'J OHM DAVID SON
 
 / '</' 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES

 
 BALLADS AND SONGS
 
 f^lD\DSg50NGj 
 
 1894 
 
 LONDON. JOHN LANE 
 
 THE BODLEY HEAD 
 BOSTON : COPELAND & DAY 
 
 69COKNHILL 
 
 
 i
 
 I L * 
 
 ■ 
 
 . ■ I
 
 D 
 
 
 To my Friend . 
 
 PAGE 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 To my Enemy . 
 
 2 
 
 
 To the New Women . . . . . 
 
 3 
 
 
 To the New Men . • . 
 
 5 
 
 
 A Ballad in Blank Verse of the Making of a Poet . 
 A Ballad of the Exodus from Houndsditch 
 
 7 
 ■ 36 
 
 
 A Ballad of a Nun .... 
 
 52 
 
 
 The Vengeance of the Duchess 
 
 62 
 
 i 
 
 A Ballad of Heaven . 
 
 72 
 
 
 A Ballad of Hell . . . . 
 
 79 
 
 
 London ....-• 
 
 86 
 
 
 A Loafer ...... 
 
 88 
 
 
 Thirty Bob a Week . 
 
 9i 
 
 
 To the Street-Piano 
 
 
 
 I. A Labourer's Wile . . . 
 
 98 
 
 
 11. After the End 
 
 100 
 
 ,
 
 vi 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 
 
 Song of a Train 
 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 103 
 
 In Romney Marsh 
 
 
 
 
 
 107 
 
 A Cinque Port 
 
 
 
 
 
 109 
 
 Spring 
 
 
 
 
 
 III 
 
 Summer 
 
 
 
 
 
 117 
 
 Autumn 
 
 
 
 
 
 121 
 
 Winter 
 
 
 
 
 
 126 
 
 The Happiest Way 
 
 
 
 
 
 127 
 
 For H. J. Le G. 
 
 
 
 
 
 129 
 
 In Memoriam, M. Le 
 
 G. 
 
 
 
 
 130
 
 TO MY FRIEND 
 
 What is between us two, we know : 
 Shake hands and let the whole world go.
 
 TO MY ENEMY 
 
 Unwilling friend, let not your spite abate : 
 Help me with scorn, and strengthen me with hate.
 
 TO THE NEW WOMEN 
 
 Free to look at fact, 
 Free to come and go, 
 Free to think and act, 
 Now you surely know 
 The wrongs of womanhead 
 At last are fairly dead. 
 
 Abler than man to vex, 
 Less able to be good, 
 Fiercer in your sex, 
 Wilder in your mood,
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Seeking— who knows what ? 
 About the world you grope : 
 Some of you have thought 
 Man may be your hope. 
 
 Soon again you'll see, 
 Love and love alone, 
 As simple as can be, 
 Can make this life atone. 
 
 Be bold and yet be bold, 
 But be not overbold, 
 Although the knell be toll'd 
 Of the tyranny of old. 
 
 And meet your splendid doom, 
 On heaven-scaling wings, 
 Women, from whose bright womb 
 The radiant future springs !
 
 TO THE NEW MEN 
 
 Heat the furnace hot; 
 Smelt the things of thought 
 Into dross and dew; 
 Mould the world anew. 
 
 More than earth and sea 
 Is a heart and eye : 
 Gird yourselves, and try 
 All the powers that be. 
 
 Wicked, cease at once 
 Troubling; wearied eyes, 
 Rest you now, while suns 
 Dawn and moons arise.
 
 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 'Stablish heaven to-day; 
 Cleanse the beast-marked brow; 
 Wipe all tears away : 
 Do it — do it now ! 
 
 Love, and hope, and know : 
 Man — you must adore him : 
 Let the whole past go : 
 Think God's thought before Him. 
 
 Knowledge is power ? Above 
 All else, knowledge is love. 
 
