Full fast he flies for woe or weal,
And some do bear his grievous sting
Too deep for any leech to heal;
I scorn to swell their sad appeal,
False phantom, fled from our embrace!
And yet--I doubt me I might kneel
Should you but chance to turn your face.
Of days long done our praises ring
Right loud and full, a valorous peal,
For life was then a lusty thing:
Ah! then were mighty blows to deal.
Brave days, my masters!--still, I feel
In sooth I could not deem him base
Who'd shun your stare, O age of steel!
Should you but chance to turn your face.
"Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing,
"That sorrow sets unbroken seal
On saint and sinner, clown and king."
They beg death's boon with busy zeal.
They'll do you homage warm and leal,
Death! while you pass their dwelling-place
But lips would gape and senses reel,
Should you but chance to turn your face.
_Envoy._
Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel,
We bow to find you full of grace,
We would not turn on sullen heel
Should _you_ but chance to turn your face.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST.
Heed not the folk who sing or say
In sonnet sad or sermon chill,
"Alas, alack, and well-a-day,
This round world's but a bitter pill."
Poor porcupines of fretful quill!
Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:
We, too, are sad and careful; still
We'd rather be alive than not.
What though we wish the cats at play
Would some one else's garden till;
Though Sophonisba drop the tray
And all our worshipped Worcester spill,
Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill,
Though May be cold and June be hot,
Though April freeze and August grill,
We'd rather be alive than not.
And, sometimes, on a summer's day
To self and every mortal ill
We give the slip, we steal away,
To lie beside some sedgy rill;
The darkening years, the cares that kill,
A little while are well forgot;
Deep in the broom upon the hill
We'd rather be alive than not.
Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil
The task thy braggart tongue begot.
We eat our leek with better will,
We'd rather be alive than not.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
BALLADE OF OLD INSTRUMENTS.
So quaintly sadly mute they hang,
We ask in vain what fingers played,
What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,
What songs in life's brief masquerade,--
What old-world catch or serenade,
What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs
Found voice when maid or ruffling blade
Sang long-forgot familiar airs.
We only know that once they rang
In oaken room and forest glade,
Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;
When earth and heaven itself were made
For roistering off a Spanish raid,
To drown in such life's shallower cares,
Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,
To long-forgot familiar airs.
Dead all--a pun for every pang
(So Shakespeare then the race portrayed
That fought and revelled, danced and sprang
Half-way to meet death undismayed);
About them gather mist and shade,
Yet Time ironically spares
These strings on which their fingers strayed
To long-forgot familiar airs.
_Envoy._
Ah! child, so soon the colours fade
From Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs,
You yet may seek in notes decayed
_Our_ long-forgot familiar airs.
MORTIMER WHEELER.
BALLADE OF SEA-MUSIC.
Sink, sun, in crimson far away,
Float out, pale moon, above the roar,
While brown and silver, flame and grey,
Round rock and sand, the waters pour;
For night hath clue to all the store,
Of wild wave-harmony that rings,
And earth hath not in all her lore,
The legends that sea-music brings.
Here singing silver shallows fray
The ruby-tufted golden floor,
Here wondrous twilight forests sway
Round coral porch and corridor
Where lurk----but ah; why yet implore
The splendid dream that round them clings?...
Where lie the dead who heard of yore
The legends that sea-music brings.
This is the sea that could not stay,
The tides of men that evermore
Rolled westward still and cleft its spray,
With hollowed trunk, and dauntless oar.
Here Grecian trireme reeled before,
Rome's purple galley; here sea kings,
Left red on wave and blackened shore
The legends that sea-music brings.
_Envoy._
Earth keeps not now the face she wore
The smoke-trails dusk the wide white wings;
No longer as of old shall soar,
The legends that sea-music brings.
MORTIMER WHEELER.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE LARK.
When the fairies are all for their dances drest,
When day's discords in the distance fail,
When the robin and wren are asleep in the nest,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale,
When star-fires are fading spark by spark,
And the little birds all the dawning hail,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!
When over the hills the silver crest
Is pouring enchantment on mere and vale,
And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But when the bright sun dight in golden mail
Flames over the tree-tops in the park,
And the world goes again on its busy trail,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!
When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast,
And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale,
As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale,
And Phillis is met where no one may mark,
And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!
_Envoi._
If Il Penseroso's mood prevail,
Then list to the note of the nightingale!
But whenever L'Allegro woos, then hark,
O hark to the song of the merry lark!
ERNEST WHITNEY.
MY GRANDCHILDREN AT CHURCH.
Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue,
And serious Dickie, brave as fair,
Crossing to Church you oft may view
When no one but myself is there:
First to the belfry they repair,
And while to the large ropes they cling,
And make believe to call to prayer,
For angels' ears the bells they ring!
Next seated gravely in a pew,
A pulpit homily they share,
Meet for my little flock of two,
Pointed and plain as they can bear:
Then venture up the pulpit's stair,
Pray at the desk or gaily sing:
O sweet Child-life without a care-
For angels' ears the bells they ring!
