Soft on the lake's soft bosom we twain
Float in the haze of a dim delight,
While the wavelets cradle the sleepless brain,
And the eyes are glad of the lessening light,
And the east with a fading glory is bright--
The lingering smile of a sun that is set,--
And the earth in its tender sorrow is dight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.
Oh, the mellow beam of the suns that wane,
Oh the joys, ah me! that are taking flight,
Oh, the sting of a rapture too near to pain,
And of love that loveth in death's despite.
But the hour is ours, and its beauty's might
Subdues our souls to a still regret,
While the Blumlis-alp unveils to the night,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.
Now we set our prow to the land again,
And our backs to those splendours ghostly white,
But a mirrored star with a watery train
We hold in our wake as a golden kite;
When we near the shore with its darkening height,
And its darker shade on the waters set,
Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.
_Envoy._
From the jewelled circles where I indite
This song which my faithless tears make wet,
We trail the light till its gemmed rings smite
The shadow--that falleth! and spares us yet.
EMILY PFEIFFER.
GRANDMOTHER.
Another new gown, as I declare!
How many more is it going to be?
And your forehead all hid in a cloud of hair--
'Tis nothing but folly, that I can see!
The maidens of nowaday make too free;
To right and to left is the money flung;
_We_ used to dress as became our degree--
But things have altered since I was young.
Stuff, in my time, was made to wear;
Gowns we had never but two or three;
Did we fancy them spoilt, if they chanced to tear?
And shrink from a patch, or a darn? not we!
For pleasure, a gossiping dish of tea,
Or a mushroom hunt, while the dew yet hung,
And no need, next day, for the doctor's fee--
But things have altered since I was young.
The yellow gig, and a drive to the fair;
A keepsake bought in a booth on the lea;
A sixpence, perhaps, to break and share--
That's how your grandfather courted me.
Did your grandmother blush, do you think--not she!
When he found her, the churn and the pails among?
Or your grandfather like her the less? not he!
But things have altered since I was young.
_Envoi._
Child! you pout, and you urge your plea--
Better it were that you held your tongue!
Maids should learn at their elders' knee--
But things have altered since I was young.
MAY PROBYN.
A BALLADE OF PHILOMELA.
From gab of jay and chatter of crake
The dusk wood covered me utterly.
And here the tongue of the thrush was awake.
Flame floods out of the low bright sky
Lighted the gloom with gold-brown dye,
Before dark; and a manifold chorussing
Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
Midmost a close green covert of brake
A brown bird listening silently
Sat; and I thought--"She grieves for the sake
Of Itylus,--for the stains that lie
In her heritage of sad memory."
But the thrushes were hushed at evening.
Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
And I said--"The thought of the thrushes will shake
With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy
Tongue of the dear times dead will take
To make her a living song, when sigh
The soft night winds disburthened by.
Hark now!" for the upraised quivering wing,
The throat exultant, I could descry,--
For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.
_L'Envoi._
But the bird dropped dead with only a cry:
I found its tongue was withered, poor thing!
Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I
That the heart of the singer will break or sing.
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.
A BALLADE OF CALYPSO.
The loud black flight of the storm diverges
Over a spot in the loud mouthed main,
Where, crowned with summer and sun, emerges
An isle unbeaten of wind or rain.
And here, of its sweet queen grown full fain,
By whose kisses the whole broad earth seems poor,
Tarries the wave-worn prince, Troy's bane,
In the green Ogygian Isle secure.
To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges.
She gives him all things, counting it gain.
Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges,
How could Fate dissever these twain?
But him no loves nor delights retain;
New knowledge, new lands, new loves allure;
Forgotten the perils, and toils, and pain,
In the green Ogygian Isle secure.
So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urges
His weak skiff over the wind-vext plain,
Till the grey of the sky in the grey sea merges,
And nights reel round, and waver and wane.
He sits once more in his own domain.
No more the remote sea-walls immure.-
But ah, for the love he shall clasp not again
In the green Ogygian Isle secure.
_L'Envoi._
Princes, and ye whose delights remain,
To the one good gift of the gods hold sure,
Lest ye, too, mourn, in vain, in vain,
Your green Ogygian Isle secure.
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.
A BALLAD OF FORGOTTEN TUNES.