 Heat the furnace hot : 
 Smelt the world-old thought 
 Into dross and dew; 
 Mould the earth anew.
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE OF THE 
 MAKING OF A POET 
 
 His father's house looked out across a firth 
 Broad-bosomed like a mere, beside a town 
 Far in the North, where Time could take his ease, 
 And Change hold holiday; where Old and New 
 Weltered upon the border of the world. 
 
 ' Oh now,' he thought — a youth whose sultry 
 
 eyes, 
 Bold brow and wanton mouth were not all lust, 
 But haunted from within and from without 
 By memories, visions, hopes, divine desires —
 
 8 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 4 Now may my life beat out upon this shore 
 A prouder music than the winds and waves 
 Can compass in their haughtiest moods. I need 
 No world more spacious than the region here : 
 The foam-embroidered firth, a purple path 
 For argosies that still on pinions speed, 
 Or fiery-hearted cleave with iron limbs 
 And bows precipitous the pliant sea; 
 The sloping shores that fringe the velvet tides 
 With heavy bullion and with golden lace 
 Of restless pebble woven and fine spun sand; 
 The villages that sleep the winter through, 
 And, wakening with the spring, keep festival 
 All summer and all autumn: this grey town 
 That pipes the morning up before the lark 
 With shrieking steam, and from a hundred stalks 
 Lacquers the sooty sky; where hammers clang 
 On iron hulls, and cranes in harbours creak
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 9 
 
 Rattle and swing, whole cargoes on their necks; 
 Where men sweat gold that others hoard or spend, 
 And lurk like vermin in their narrow streets : 
 This old grey town, this firth, the further strand 
 Spangled with hamlets, and the wooded steeps, 
 Whose rocky tops behind each other press, 
 Fantastically carved like antique helms 
 High-hung in heaven's cloudy armoury, 
 Is world enough for me. Here daily dawn 
 Burns through the smoky east; with fire-shod 
 
 feet 
 The sun treads heaven, and steps from hill to hill 
 Downward before the night that still pursues 
 His crimson wake; here winter plies his craft, 
 Soldering the years with ice; here spring appears, 
 Caught in a leafless brake, her garland torn, 
 Breathless with wonder, and the tears half-dried 
 Upon her rosy cheek; here summer comes
 
 io BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 And wastes his passion like a prodigal 
 Right royally; and here her golden gains 
 Free-handed as a harlot autumn spends ; 
 And here are men to know, women to love.' 
 
 His father, woman-hearted, great of soul, 
 Wilful and proud, save for one little shrine 
 That held a pinch-beck cross, had closed and 
 
 barred 
 The many mansions of his intellect. 
 
 ' My son,' he said — to him, fresh from his firth 
 And dreams at evening; while his mother sat, 
 She also with her dingy crucifix 
 And feeble rushlight, praying for her boy — 
 ' My son, have you decided for the Lord ? 
 Your mother's heart and mine are exercised 
 For your salvation. Will you turn to Christ ?
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE n 
 
 Now, young and strong, you hanker for the 
 
 world ; 
 But think: the longest life must end at last, 
 And then come Death and Judgment. Are you fit 
 To meet your God before the great white throne ? 
 If on the instant Death should summon you, 
 What doom would the Eternal Judge pronounce — 
 " Depart from me," or " Sit on My right hand ? " 
 In life it is your privilege to choose, 
 But after death you have no choice at all. 
 Die unbelieving, and in endless woe 
 You must believe throughout eternity. 
 My son, reject not Christ; he pleads through me; 
 The Holy Spirit uses my poor words. 
 How it would fill your mother's heart and mine, 
 And God's great heart with joy unspeakable, 
 Were you, a helpless sinner, now to cry, 
 " Lord I believe : help Thou mine unbelief." '
 
 I a BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 He clenched his teeth ; his blood, fulfilled of brine, 
 
 Of sunset, and his dreams, boomed in his ears. 
 
 A vision rose before him ; and the sound 
 
 Husky and plaintive of his father's voice 
 
 Seemed unintelligible and afar. 
 
