Let not your hearts too hard against us be;
For if some pity of us poor men ye give,
The sooner God shall take of you pity.
Here are we five or six strung up, you see,
And here the flesh that all too well we fed
Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,
And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;
Let no man laugh at us discomforted,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,
Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we
Were slain by law; ye know that all alive
Have not wit alway to walk righteously;
Make therefore intercession heartily
With him that of a virgin's womb was bred,
That his grace be not as a dry well-head
For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;
We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
The rain has washed and laundered us all five,
And the sun dried and blackened; yea, per die,
Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive,
Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee
Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free,
Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,
Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led,
More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall.
Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,
Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;
We have nought to do in such a master's hall.
Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,
But pray to God that he forgive us all.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
A BALLAD OF BATH.
Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep,
Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours,
Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creep
Soft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep,
Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers.
Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers,
Touch thee not, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears,
Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace,
Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres:
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap,
Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers;
Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steep
Whence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs leap,
Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian powers.
Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres,
All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears;
Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace,
Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears,
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep:
Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers,
Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep,
Here than memory whispers of days our memories keep
Fast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours.
Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endears
Still the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears,
Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we trace
Still the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers:
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years,
Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers;
Only love and lovely remembrance here have place.
Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears;
Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
A BALLAD OF SARK.
High beyond the granite portal arched across,
Like the gateway of some godlike giant's hold
Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss
East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold.
Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold.
Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark
Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark
Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree,
None would dream that grief even here may disembark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal boss
Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.
None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss
Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold,
Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold
Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark,
Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark
Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,
While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss
On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.
Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss
Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold
Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,
Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,
Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,
Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,
Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,
Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,
Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.
Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,
On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
(_Chant Royal, after Holbein._)
"_Contra vim_ MORTIS
_Non est medicamen in hortis._"
He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith--
"Let be, Sweetheart, to junket and to play...."
There is no king more terrible than Death.
The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
He beckons the grave Elder from debate,
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay....
There is no king more terrible than Death.
All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,--the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller hurryeth:--
These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay....
There is no king more terrible than Death.
He hath no pity,--nor will be denied.
When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:--
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;
Nay, the tired Ploughman,--at the sinking ray,--
In the last furrow,--feels an icy breath,
And knows a hand hath turned the team astray....
There is no king more terrible than Death.
He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The maid half-won, the Lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness or decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and grey,--
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,--
All these he leadeth by the lonely way....
There is no king more terrible than Death.
_Envoy._
YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,
Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,--
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,--
When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,--
There is no king more terrible than Death.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS.
(Chant Royal.)
Behold, above the mountains there is light,
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire,
And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright
With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher
The lurid mists that, of the night aware,
Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare;
Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose,
And down the vales a lyric people flows,
Who dance to music, and in dancing fling
Their frantic robes to every wind that blows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,
The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire;
Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair,
With ivy circling their abundant hair,
Onward, with even pace, in stately rows,
With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows,
And all the while their tribute songs they bring,
And newer glories of the past disclose,
And deathless praises to their vine-god sing.
The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white,
And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher,
Bathed in an air of infinite delight,
Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire,
Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare,
Leading the van to conquest, on they fare;
Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes,
These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close,
Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring,
And forests grim forget their ancient woes,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
And youths are there for whom full many a night
Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,
Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,
And wandered forth through many a scourging briar,
And waited shivering in the icy air,
And wrapped their leopard-skins about them there,
Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze,
The time must come, that every poet knows,
When he shall rise and feel himself a king,
And follow, follow where the ivy grows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
But oh! within the heart of this great flight,
What ivory arms held up the golden lyre?
What form is this of more than mortal height
What matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire?
The brindled panthers know the prize they bear,
And harmonise their steps with stately care;
Bent to the morning like a living rose,
The immortal splendour of his face he shows,
And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing
Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
_Envoi._
Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes
Record the bounty that thy grace bestows,
But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling;
And with no frigid lips our songs compose,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.
EDMUND GOSSE.
THE GOD OF LOVE.
(Chant Royal.)
I.
O most fair God, O Love both new and old,
That wast before the flowers of morning blew,
Before the glad sun in his mail of gold
Leapt into light across the first day's dew;
That art the first and last of our delight,
That in the blue day and the purple night
Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,
Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,
That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key
And Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.