TO V. L.
Forgotten seers of lost repute
That haunt the banks of Acheron,
Where have you dropped the broken lute
You played in Troy or Calydon?
O ye that sang in Babylon
By foreign willows cold and grey,
Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon,
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_
De Coucy, is your music mute,
The quaint old plain-chant woe-begone
That served so many a lover's suit?
Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron!
Then, sweet De Caurroy, try upon
Your virginals a virelay;
Or play Orlando, one pavonne--
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_
But ye whose praises none refute,
Who have the immortal laurel won;
Trill me your quavering close acute,
Astorga, dear unhappy Don!
One air, Galuppi! Sarti one
So many fingers used to play!-
Dead as the ladies of Villon,
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_
_Envoy._
Vernon, in vain you stoop to con
The slender, faded notes to-day-
The Soul that dwelt in them is gone:
_Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_
A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
BALLADE OF A GARDEN.
With plash of the light oars swiftly plying,
The sharp prow furrows the watery way;
The ripples' reach as the bank is dying,
And soft shades slender, and long lights play
In the still dead heat of the drowsy day,
As on I sweep with the stream that flows
By sleeping lilies that lie astray
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.
There ever a whispering wind goes sighing,
Filled with the scent of the new-mown hay,
Over the flower hedge peering and prying,
Wooing the rose as with words that pray;
And the waves from the broad bright river bay
Slide through clear channels to dream and doze,
Or rise in a fountain's silver spray
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.
The sweet white rose with the red rose dying,
Blooms where the summer follows the May,
Till the streams be hid by the lost leaves lying,
That autumn shakes where the lilies lay.
But now all bowers and beds are gay
And no rain ruffles the flower that blows,
And still on the water soft dreams stay
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.
_Envoi._
Before the blue of the sky grows grey
And the frayed leaves fall from the faded rose,
Love's lips shall sing what the day-dreams say
In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.
ARTHUR REED ROPES.
BALLADE OF THE BARD.
Though through the cloudy ranks of morn
The Sun-god sends no golden ray,
Though swift along the air are borne
The feathery shafts that none may stay;
Though wrathful storm-blasts pangless slay,
And wan the patient plodder rues
His lonely lot each dagging day-
He's gay who courts the merry muse!
When down the fields the tender corn
Upsprings, and sees blue skies in May,
When budding blooms the boughs adorn,
And flowers bespangle sprig and spray,
When torrid summer's regnant sway
Has dimmed the foliage's fairest hues,
And bronzèd reapers house the hay--
He's gay who courts the merry muse!
And when the hollow harvest horn
O'erflows with autumn's rich display,
When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn,
Is piled each lofty granary,
When, like dark moons amid the gray
Of cornfields, where the red ear woos,
The pumpkins lie in long array-
He's gay who courts the merry muse!
_Envoy._
Prince, e'en though Fortune go astray
And lost is wealth's bright-shining cruse,
Though dark and drear the weary way-
He's gay who courts the merry muse.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
BALLADE OF DEAD POETS.
Theocritus, who bore
The lyre where sleek herds graze
On the Sicilian shore,
(There yet the shepherd strays)--
And Horace, crowned with bays,
Who dwelt by Tiber's flow,
Sleep through the silent days--
For God will have it so!
The bard, whose requiem o'er
And o'er the sad sea plays,
Who sang of classic lore,
Of Mab, the queen of fays--
And Keats, fair Adonais,
The child of song and woe,
No longer thread life's maze--
For God will have it so!
Your voices, sweet of yore,
With honied word and phrase,
Are heard by men no more,
They list to other lays--
New poets now have praise,
But all in turn must go
To follow in your ways--
For God will have it so!
_Envoy._
Poets, the thrones ye raise
Are not a "fleeting show;"
Fame lives, though dust decays--
For God will have it so!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
BALLADE TO VILLON.
Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold,
With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow,
Who, in the merry days of old,
Made light of all but red wine's flow?
Where now are cavalier and beau
Who joyed with thee in that bright clime?
Ah! dust to dust!--and none may know--
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
Where now are they whom gleaming gold
Led on to many a bandit blow,
Who roamed with thee the widening wold
And vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe?