 He saw Apollo on the Dardan beach : 
 
 The waves lay still; the winds hung motionless, 
 
 And held their breath to hear the rebel god, 
 
 Conquered and doomed, with stormy sobbing 
 
 song, 
 And crashing discords of his golden lyre, 
 Reluctantly compel the walls of Troy, 
 Unquarried and unhewn, in supple lines 
 And massive strength to rise about the town. 
 
 A quavering voice shattered his fantasy: 
 His father's pleading done, his mother cried, 
 With twitching forehead, scalding tears that broke
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 13 
 
 The seal of wrinkled eyelids, mortised hands 
 Where knuckles jutted white : • Almighty 
 
 God! — 
 Almighty God ! — Oh, save my foolish boy ! ' 
 
 He glanced about the dreary parlour, clenched 
 
 His teeth, and once again his blood, fulfilled 
 
 Of brine, of sunset, and his dreams, exhaled 
 
 A vision. While his parents clutched their hearts, 
 
 Expecting his conversion instantly, 
 
 And listened if perchance they might o'erhear 
 
 The silent heavens burst into applause 
 
 Over one lost repentant, he beheld 
 
 The Cyprian Aphrodite, all one blush 
 
 And glance of passion, from the violet sea 
 
 Step inland, fastening as she went her zone. 
 
 She reached a gulf that opened in the ground 
 
 Deep in a leafless wood and waited there,
 
 14 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Battling the darkness with her wistful eyes. 
 Then suddenly she blanched and blushed again, 
 And her divinely pulsing body bowed 
 With outstretched arms over the yawning earth. 
 Straightway Adonis, wonderstruck and pale, 
 Stole from the sepulchre, a moonbeam wraith. 
 But Aphrodite with a golden cry 
 That echoed round the world and shook the stars, 
 Caught him and thawed him in her warm embrace, 
 And murmuring kisses bore him to her bower. 
 Then all the trees were lit with budding flames 
 Of emerald, and all the meads and leas, 
 Coverts and shady places, glades and dells, 
 Odoured and dimly stained with opening flowers, 
 And loud with love-songs of impassioned birds, 
 Became the shrine and hostel of the spring. 
 
 His wanton face grew sweet and wonderful,
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 15 
 
 Beholding Aphrodite. But they thought — 
 His father and his mother, sick with hope — 
 It was the Holy Ghost's effectual call. 
 Entranced he rose and glided from the room ; 
 They, undeceived, like little children sobbed. 
 
 Slowly he broke his mother's tender heart, 
 Until she died in anguish for his sins. 
 His father then besought him on his knees, 
 With tears and broken speech and pleading hands 
 
 1 My son,' he said, ' you open all the wounds 
 Daily and nightly of the Lord of Heaven : 
 You killed your mother, you are killing me : 
 Is it not sin enough, poor foolish boy ? ' 
 
 For this was in the North, where Time stands still 
 And Change holds holiday, where Old and New 
 Welter upon the border of the world,
 
 16 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 And savage faith works woe. 
 
 ' Oh, let me be ! ' 
 The dreamer cried, and rushing from the house 
 He sought the outcast Aphrodite, dull, 
 Tawdry, unbeautiful, but still divine 
 Even in the dark streets of a noisome port. 
 
 At times he wrote his dreams, rebellious still 
 
 Th^L he should be constrained to please himself 
 
 As one is eased by roaring on the rack. 
 
 Desperate he grew, and wandering by his firth, 
 
 Exclaimed against the literature he loved. 
 
 1 Lies, lies ! ' he muttered. ' And the noblest, lies ! 
 
 For no man ever understood a woman, 
 
 No woman ever understood a man, 
 
 And no man ever understood a man, 
 
 No woman ever understood a woman, 
 
 And no man ever understood himself,
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 17 
 
 No woman ever understood herself. 
 Why should we lie ? what penalty is this — 
 To write, and sing, and think, and speculate, 
 Hag-ridden by ideas, or 'twixt the shafts 
 Like broken horses, blinded, bitted, reined, 
 And whipped about the world by steel-tagged 
 creeds ! ' 
 
 Wasted and sad with wantonness, and wan 
 With fantasy — a furnace seven times hot, 
 Wherein he tried all things ; and wrung with woe 
 To see his father dying for his sake, 
 And by the memory of his mother's death, 
 He yielded tamely and professed himself 
 Convinced of sin but confident in Christ. 
 