II.
What thing rejects thy mastery? who so bold
But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?
Even the strait pale goddess, silver-stoled,
That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new,
To thee did homage in her own despite,
When in the shadow of her wings of white
She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring
To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,
And in that kiss put off cold chastity.
Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,
"Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?"
III.
Master of men and gods, in every fold
Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew
The labouring earth, tranced with the winter's cold,
Lie hid--the quintessential charms that woo
The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might
Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.
Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;
Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling
Their spells of healing over land and sea,
One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,
"Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!"
IV.
I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold
Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:
Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,
And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue:
But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright,
The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight.
Thou are not only fair and sweet as spring;
Terror and beauty, fear and wondering
Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see:
All men do praise thee, ay, and everything;
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.
V.
I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold
The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,
What while the noontide over hill and wold
Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view
Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight
Fills me with mingled gladness and affright.
Thy visage haunts me in the wavering
Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening,
I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.
Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!
_Envoy._
God above Gods, High and Eternal King,
To whom the spheral symphonies do sing,
I find no whither from thy power to flee,
Save in thy pinions vast o'ershadowing.
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.
JOHN PAYNE.
THE CHANT OF THE CHILDREN OF THE MIST.
(Chant Royal.)
I waited on a mountain's midmost side,
The lifting of a cloud, and standing there,
Keeping my soul in patience far and wide
Beheld faint shadows wandering, felt the air
Stirred as with voices which in passing by
Still dulled its weary weight with many a sigh.
No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they--
These children of the mist--who took their way,
Each one aloof, perplexed and pondering
With steps untimed to music grave or gay;--
This was a people that had lost its king.
In happier days of old it was their pride
To serve him on their knee and some were 'ware
E'en of his voice or presence as they plied
Their daily task, or ate their simple fare.
Now in new glory shrouded, far and nigh
He had withdrawn himself from ear and eye;
Scorning such service as they knew to pay,
His ministers were as the golden ray
Shot from the sun when he would wake the spring,--
Swift to perform and pliant to obey--
This was a people that had lost its king.
Single as beasts, or if allied, allied
But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair
To hound for common need, which scarce supplied,
He lone returns with his disputed share,--
Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,
Each man of these pursued his way on high,
Still high and higher, seeking through the grey
Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.
Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowing
Shadows continuing never in one stay;--
This was a people that had lost its king.
Then as the day wore on, and none descried
The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare,
As strength declined, and hope within them died
A sad new birth,--the fruit of their despair,--
Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry
Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry
Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play
Broke up the hard cold barriers of their clay,
Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to cling
In fealty that was only joined to pray;
This was a people that had lost its king.
So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,
With gathering power and ever lessening care,
The veiled beguilements of the way defied
They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair;
Till lo upon its crown at last they vie
In songs of rapture as they hail the sky,
And trace their lost one through the vast array
Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay
Their questing love, but help to waft and wing;
And over all a voice which seems to say,
This is a people that has found its king!
_Envoy._
Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that day
When at thy feet a scattered host we lay.
Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring,
Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway.
This was the people that had lost its king!
EMILY PFEIFFER.
KING BOREAS.
(Chant Royal.)
I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar,
Beyond the level land of endless snow,
For months I see the brilliant polar star
Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know.
Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,--
My realms are boundless as the realms of Night.
Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey
My many minions from the isles of Day;
And when my heralds sound aloud, behold
My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I am the god of the winds that are!
I blow where'er I list,--I come, I go.
Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car
I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.
The dreary woodlands shudder in affright
To hear my clarion on the mountain height.
The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray,
"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?"
I am as aged as the earth is old,
Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I loose my chains, and then with awful jar
And presage of disaster and dire woe,
Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war
'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow.
I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight
Toward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light
Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray,
They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay.
They turn green meadows to a desert wold,
And naught for rulers of the earth care they;--
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,
In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow,
When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar
The peace of nature, when the rivers flow
Is soft and musical, and when the sprite
Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight
With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,
And seize upon whate'er I will for prey.
I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,
And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
I am in league with Death. When I unbar
My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow
Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar
The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row,
They breathe on every bower a deadly blight,
And all is sere and withered in their sight.