Where they, who, in the sunset glow,
With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime?
Ah! they are gone!--and still men go--
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
And where are they, those maids untold,
Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe?
They too are now but loathsome mould,
With earth above and earth below.
And she who won, aside to throw
Thy love, the promise of thy prime,
Doth any seek her name? Ah! no--
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
_Envoy._
Poet of ballade and rondeau,
Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme,
Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow;
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE.
Of all the songs that dwell
Where softest speech doth flow,
Some love the sweet rondel,
And some the bright rondeau,
With rhymes that tripping go
In mirthful measures clad;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!
O'er some, the villanelle,
That sets the heart aglow,
Doth its enchanting spell
With lines' recurring throw;
Some weighed with wasting woe,
Gay triolets make them glad;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!
On chant of stately swell
With measured feet and slow,
At grave as minster bell
As vesper tolling low,
Do some their praise bestow;
Some on sestinas sad;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!
_Envoy._
Prince, to these songs a-row
The Muse might endless add;
But would I choose them?--no,
For me the blithe ballade!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
O LADY MINE.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,
The birds are caroling blithe and gay
In the bourgeoning boughs that sway in air
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The mock-bird pipes to the busy jay:
There's a gleam of white on the vines that twine
Where your casement opes to the golden day,
O lady mine.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,
The rills are glad that the month is May;
The dawns are bright and the eves are fair
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The dales have doffed their gowns of grey,
The sending buttercups spill their wine,
There is joy in the heart of faun and fay,
O lady mine.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair
The bees, like ruthless bandits, prey
On the blooms that part their lips in prayer
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
From the sunny shores where the nereids play
The breezes blow o'er the foamy brine,
And I dream I hear them softly say,
"O lady mine!"
_Envoy._
O lady mine, wilt thou not stray
O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way,
And list to Love where the wind-flowers shine,
O lady mine?
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
WHERE ARE THE SHIPS OF TYRE?
Hark, how the surges dash
On Tyrian beaches hoar!
With far-resounding crash,
And unremitting roar,
The white foam squadrons pour
Their ranks with sullen ire
Along the sandy floor;
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
Within her walls the clash
Of arms is heard no more;
No supple bough of ash
Is hewn for mast or oar;
Through no tall temple's door
Now gleams the altar fire,
But winds and waves deplore,
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
By night no torches flash
From porches as of yore;
'Neath sword or stinging lash
No slave now lies in gore;
No voice that men adore
Lifts song to lute or lyre;
With all the freight they bore,
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
_Envoy._
Prince, with these "gone before,"
We, whom these days inspire,
Must seek that unknown shore
"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
BALLADE OF VAIN HOPES.
O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that stand
Upon the marge of yonder shore
Where by the pale feet-trampled sand
(Though none is seen to walk that floor)
The Stygian wave flows evermore:
We fain would buy what ye can tell,
Speak! Speak! And thrill to each heart's core--
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_
O spectral Hours that throng this land--
Where no sweet floods of sunshine pour,
But vast, tenebriously grand,
Dense glooms abide, wind-swept or frore--
O ye who thus have gone before,
Break silence--break your charmëd spell!
Heed not our negligence of yore!
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_
O sombre, sad-eyed, shadowy band,
Speak, speak, and wave not o'er and o'er
Each wan phantasmal shadow-hand;
O say, if when with battling sore
We cross the flood and hear the roar
O' the world like a sighed farewell,
What waits beyond the Grave's last door?
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_
_Envoy._
O coming Hours, O unspent store,
_Your_ promise breathe--as in sea-shell
Imprison'd Echo sings her lore--
_Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_
WILLIAM SHARP.
BALLADE OF THE SONG OF THE SEA-WIND.
What is the song the sea-wind sings--
The old, old song it singeth for aye?
When abroad it stretcheth its mighty wings
And driveth the white clouds far away,--
What is the song it sings to-day?
_From fire and tumult the white world came,_
_Where all was a mist of driven spray_
_And the whirling fragments of a frame!_
What is the song the sea-wind sings--
The old, old song it singeth for aye?
It seems to breathe a thousand things
Ere the world grew sad and old and grey--
Of the dear gods banished far astray--
Of strange wild rumours of joy and shame!
