A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,
A fly in the sunshine,--such is man.
All things must end, as all began.
A little pain, a little pleasure,
A little heaping up of treasure;
Then no more gazing upon the sun.
All things must end that have begun.
Where is the time for hope or doubt?
A puff of the wind, and life is out;
A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.
All things must end that have begun.
Golden morning and purple night,
Life that fails with the failing light;
Death is the only deathless one.
All things must end that have begun.
Ending waits on the brief beginning;
Is the prize worth the stress of winning?
E'en in the dawning the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.
Weary waiting and weary striving,
Glad outsetting and sad arriving;
What is it worth when the goal is won?
All things must end that have begun.
Speedily fades the morning glitter;
Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter.
Two are parted from what was one.
All things must end that have begun.
Toil and pain and the evening rest;
Joy is weary and sleep is best;
Fair and softly the day is done.
All things must end that have begun.
JOHN PAYNE.
THE PAVILION.
In the tent the lamps were bright;
Out beyond the summer night
Thrilled and quivered like a star:
_We beneath were left so far._
From the depths of blue profound
Never any sight or sound
Came our loneliness to mar:
_We beneath were left so far._
But against the summer sky
Only you stood out and I;
From all other things that are
_We beneath were left so far._
A. MARY F. ROBINSON.
KYRIELLE.
In spring Love came, a welcome guest,
And tarried long at my behest;
Now autumn wanes, the skies are grey
But loyal Love flees not away.
I charmed him with melodious lays
Through long rose-scented summer days;
My songs no more are clear and gay
But loyal Love flees not away.
We plucked and twined the myrtle flowers,
Made joyance in the sylvan bowers;
The blooms have died, wild winds hold sway,
But loyal Love flees not away.
Gone are the fifing crickets, gone
The feathered harbingers of dawn,
And gone the woodland's bright display,
But loyal Love flees not away.
With intermingled light and shade
The shifting seasons come and fade;
Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray,
But loyal Love flees not away!
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
IN TOWN.
"The blue fly sung in the pane."--_Tennyson._
Toiling in Town now is "horrid"
(There is that woman again!)--
June in the zenith is torrid,
Thought gets dry in the brain.
There is that woman again:
"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"
Thought gets dry in the brain;
Ink gets dry in the bottle.
"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"
Oh for the green of a lane!--
Ink gets dry in the bottle;
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!
Oh for the green of a lane,
Where one might lie and be lazy!
"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;
Bluebottles drive me crazy!
Where one might lie and be lazy,
Careless of Town and all in it!--
Bluebottles drive me crazy:
I shall go mad in a minute!
Careless of Town and all in it,
With some one to soothe and to still you;
I shall go mad in a minute,
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!
With some one to soothe and to still you,
As only one's feminine kin do,--
Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:
There now! I've broken the window!
As only one's feminine kin do,--
Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!--
There now! I've broken the window!
Bluebottle's off and away!
Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,
To dash one with eau de Cologne;--
Bluebottle's off and away,
And why should I stay here alone?
To dash one with eau de Cologne,
All over one's eminent forehead;
And why should I stay here alone?
Toiling in Town now is "horrid."
AUSTIN DOBSON.
MONOLOGUE D'OUTRE TOMBE.
(Pantoum.)
Morn and noon and night,
Here I lie in the ground;
No faintest glimmer of light,
No lightest whisper of sound.
Here I lie in the ground;
The worms glide out and in;
No lightest whisper of sound,
After a life-long din.
The worms glide out and in;
They are fruitful and multiply;
After a life-long din,
I watch them quietly.
They are fruitful and multiply,
My body dwindles the while;
I watch them quietly;
I can scarce forbear a smile.
My body dwindles the while,
I shall soon be a skeleton;
I can scarce forbear a smile
They have had such glorious fun.
I shall soon be a skeleton,
The worms are wriggling away;
They have had such glorious fun,
They will fertilise my clay.
The worms are wriggling away,
They are what I have been,
They will fertilise my clay.
The grass will grow more green.
They are what I have been.
I shall change, but what of that?
The grass will grow more green,
The parson's sheep grow fat.