Unheeded now, Apollo's warming ray
Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play
Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,
And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,--
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
_Envoy._
O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say!--
"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye;
His might hath empire only of the mold,"
Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay!
I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
THE NEW EPIPHANY.
(Chant Royal.)
Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep!
Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night,
From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep
Of formless being, comes a gracious light,
Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round
A golden glory on the enchanted ground;--
Awake, O souls of harmony, and ye
That greet the dayspring with your jubilee
Of lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bring
Your well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep
Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight
Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep;
Hasting the while his summoning notes invite
Where riper grasses and green herbs abound:--
But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound!
He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he!
Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly flee
To him who makes once more new growths upspring;
Oh, quit your ancient glebes,--oh, joyfully
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Too long ye till exhausted lands and reap
Thin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite:
Too long your laggard oxen labouring creep
Up the wide furrows, and full idly smite
The weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound:
Will ye not quit these fields now barren found?
Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to be
Brave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary;--
Then each, let each his robe around him fling,
And with his little one, his child, set free,
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep
Their creamy ripples up the sandy bight,
Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap,
The faery infant of the infinite!
Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crowned
He'll turn to thee to fathom and expound;
Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee
To solve the universe, its destiny;--
And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling,
Asking, enquiring,--whispering, may not we
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weep
O'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite;
Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keep
Watch on this guiding star that beams so bright
Around your brows be this phylacter bound,--
_Let Truth be king and let his praise resound!_
Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea,
To sound his praises let all hearts agree;
Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring,
Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
_Envoy._
Thou art the king, O Truth! we bend the knee
To thee; we own thy wondrous sovranty;
And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing,
Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsy
Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.
SAMUEL WADDINGTON.
THE GLORY OF THE YEAR.
When Spring came softly breathing o'er the land,
With warmer sunshine and sweet April shower;
Bidding the silken willow leaves expand;
Calling to hill and meadow, bee and flower,
Bright with new life and beauty; on light wing
Bringing the birds again to love and sing;
And waking in the heart its joy amain,
With old fond hopes and memories in its train;
Childishly glad mid universal cheer,
How oft we sang the half-forgotten strain:
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"
When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned,
With footstep free and proud in restless power,
With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned,
In blooming loveliness came to her bower,
Her golden tresses loosely wandering
In wild luxuriance,--then pretty Spring
Seemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain.
How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign!
How day by day our empress grew more dear!
"Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain?
_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"
But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous hand
Poured round our feet the riches of her dower:
The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland,
The largess free to gleaner and to plower,
And all the Summer sought in vain to bring;
When stood the hills in glorious garmenting;
Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain,
No more could our ennobled thoughts sustain
Regretful memory of Summer sere,--
"What of the past!" we cried in quick disdain;
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"
Then before mighty Winter, stern and grand,
We saw defenceless Autumn shivering, cower,
Changed to Duessa by his potent wand,
Shorn of her loveliness, in Fortune's lower
Naked for Winter's scourge to smite and sting.
How godlike came the world's new sceptered King!
He fettered fast her torrents with his chain,
Bound with his manacles the moaning main,
Yea, wrought his will with all things far and near.
"At last," we said, "what more can Time attain?
_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"
Neglected Spring, despised, insulted, banned!
Poor weakling! came again one April hour,
The tyrant struck his tent at her command;
She laughed,--down tumbling fell his frosty tower;
At one light finger-touch his captives fling
Their shackles off and make the valleys ring
With praises to the conqueror of pain.
All the lost lives that languishing have lain,
Leaves, grasses, buds, and birds again appear,
"O now!" we cried again and yet again,
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"
Prince, while Spring sports with sunbeam, flower, and rain,--
While wanton Summer riots on the plain,--
'Neath Autumn's calm, or Winter's frown severe,
Change only clearer chants the old refrain,
"_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"
ERNEST WHITNEY.
#The Kyrielle, Pantoum, and Rondeau Redouble.#
_Qui voudra sçavoir la pratique_
_De cette rime juridique,_
_Je dis que bien mise en effet_
_La Kyrielle ainsi se fait._
_De plante de sillabes huit_
_Usez en donc si bien vous duit;_
_Pour faire le couplet parfait_
_La Kirielle ainsi si fait._
--THEODORE DE BANVILLE.
KYRIELLE.