grown the moss,
Still _Rule Australia_ shall be trolled
In Islands of the Southern Cross!
ANDREW LANG.
A BALLADE OF OLD SWEETHEARTS.
(To M. C.)
Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers
When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring,
And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers
As she croons the runes of the blossoming?
For the same old blooms do the new years bring.
But not to our lives do the years come so,
New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
Ah! me for a breath of those morning hours
When Alice and I went awandering
Through the shining fields, and it still was ours
To kiss and to feel we were shuddering--
Ah! me, when a kiss was a holy thing.--
How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!
With Phyllis once more to be whispering.--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
But it cannot be that old Time devours
Such loves as was Annie's and mine we sing,
And surely beneficent heavenly powers
Save Muriel's beauty from perishing;
And if in some golden evening
To a quaint old garden I chance to go,
Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
In these lives of ours do the new years bring
Old loves as old flowers again to blow?
Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?--
Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.
R. LE GALLIENNE.
BALLADE.
O Love, whom I have never seen,
Yet ever hope to see;
The memory that might have been
The hope that yet may be;
The passion that persistently
Makes all my pulses beat
With unassuaged desire that we
Some day may come to meet:
This August night outspread serene,
The scent of flower and tree,
The fall of water that unseen
Moans on incessantly,
That line of fire, where breaks the sea
In ripples at my feet;
What mean they all, if not that we
Some day may come to meet?
About your window bowered in green
The night wind wanders free,
While out into the night you lean,
And dream, but not of me,
As now I dream of you who flee
Before my dream complete
The shadow of the day when we
Some day may come to meet.
_Envoy._
Princess, while yet on lawn and lea
The harvest moon is sweet,
Ere August die, who knows but we
Some day may come to meet?
"_Love in Idleness._"
BALLADE OF DEAD THINKERS.
Where's _Heraclitus_ and his Flux
Of Sense that never maketh stay?
Or _Thales_, with whom water sucks
Into itself both Clod and Clay?
Or He, who in an evil Day
~Nomos~ and ~physis~ first employ'd;
And of the Sum of Things doth say,
They all are Atoms in the Void?
Where's grave _Parmenides_? Death plucks
His Beard: and by the _Velian_ Bay
Sleeps _Zeno_; _Plato's_ Pen their Crux
Of _One and Many_ doth portray.
_Empedocles_ too, well-away,
His taste for climbing, unalloy'd
By Prudence, led him far astray:
They all are Atoms in the Void.
Where's _Socrates_ himself, who chucks
Up _Physics_, makes of _Sophists_ hay,
Into _Induction_ briskly tucks,
And _Definitions_ frames alway?
The good _Athenians_ him did slay,
His _Dialectic_ them annoy'd;
And his Disciples, where are they?
They all are Atoms in the Void.
_Envoy._
Prince, tho' with these old names and grey
Our peace of mind be half destroyed,
Take comfort; say they what they may,
They all are Atoms in the Void.
"_Love in Idleness._"
A BALLADE OF ROSES.
~To rhodon to tôn erôtôn.~
When Venus saw Ascanius sleep
On sweet Cythera's snow-white roses
His face like Adon's made her weep,
And long to kiss him where he dozes;
But fearing to disturb the boy,
She kissed the pallid blooms instead,
Which blushed and kept their blush for joy,
When Venus kissed white roses red.
Straight of these roses she did reap
Sufficient store of pleasant posies,
And coming from Cythera's steep
Where every fragrant flower that grows is,
She tossed them for the winds to toy
And frolic with till they were dead.
Heaven taught the earth a fair employ
When Venus kissed white roses red.
For each red rose the symbol deep
In its sad, happy heart encloses
Of kisses making love's heart leap,
And every summer wind that blows is
A prayer that ladies be not coy
Of kisses ere brief life be sped.
There gleamed more gold in earth's alloy
When Venus kissed white roses red.
_Envoy._
All lovers true since windy Troy
Flamed for a woman's golden head,
You gained surcease from life's annoy
When Venus kissed white roses red.
JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.
A BALLADE OF DEATH.
The furious storm takes wing;
Quenched is the fiery ray;
And broken the frosty air's sting,
For these hold mutable sway:
Pain puts an end to its stay;
Ills have a time to endure;
One thing will not heal nor allay:
For death there is no cure!
For the good that the future may bring,
We strive to exist to-day.
With the veering vane we swing,
When fate sweeps fortune away:
Seldom will misery slay;
And ever will hope allure;
Yet one thing endureth for aye,
For death there is no cure!
Though life be an exquisite thing,
Death shatters the curious clay;
Though in frenzy we cry and we cling,
There is none who can save us that day:
So life is devoured as a prey,
And in darkness for aye will immure;
And silence for ever hath sway:
For death there is no cure!
_Envoi._
O man, be ye sad, be ye gay,
In the end there is one thing sure:
Make out of life what ye may,
For death there is no cure!
HUNTER MACCULLOCH.
THE BALLADE OF TOBACCO.
When verdant youth sees life afar,
And first sets out wild oats to sow,
He puffs a stiff and stark cigar,
And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co.