Dear little ones, the early dew
Of holy infancy they wear,
And lift to Heaven a face as true
As flowers that breathe the morning air:
Whate'er they do, where'er they fare,
They can command an angel's wing
Their voices have a music rare,
For angels' ears the bells they ring!
O parents, of your charge beware:
Their angels stand before the King:
In work, play, sleep, and everywhere
For angels' ears the bells they ring!
RICHARD WILTON.
BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Grass that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds-
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the tinkle,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow, at will
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds-
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds-
To live, I think of these!
_Envoy._
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF ASPIRATION.
O to be somewhere by the sea,
Far from the city's dust and shine,
From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's shrine,
From the stony street, and the grim decree
That over an inkstand crooks my spine,
From the books that are and the books to be,
And the need that makes of the sacred Nine
A school of harridans!--sweetheart mine,
O to be somewhere by the sea!
Under a desk I bend my knee,
Whether the morn be foul or fine.
I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine,
Or footing it over the sunlit lea.
But I struggle and write and make no sign,
For a labouring ox must earn his fee,
And even a journalist has to dine;
But O for a breath of the eglantine!
O to be somewhere by the sea!
Out on the links, where the wind blows free,
And the surges gush, and the rounding brine
Wanders and sparkles, an air like wine
Fills the senses with pride and glee.
In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine,
A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee:
Life, love, and laziness are a trine
Worshipful, wonderful, dear, divine....
O to be somewhere by the sea!
_Envoy._
Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne,
When I was rich in a certain key--
The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine,
Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline,
O to be somewhere by the Sea!
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF TRUISMS.
Gold or silver every day,
Dies to grey.
There are knots in every skein.
Hours of work and hours of play
Fade away
Into one immense Inane.
Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,
Are as vain
As the foam or as the spray.
Life goes crooning, faint and fain,
One refrain--
"If it could be always May!"
Though the earth be green and gay,
Though, they say,
Man the cup of heaven may drain;
Though his little world to sway.
He display
Hoard on hoard of pith and brain,
Autumn brings a mist and rain
That constrain
Him and his to know decay,
Where undimmed the lights that wane
Would remain,
If it could be always May.
_Yea_, alas, must turn to _Nay_,
Flesh to clay.
Chance and Time are ever twain.
Men may scoff and men may pray,
But they pay
Every pleasure with a pain.
Life may soar and Fortune deign
To explain
Where her prizes hide and stay;
But we lack the lusty train
We should gain
If it could be always May.
_Envoy._
Time the pedagogue his cane
Might retain,
But his charges all would stray
Truanting in every lane--
Jack with Jane!--
If it could be always May.
W. E. HENLEY.
DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE.
Fools may pine, and sots may swill,
Cynics jibe and prophets rail,
Moralists may scourge and drill,
Preachers prose, and faint hearts quail.
Let them whine, or threat, or wail!
'Till the touch of Circumstance
Down to darkness sink the scale--
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
What if skies be wan and chill?
What if winds be harsh and stale?
Presently the East will thrill,
And the sad and shrunken sail,
Bellying with a kindly gale,
Bear you sunwards, while your chance
Sends you back the hopeful hail--
"Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance."
Idle shot or coming bill,
Hapless love or broken bail,
Gulp it (never chew your pill!)
And if Burgundy should fail,
Try a humble pot of ale!
Over all is heaven's expanse.
Gold exists among the shale.
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,
Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,
Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,
Hard Sir Æger dints his mail;
And the while, by hill and dale,
Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,
And his blithe horn tells its tale....
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Araminta's grand and shrill,
Delia's passionate and frail,
Doris drives an earnest quill,
Athanasia takes the veil;
Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,
At the heart of all romance
Reading, sings to Strephon's flail--
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Every Jack must have his Jill,
(Even Johnson had his Thrale!)
Forward, couples--with a will!
This, the world, is not a jail.
Hear the music, sprat and whale!
Hands across, retire, advance!
Though the doomsman's on your trail,
Fate's a Fiddler, Life's a dance.
_Envoy._
Boys and girls, at slug and snail
And their compeers look askance.
Pay your footing on the nail:
Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
W. E. HENLEY.
DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS.
The big teetotum twirls,
And epochs wax and wane
As chance subsides or swirls;
But of the loss and gain
The sum is always plain.
Read on the mighty pall,
The weed of funeral
That covers praise and blame,
The isms and the anities,
Magnificence and shame,
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
The Fates are subtile girls!
They give us chaff for grain;
And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,
Like bolted death, disdain
At all that heart and brain
Conceive, or great or small,
Upon this earthly ball.
Would you be knight and dame?
Or woo the sweet humanities?
Or illustrate a name?
O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,
Or lose them in the drain;
We flute it with the merles,
Or tug and sweat and strain;
We grovel, or we reign;
We saunter, or we brawl;
We answer, or we call;
We search the stars for Fame,
Or sink her subterranities;
The legend's still the same:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Here at the wine one birls,
There someone clanks a chain.