_The Earth is old, so old, To-day--_
_Blind and halt and weary and lame._
What is the song the sea-wind sings--
The old, old song it singeth for aye?
Like a trumpet blast its voice out-rings,
_The world spins down the darksome way!_
It crieth aloud in wild dismay,
_The Earth that from fire and tumult came_
_Draws swift to her weary end To-day,_
_Her fires are fusing for that last Flame!_
_Envoy._
What singeth the sea-wind thus for aye--
_From fire and tumult the white world came!_
What is the sea-wind's cry To-day--
_Her central fires make one vast flame!_
WILLIAM SHARP.
BALLADE OF THE SEA-FOLK.
Where are the creatures of the deep,
That made the sea-world wondrous fair?
The dolphins that with royal sweep
Sped Venus of the golden-hair
Through leagues of summer sea and air?
Are they all gone where past things be?
The merman in his weedy lair?
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
O singing syrens, do ye weep
That now ye hear not anywhere
The swift oars of the seamen leap,
See their wild, eager eyes a-stare?
O syrens, that no more ensnare
The souls of men that once were free,
Are ye not filled with cold despair--
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
O Triton, on some coral steep
In green-gloom depths, dost thou forbear
With wreathëd horn to call thy sheep,
The wandering sea-waves, to thy care?
O mermaids, once so debonnair,
Sport ye no more with mirthful glee?
The ways of lover-folk forswear?--
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
_Envoy._
Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware!
They wait a day that yet must be,
When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir--
O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
WILLIAM SHARP.
TO AUSTIN DOBSON.
From the sunny climes of France,
Flying to the west,
Came a flock of birds by chance,
There to sing and rest:
Of some secrets deep in quest,--
Justice for their wrongs,--
Seeking one to shield their breast,
One to write their songs.
Melodies of old romance,
Joy and gentle jest,
Notes that made the dull heart dance
With a merry zest;--
Maids in matchless beauty drest,
Youths in happy throngs;--
These they sang to tempt and test
One to write their songs.
In old London's wide expanse
Built each feathered guest,--
Man's small pleasure to entrance,
Singing him to rest,--
Came, and tenderly confessed,
Perched on leafy prongs,
Life were sweet if they possessed
One to write their songs.
_Envoy._
Austin, it was you they blest:
Fame to you belongs!
Time has proven you're the best
One to write their songs.
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
BALLADE OF RHYME.
When blossoms born of balmy spring
Breathe fragrance in the pleasant shade
Of branches where the blue-birds sing,
Their hearts with music overweighed;
When brooks go babbling through the glade,
And over rocks the grasses climb
To greet the sunshine, half-afraid,-
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
When invitations are a-wing
For gay Terpsichore's parade;
When dreamy waltzes stir the string
And jewels flash on rich brocade,
Where Paris dresses are displayed,
And slippered feet keep careful time;-
In winter, when the roses fade,
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
When by your side, with graceful swing,
Some fair-faced, gentle girl has strayed,
Willing and glad to have you bring
Your claims for love and get them paid
In kisses, smiles, and words that aid
The bells of bliss to better chime;-
When Cupid's rules are first obeyed,
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
_Envoy._
Reader, forgive me, man or maid,
Against Calliope this crime;
And let this brief ballade persuade
How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.
A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND.
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,
Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;
In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,
Under the roses I hid my heart.
Why would it sleep not? why should it start,
When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?
What made sleep flutter his wings and part?
Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,
And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;
Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,
And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.
Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart
Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?
What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?
Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,
It never was writ in the traveller's chart,
And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,
It never was sold in the merchant's mart.
The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,
And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;
No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,
Only the song of a secret bird.
_Envoi._
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,
To sleep for a season and hear no word
Of true love's truth or of light love's art,
Only the song of a secret bird.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
A BALLADE OF KINGS.
Where are the mighty kings of yore
Whose sword-arm cleft the world in twain?
And where are they who won and wore
The empire of the land and main?
Where's Alexander, Charlemain?
Alone the sky above them brings
Their tombs the tribute of the rain.
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where now is Rome's old emperor,
Who gazed on burning Rome full fain;
And where, at one for evermore,
The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain?
What of Napoleon's lightning brain,
Grim Fritz's iron hammerings,
Forging the links of Europe's chain?