He likes not smoking yet; but though
Tobacco makes him sick indeed,
Cigars and wine he can't forego:--
A slave is each man to the weed.
In time his tastes more dainty are,
And delicate. Become a beau,
From out the country of the Czar
He brings his cigarettes, and lo!
He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.
Thus keener relish shall succeed
The baser liking we outgrow:--
A slave is each man to the weed.
When age and his own lucky star
To him perfected wisdom show,
The schooner glides across the bar,
And beer for him shall freely flow,
A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;
To which he turns in direst need,
To seek in smoke surcease of woe:--
A slave is each man to the weed.
_Envoi._
Smokers! who doubt or con or pro,
And ye who dare to drink, take heed!
And see in smoke a friendly foe:--
A slave is each man to the weed.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
THE BALLADE OF ADAPTATION.
The native drama's sick and dying,
So say the cynic critic crew:
The native dramatist is crying--
"Bring me the paste! Bring me the glue!
Bring me the pen, and scissors, too!
Bring me the works of E. Augier!
Bring me the works of V. Sardou!
I am the man to write a play!"
For want of plays the stage is sighing,
Such is the song the wide world through:
The native dramatist is crying--
"Behold the comedies I brew!
Behold my dramas not a few!
On German farces I can prey,
And English novels I can hew;
_I_ am the man to write a play!"
There is, indeed, no use denying
That fashion's turned from old to new:
The native dramatist is crying--
"Molière, good-bye! Shakespeare adieu!
I do not think so much of you.
Although not bad, you've had your day,
And for the present you won't do.
I am the man to write a play!"
_Envoi._
Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue,
A native dramatist, I say
To every cynic critic, "Pooh!
I am the man to write a play!"
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
A BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER.
The heat wave sweeps along the street,
And torrid ripples mark its flow;
Successive billows follow fleet,
And blister all things with their glow.
No puff of air swings to and fro;
No gentle zephyr stirs the trees.
O for the winds that o'er ocean blow!
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!
Along the shadeless ways you greet
No damsel fair, no buckramed beau--
The solitude is ruled by heat--
A sultry, sullen, scorching woe.
The blazing sun rides high and slow,
As if with laziness to tease
The melting, sweltering world below--
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!
The laggard steed with aching feet
Must stagger on; for him is no
Surcease of labour, no retreat
Before his stint is done. And so
Must man still labour on, although
He hopeless longs to take his ease,
Or to the ocean fain would go--
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!
_Envoi._
Princes or peasants, friend and foe,
No man may have all that he please;
Midsummer heat shall lay him low--
O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
RAIN AND SHINE.
(Ballade à double refrain.)
The clouds are thick and darkly lower;
The sullen sodden sky would fain
Pour down a never-ending shower:
I hear the pattering of the rain,
I hear it rattle on the pane.--
And then I see the mist entwining,
Nor one position long retain.
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!
As though exulting in its power,
The storm beats down with steady strain;
Upon the ivy of the tower
I hear the pattering of the rain;
It swiftly sweeps across the plain.--
And then I see the sky refining,
And molten with a golden stain.
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!
Beneath the storm the cattle cower;
It beats upon the growing grain,
And as it breaks both bud and flower,
I hear the pattering of the rain,--
From where the clouds too long have lain
They turn, and show a silver lining,
A splendid glory comes again.
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!
_Envoy._
Although like some far, faint refrain,
I hear the pattering of the rain,
The storm is past. No more repining--
Behold! the gentle sun is shining!
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
AN AMERICAN GIRL.
She's had a Vassar education,
And points with pride to her degrees;
She's studied household decoration;
She knows a dado from a frieze,
And tells Corots from Boldonis;
A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden,
A Whistler, too, perchance might please
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.
She does not care for meditation;
Within her bonnet are no bees;
She has a gentle animation,
She joins in singing simple glees.
She tries no trills, no rivalries
With Lucca (now Baronin Räden),
With Nilsson or with Gerster; she's
A frank and free young Yankee maiden.
I'm blessed above the whole creation,
Far, far, above all other he's;
I ask you for congratulation
On this the best of jubilees:
I go with her across the seas
Unto what Poe would call an Aiden,--
I hope no serpent's there to tease
A frank and free young Yankee maiden.
_Envoy._
Princes, to you the western breeze
Bears many a ship and heavy laden,
What is the best we send in these?
A free and frank young Yankee maiden.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
"FROM BATTLE, MURDER AND SUDDEN DEATH, GOOD LORD, DELIVER US."
What of this prayer which myriad skies
Hear from the shrines where tired men kneel,
Godward upturning anguished eyes,
Clasping gaunt hands in strong appeal?
What of this fear that worn lives feel?
Why should some strain their labouring breath,
Since they must gain not woe but weal,
From battle, murder and sudden death!
Is it not well with him who dies
Flushed amid smoke and flash of steel;
Stabbed by some traitor's swift surprise;
Stricken by doom no signs reveal?
Ruin and wrong can no more deal
Blows beneath which (man's record saith)
Men ask deliverance, while they reel,
From battle, murder and sudden death!
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.