I shall change, but what of that?
All flesh is grass, one says,
The parson's sheep grow fat,
The parson grows in grace.
All flesh is grass, one says,
Grass becomes flesh, one knows,
The parson grows in grace;
I am the grace he grows.
Grass becomes flesh, one knows,
He grows like a bull of Bashan.
I am the grace he grows;
I startle his congregation.
He grows like a bull of Bashan,
One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,
I startle his congregation:
One day I shall preach to the Q--n.
One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,
One of those science-haters;
One day I shall preach to the Q--n.
To think of my going in gaiters!
One of those science-haters,
Blind as a mole or bat;
To think of my going in gaiters,
And wearing a shovel hat!
Blind as a mole or bat,
No faintest glimmer of light,
And wearing a shovel hat,
Morning and noon and night.
"_Love in Idleness._"
PANTOUM.
(Song in the Malay manner.)
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath.
The sweet airs ripple up the lake:
My soul, my soul is sick to death,
My heart, my heart is like to break.
The sweet airs ripple up the lake,
I hear the thin woods' fluttering:
My heart, my heart is like to break;
What part have I, alas! in spring?
I hear the thin woods' fluttering;
The brake is brimmed with linnet-song:
What part have I, alas! in spring?
For me, heart's winter is life-long.
The brake is brimmed with linnet song;
Clear carols flutter through the trees;
For me heart's winter is life-long;
I cast my sighs on every breeze.
Clear carols flutter through the trees;
The new year hovers like a dove:
I cast my sighs on every breeze;
Spring is no spring, forlorn of love.
The new year hovers like a dove
Above the breast of the green earth:
Spring is no spring, forlorn of love;
Alike to me are death and birth.
Above the breast of the green earth
The soft sky flutters like a flower:
Alike to me are death and birth;
I dig Love's grave in every hour.
The soft sky flutters like a flower
Along the glory of the hills:
I dig Love's grave in every hour,
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.
Along the glory of the hills
Flowers slope into a rim of gold:
I hear Love's dirge in all the rills;
Sad singings haunt me as of old.
Flowers slope into a rim of gold
Along the marges of the sky:
Sad singings haunt me as of old;
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Along the marges of the sky
The birds wing homeward from the East:
Shall Love come back to me to die?
Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?
The birds wing homeward from the East;
I smell spice-breaths upon the air:
Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?
It would lie black on my despair.
I smell spice-breaths upon the air;
The golden Orient savours pass:
Hope would lie black on my despair,
Like a moon-shadow on the grass.
The golden Orient savours pass:
The full spring throbs in all the shade:
Like a moon-shadow on the grass,
My hope into the dusk would fade.
The full spring throbs in all the shade;
We shall have roses soon, I trow;
My hope into the dusk would fade;
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.
We shall have roses soon I trow;
Soon will the rich red poppies burn:
Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow:
My hope is fled beyond return.
Soon will the rich red poppies burn;
Soon will blue iris star the stream:
My hope is fled beyond return;
Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?
Soon will blue iris star the stream;
Summer will turn the air to wine:
Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?
Can songs come from these lips of mine?
Summer will turn the air to wine,
So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers:
Can songs come from those lips of mine?
My thoughts are grey as winter hours.
So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers.
The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath;
My thoughts are grey as winter hours;
My soul, my soul is sick to death.
JOHN PAYNE.
EN ROUTE.
(Pantoum.)
Here we are riding the rail,
Gliding from out of the station;
Man though I am, I am pale,
Certain of heat and vexation.
Gliding from out of the station,
Out from the city we thrust;
Certain of heat and vexation,
Sure to be covered with dust.
Out from the city we thrust:
Rattling we run o'er the bridges:
Sure to be covered with dust,
Stung by a thousand of midges.
Rattling we dash o'er the bridges,
Rushing we dash o'er the plain;
Stung by a thousand of midges,
Certain precursors of rain.
Rushing we dash o'er the plain,
Watching the clouds darkly lowering,
Certain precursors of rain:
Fields about here need a showering.
Watching the clouds darkly lowering,--
Track here is high on a bank--
Fields about here need a showering,
Boy with the books needs a spank.