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore,
Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain?
Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore
The spears toward Zion's gate again?
And can so little space contain,
Quiet from all his wanderings,
The world-demanding Tamburlaine?
Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
_Envoy._
O Kings, bethink ye then how vain
The pride and pomp of earthly things:
A little pain, a little gain,
Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.
ARTHUR SYMONS.
BALLADE OF ACHERON.
Between the Midnight and the Morn,
The under-world my soul espied;
I saw the shades of men out-worn,
The Heroes fallen in their pride;
I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide,
And many a ghost that strayed thereon;
"Still must I roam," a maiden sighed,
"The sunless marsh of Acheron."
"And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn?"
"Yea, even so," the shade replied,
"For one I wronged in life hath sworn
In hatred ever to abide:
The lover seeketh not the bride,
But aye, with me, his heart dreams on,
Asleep in these cold mists that hide
The sunless marsh of Acheron.
"And still for me will Lacon mourn,
And still my pardon be denied:
Ah, never shall I cross the bourne
That Dead from Living doth divide;
Yet I repent me not!" she cried,
"Nay--only that mine hour is gone;
One memory hath glorified
The sunless marsh of Acheron."
_Envoy._
Ah, Princess! when _thy_ ghost shall glide
Where never star nor sunlight shone,
See thou she tarry not beside
The sunless marsh of Acheron.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
BALLADE OF ASPHODEL.
~Kat' asphodelon leimôna.~
Now who will thread the winding way,
Afar from fervid summer heat,
Beyond the sunshafts of the day,
Beyond the blast of winter sleet?
In the green twilight, dimly sweet,
Of poplar shades, the shadows dwell,
Who found erewhile a fair retreat
Along the mead of Asphodel.
There death and birth are one, they say;
Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat;
No sound doth rise of mortal fray,
Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat:
Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat;
Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell;
But lovers one another greet
Along the mead of Asphodel.
I would that there my soul might stray;
I would my phantom, fair and fleet,
Might cleave the burden of the clay,
Might leave the murmur of the street,
Nor with half-hearted prayer entreat
The half-believed-in Gods; too wel
I know the name I shall repeat
Along the mead of Asphodel.
_Envoy._
Queen Proserpine, at whose white feet
In life my love I may not tell,
Wilt give me welcome when we meet
Along the mead of Asphodel?
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
BALLADE OF THE BOURNE.
What goal remains for pilgrim feet
Now all our gods are banishèd?
Afar, where sea and sunrise meet,
Tall portals bathed in gold and red,
From either door a carven head
Smiles down on men full drowsilie
'Mid mystic forms of wings outspread
Between the Gates of Ivorie.
Now if beyond lie town or street
I know not nor hath any said,
Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet;
Some say that there men meet the dead,
Or filmy phantoms in their stead,
And some "it leads to Arcadie,"
In sooth I know not, yet would tread
Between the Gates of Ivorie.
For surely there sounds music sweet
With fair delights and perfumes shed,
And all things broken made complete,
And found again things forfeited;
All this for him who scorning dread
Shall read the wreathen fantasie,
And pass, where no base soul had sped
Between the Gates of Ivorie.
_Envoy._
Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread,
Rise up and follow fearlesslie,
By high desire and longing led
Between the Gates of Ivorie.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
BALLADE OF FAIRY GOLD.
A goblin trapped in netted skein,
Did bruise his wings with vain essay;
"Now who will rend this hempen chain?
Let that man ask me what he may,
I shall not, surely, say him nay:
The shadows wane, the day grows old,
Meseems this mesh will keep for aye
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!"
These echoes of the creature's pain,
As in the fowler's net he lay,
Drew soon anigh a surly swain
Who cut the cords and freed the fay:
"Now what fair gift shall well repay
Thy service done?--for words are cold--
Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?"
"The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold."
"Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain,
Lo! here is treasure good and gay:"
The goat-herd grasped his golden gain
And bore the shining store away;
He oped his chest, at break of day,
To find--no talents, bright and cold,
But soft, dead cowslips--nowhere lay
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!
_Envoy._
Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray,
We twain, where nought is bought or sold,
And find in every woodland way,
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
BALLADE OF MIGHT-BE.