The flag that this man furls
That man to float is fain.
Pleasure gives place to pain:--
These in the kennel crawl,
While others take the wall.
_She_ has a glorious aim,
_He_ lives for the inanities.
What comes of every claim?
O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.
For sot, and seer, and swain,
For emperors and for churls,
For antidote and bane,
There is but one refrain:
But one for king and thrall,
For David and for Saul,
For fleet of foot and lame,
For pieties and profanities,
The picture and the frame--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Life is a smoke that curls--
Curls in a flickering skein,
That winds and whisks and whirls,
A figment thin and vain,
Into the vast Inane.
One end for hut and hall!
One end for cell and stall!
Burned in one common flame
Are wisdoms and insanities.
For this alone we came:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
_Envoi._
Prince, pride must have a fall.
What is the worth of all
Your state's supreme urbanities?
Bad at the best's the game.
Well might the sage exclaim:--
"O Vanity of Vanities!"
W. E. HENLEY.
BALLADE OF SLEEP.
The hours are passing slow,
I hear their weary tread
Clang from the tower, and go
Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead
Long wakeful here I know,
And music from the steep,
Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestow
Rest on the fever'd bed,
All slumb'rous sounds and low
Are mingled here and wed,
And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro
With shadowy hair dispread;
With wistful eyes that glow,
And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
What cause hast thou to show
Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below
I most have labourèd
With service sung and said;
Have cull'd such buds as blow,
Soft poppies white and red
Where thy still gardens grow
And Lethe's waters weep,
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
_Envoi._
Prince, ere the dark be sped
By golden shafts, ere low
And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead,
Soft-footed as the snow,
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
ANDREW LANG.
THE BALLADE OF LOVELACE.
My days for singing and loving are over
And stark I lie in my narrow bed,
I care not at all if roses cover
Or if above me the snow is spread;
I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead--
Vera and Lily and Annie and May,
And my soul is set on the present fray,
Its piercing kisses and subtle snares:
So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway,
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
O happy moths that now flit and hover
From the blossom of white to the blossom of red,
Take heed, for I was a lordly lover
Till the little day of my life had sped;
As straight as a pine tree, a golden head,
And eyes as blue as an austral bay.
Ladies when loosing your satin array,
Reflect, in my years had you lived my prayers
Might have won you from weakly lovers away.
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover
Sweet voices come down through the binding lead;
O queens that every age must discover
For men, that Man's delight may be fed;
Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed
For the space of a year, a month, a day,
No thirst but mine could your thirst allay;
And oh, for an hour of life, my dears,
To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay,--
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
_Envoi._
Prince was I ever of festival gay,
And time never silvered my locks with grey;
The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs,
So think of me sometimes dear ladies I pray,
My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
GEORGE MOORE.
BALLAD.
I.
What do we here who, with reverted eyes,
Turn back our longing from the modern air
To the dim gold of long-evanished skies,
When other songs in other mouths were fair?
Why do we stay the load of life to bear,
To measure still the weary, worldly ways,
Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,
That ushers in another waste of days,
Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
II.
Were it not thus, could but our high emprise
Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear
To seek that haven where contentment lies?
Who would not doff at once life's load of care,
To be at peace amid the silence there?
Ah, who alas?--Across the heat and haze
Death beckons to us in the shadow dun--
Favouring and fair--"My rest is sweet," he says;
But we reluctantly avert our gaze:
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
III.
Songs have we sung, and many melodies
Have from our lips had issue rich and rare;
But never yet the conquering chant did rise,
That should ascend the very heaven's stair,
To rescue life from anguish and despair.
Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,
"Lo!" have we cried, "this is the golden one
That shall deliver us!"--Alas! Hope's rays
Die in the distance, and Life's sadness stays.
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
_Envoy._
Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,
Grant that the aim of rest for us be won;
Let the light shine upon our life that strays
Disconsolate within the desert maze;
Why, but because our task is yet undone?
JOHN PAYNE.
DOUBLE BALLAD. OF THE SINGERS OF THE TIME.
I.
Why are our songs like the moan of the main,
When the wild winds buffet it to and fro,
(Our brothers ask us again and again),
A weary burden of hope laid low?
Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow?
Is life cast down from its fair estate?
This I answer them, nothing mo',
_Songs and singers are out of date._
II.
What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain,
Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow.
Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain
For shameful honour, for wealth and woe,
Hunger and luxury--weeds that throw
Up from one seeding their flowers of hate?
Can we tune our lute to these themes? ah no!
_Songs and singers are out of date._
III.
Our songs should be of faith without stain,
Of haughty honour and deaths that sow
The seeds of life on the battle-plain,
Of loves unsullied and eyes that show
The fair white soul in the deeps below.
Where are they, these that our songs await,
To wake to joyance? Doth any know?
_Songs and singers are out of date._
IV.
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.