Track here is high on a bank,
Just by a wretched old hovel:
Boy with the books needs a spank--
"No! I don't want a new novel!"
Just by a wretched old hovel,
Small speck of dust in my eye.
"No! I don't want a new novel!"
--Babies beginning to cry.--
Small speck of dust in my eye,
"I will not buy papers or candy!"
--Babies beginning to cry--.
Oh, for a tomahawk handy!
"I will not buy papers or candy!"
Train boys deserve to be slain;
Oh, for a tomahawk handy!
Oh, for the cool of the rain!
Train boys deserve to be slain,
Heat and the dust--they are choking
Oh, for the cool of the rain!
--"Gent" just behind me is joking.
Heat and the dust, they are choking,
Clogging and filling my pores;
--"Gent" just behind me is joking,
"Gent" just in front of me snores.
Clogging and filling my pores,
Ears are on edge at the rattle;
"Gent" just in front of me snores,
Sounds like the noise of a battle.
Ears are on edge at the rattle,
Man tho' I am, I am pale,
Sounds like the noise of a battle,
Here we are riding the rail.
BRANDER MATTHEWS.
IN THE SULTAN'S GARDEN.
(Pantoum.)
She oped the portal of the palace,
She stole into the garden's gloom;
From every spotless snowy chalice
The lilies breathed a sweet perfume.
She stole into the garden's gloom,
She thought that no one would discover;
The lilies breathed a sweet perfume,
She swiftly ran to meet her lover.
She thought that no one would discover,
But footsteps followed ever near;
She swiftly ran to meet her lover
Beside the fountain crystal clear.
But footsteps followed ever near;
Ah, who is that she sees before her
Beside the fountain crystal clear?
'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer.
Ah, who is that she sees before her,
His hand upon his scimitar?
'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer,
It is her lord of Candahar!
His hand upon his scimitar--
Alas, what brought such dread disaster!
It is her lord of Candahar,
The fierce Sultan, her lord and master.
Alas, what brought such dread disaster!
"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries--
The fierce Sultan, her lord and master--
"'Neath yonder tree his body lies."
"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries--
(A sudden, ringing voice behind him);
"'Neath yonder tree his body lies--"
"Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!"
A sudden, ringing voice behind him,
A deadly blow, a moan of hate,
"Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!
Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"
A deadly blow, a moan of hate,
His blood ran red as wine in chalice;
"Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"
She oped the portal of the palace.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose,
The perfume and the darkness of the grove;
I weary of the fevers and the throes,
And all the enervating dreams of love.
At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove
The meadows, where the simple daisy shows
Her guiltless bosom to the skies above--
My soul is sick of nightingale and rose.
The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose,
But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move.
I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze,
The perfume and the darkness of the grove.
I love to hear at eve the gentle dove
Contented coo the day's delightful close.
She sings of love and all the calm thereof,--
I weary of the fevers and the throes.
I love the night, who like a mother throws
Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove,
As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes
And all the enervating dreams of love.
Because my soul is sick of fancies wove
Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows;
Because the taste of cinnamon and clove
Palls on my palate--let no man suppose
My soul is sick.
COSMO MONKHOUSE.
RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.
My day and night are in my lady's hand;
I have no other sunrise than her sight;
For me her favour glorifies the land;
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white,
When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand;
While she is kind, I know of no affright;
My day and night are in my lady's hand.
All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned;
Her smile is softer than the summer's night,
Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand;
I have no other sunrise than her sight.
Her silver speech is like the singing flight
Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand;
Her kiss a dream of delicate delight;
For me her favour glorifies the land.
What if the Winter chase the Summer bland!
The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright.
If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned;
Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.
Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight
And in her service every ill withstand;
Love is my Lord in all the world's despite
And holdeth in the hollow of his hand
My day and night.
JOHN PAYNE.
THE PRAYER OF DRYOPE.
(Rondeau Redoublé.)
O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer.
Come with thy doves across the briny sea,
Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare,
From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!
Ah how my heart would joy again to be
Like chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air,
Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy;
O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer!
That I am innocent hast thou no care
Of crime against celestial deity?
Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share?--
Come with thy doves across the briny sea!
I hear no waters' silvern melody,
And yet the rippling water once was there,
And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee;--
Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare!
Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair,
Could I but kiss my sister Iole,
Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair,
From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!
I, who was once the blithesome Dryope,
Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare;
Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony,
Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair,
O goddess sweet.
CLINTON SCOLLARD.
RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.
I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love;
All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way,
There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above,
The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.
The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay,
That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove;
So sweet _she_ was, she will not say me nay--
I will go hence and seek her, my old Love.
Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove,
Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay;
His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove,
"All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!"
With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway,
Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he strove
Their spectral arms, and filmy green array;
There was no sun, nor broad red moon above.
Here lies her lute--and here her slender glove;
(Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day);
But her he saw not, vanished was his Love,
The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.
The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove
(He flung him down upon the weeping clay),
And now I find her flown--ah wellaway!
The house is desolate that held my Love,
I will go hence.
GRAHAM R. TOMSON.
THE SICILIAN OCTAVE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED.
To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite,
Italian harps their native measures lend;
Yet, wooing sweet diversity, not quite
Thy octaves with Italia's octaves blend.
Six streaming lines amass the arrowy might
In hers, one cataract couplet doth expend;
Thine lake-wise widens, level in the light,
And like to its beginning is its end.
* * * * *
To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have brought
Home precious ware from China or Japan;
And thine, when keen and long pursuit hath caught
Strange bird, or Psyche gay with veinèd fan--
And thine, to spell some sentence wisdom-fraught
In palimpest or Arab alcoran;
And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thought
And cage it in my verse Sicilian.
RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D.
Although this shape is not actually akin to the group of forms in
this book, yet for examples of another variety of strict verse,
the author has kindly allowed two specimens to be quoted.
#The Rondel, Rondeau, and Roundel.#
_RONDEL._
_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_
_Soussy, soing et merencolie:_
_Me cuidez-vous toute ma vie_
_Gouverner, comme fait avez?_
_Je vous promets que non ferez_
_Rayson aura sur vous maistrie_
_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_
_Soussy, soing et merencolie._
_Si jamais plus vous retournez_
_Avecques vostre compaignie_
_Je prye à Dieu qu' il vous mauldie_
_Et le jour que vous reviendrez:_
_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_
_Soussy, soing et merencolie._
--CHARLES D'ORLÉANS.
_RONDEAU._
_Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car Isabeau_
_M'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau._
_Cela me met en peine extrême_
_Quoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en eme!_
_Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau._
_En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau._
_Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,_
_Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:_
_Ma foi, c'est fait._
_Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau_
_Tirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau;_
_Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième:_
_Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;_
_En voilà treize ajustés au niveau._
_Ma foi, c'est fait._
--VOITURE.
O HONEY OF HYMETTUS HILL.
O honey of Hymettus Hill,
Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste,
Wert here for the soft amorous bill
Of Aphrodite's courser placed?
Thy musky scent what virginal chaste
Blossom was ravished to distil,
O honey of Hymettus Hill,
Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?
What upturned calyx drank its fill
When ran the draught divine to waste,
That her white hands were doomed to spill--
Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced--
O honey of Hymettus Hill,
Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?
H. C. BUNNER.
READY FOR THE RIDE--1795.
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her,
With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride,
One year ago had made her pulses stir.
Now shall no wish with any day recur
(For Love and Death part year and year full wide),
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.
No ghost there lingers of the smile that died
On the sweet pale lip where his kisses were--
... Yet still she turns her delicate head aside,
If she may hear him come with jingling spur--
Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride,
As in the old days when he rode with her.
H. C. BUNNER.
RONDEL.
This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold;
Each page with art and thought,
And colours manifold.
His calendar he taught
To youths and virgins cold;
This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold.
This priceless book is bought
With sighs and tears untold,
Of votaries who sought
His countenance of old--
This book of hours Love wrought
With burnished letters gold.
WALTER CRANE.
RONDEL.
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies,
Love-birds forget to sing
Beneath the lucent skies.
For now belated spring
With her last blossom hies,
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies.
What summer hope shall bring
To wistful dreaming eyes?
What fateful forecast fling
Before life's last surprise?
When time upon the wing
A swallow heedless flies.
WALTER CRANE.
THE WANDERER.
(Rondel.)
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,--
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
We see him stand by the open door
With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.
He makes as though in our arms repelling,
He fain would lie as he lay before;--
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,--
The old, old Love that we knew of yore!
Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling,
That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore!
E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more,
With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling,
Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
RONDEL.
When love is in her eyes
What need of Spring for me?
A brighter emerald lies
On hill and vale and lea.
The azure of the skies
Holds nought so sweet to me;
When love is in her eyes
What need of spring for me?
Her bloom the rose outvies,
The lily dares no plea,
The violet's glory dies,
No flower so sweet can be;
When love is in her eyes
What need of spring for me?
ANNA MARIA FAY.
RONDEL.
[After Anyte of Tegea.]
Underneath this tablet rest,
Grasshopper by autumn slain,
Since thine airy summer nest
Shivers under storm and rain.
Freely let it be confessed
Death and slumber bring thee gain
Spared from winter's fret and pain,
Underneath this tablet rest.
Myro found thee on the plain,
Bore thee in her lawny breast,
Reared this marble tomb amain
To receive so small a guest!
Underneath this tablet rest,
Grasshopper by autumn slain.
EDMUND GOSSE.
RONDEL.
How is it you and I
Are always meeting so?
I see you passing by
Whichever way I go.
I cannot say I know
The spell that draws us nigh.
How is it you and I
Are always meeting so?
Still thoughts to thoughts reply,
And whispers ebb and flow;
I say it with a sigh
But half confessed and low,
How is it you and I
Are always meeting so?
JOHN CAMERON GRANT.
VARIATIONS.
I.
"Alons au bois le may cueillir."--CHARLES D'ORLÉANS.
We'll to the woods and gather may
Fresh from the footprints of the rain;
We'll to the woods, at every vein
To drink the spirit of the day.
The winds of spring are out at play,
The needs of spring in heart and brain.
We'll to the woods and gather may
Fresh from the footprints of the rain.
The world's too near her end, you say?--
Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain!
It waits for her, the vast Inane?--
Then, girls, to help her on the way
We'll to the woods and gather may.
W. E. HENLEY.
II.
"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse,
Fera ternir votre beauté."--RONSARD.
And lightly, like the flowers,
Your beauties Age will dim,
Who makes the song a hymn,
And turns the sweets to sours!
Alas! the chubby Hours
Grow lank and grey and grim,
And lightly, like the flowers,
Your beauties Age will dim.
Still rosy are the bowers,
The walks yet green and trim.
Among them let your whim
Pass sweetly, like the showers,
And lightly, like the flowers.
W. E. HENLEY.
III.
"Hic habitat Felicitas."
"Felicity. Enquire within.
The genial goddess is at home!"
So read and thought the rakes of Rome,
Some frail one's lintel fain to win.
And now it blares thro' bronze and tin,
Thro' clarion, organ, catcall, comb:--
"Felicity. Enquire within.
The genial goddess is at home!"
For, tent or studio, bank or bin,
Platonic porch, Petræan dome,
Where'er our hobbies champ and foam,
Thero'er the brave old sign we pin--
"Felicity. Enquire within."
W. E. HENLEY.
IV.
"And sweet girl graduates in their golden hair."--TENNYSON.
Sweet girl graduates, golden-haired,
You for whom has been prepared
Love's fair university,
Dons and double-firsts to be-
Why are you so quickly scared?
When the prudes their worst have glared,
When the dowagers have stared,
What has passed they might not see,
Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired,
You for whom has been prepared
Love's fair university?
Most is won when most is dared.
Let your dainty lore be aired.
Love and thought and fun are free.
All must flirt in their degree.
Books alone have never reared
Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired.
W. E. HENLEY.
RONDEL.
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet.
From camp and church, the fireside and the street,
She signs to come, and strife and song have been.
A summer night descending, cool and green
And dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat,
The ways of Death are soothing and serene,
And all the words of Death are grave and sweet