 Then to the table of the Lord he went, 
 
 Ghastly, with haunted eyes that shone, and limbs 
 
 B
 
 18 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 That scarcely bore him, like a heretic 
 
 Led to the chamber where tormentors stood 
 
 Muffled and silent, earnest to explore, 
 
 With cunning flames and cords and engines dire, 
 
 The sunken wells of pain, the gloomy gulfs 
 
 Obscurely wallowing in the souls of men. 
 
 In solemn tones the grey-haired presbyter — 
 ' This is My body which is given for you, 
 This do in memory of Me.' 
 
 The boy, 
 Whose blood within him clamoured like a storm, 
 Uttered a smothered cry and rose, but lo 1 
 The happy triumph on his father's face ! 
 ' Why do I not die now ? like husks of corn, 
 The bread, like vitriol the sip of wine ! 
 I eat and drink damnation to myself 
 To give my father's troubled spirit peace.'
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 19 
 
 The stealthy elders creaked about the floor, 
 Guiding the cup and platter ; looking down, 
 The children in the gallery smirked and watched 
 Who took the deepest draught; and ancient 
 
 dames 
 Crumpled their folded handkerchiefs, and 
 
 pressed 
 With knuckly fingers sprays of southernwood. 
 
 Ah ! down no silver beam the Holy Grail 
 
 Glided from Heaven, a crimson cup that 
 
 throbbed 
 As throbs the heart divine; no aching sounds 
 
 Of scarce-heard music stole into the aisle, 
 
 Like disembodied pulses beating love. 
 
 But in the evening by the purple firth 
 
 He walked, and saw brown locks upon the brine,
 
 20 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 And pale hands beckon him to come away, 
 
 Where mermaids, with their harps and golden 
 
 combs, 
 Sit throned upon the carven antique poops 
 Of treasure-ships, and soft sea-dirges sing 
 Over the green-gilt bones of mariners. 
 He saw vast forms and dreadful draw aside 
 The flowing crimson curtains of the west 
 With far-off thundrous rustle, and threaten him 
 From heaven's porch; beneath his feet the 
 
 earth 
 Quaked like a flame-sapped bridge that spans the 
 
 wave 
 Of fiery Phlegethon; and in the wind 
 An icy voice was borne from some waste place, 
 Piercing him to the marrow. Night came 
 
 down, 
 And still he wandered helpless by the firth,
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 21 
 
 That under clouded skies gleamed black and 
 
 smooth 
 Like cooling pitch. But when the moon broke 
 
 out, 
 And poured athwart the glittering ebony 
 Torrents of molten silver, hurtling thoughts 
 Trooped forth disorderly. 
 
 ' I'll have no creed,' 
 He said. 4 Though I be weakest of my kind, 
 I'll have no creed. Lo ! there is but one creed, 
 The vulture-phoenix that for ever tears 
 The soul of man in chains of flesh and blood 
 Rivetted to the earth; the clime, the time, 
 Change but its plumage. Gluttonous bird of 
 
 prey, 
 More fatal than all famines, plagues and wars, 
 I wrench you off, although my soul go too !
 
 22 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 With bloody claws and dripping beak unfleshed, 
 Spread out your crackling vans that darken 
 
 heaven ; 
 Rabid and curst, fly yelping where you list I 
 Henceforth I shall be God; for consciousness 
 Is God : I suffer; I am God : this Self, 
 That all the universe combines to quell, 
 Is greater than the universe; and / 
 Am that I am. To think and not be God ? — 
 It cannot be ! Lo ! I shall spread this news, 
 And gather to myself a band of Gods — 
 An army, and go forth against the world, 
 Conquering and to conquer. Snowy steppes 
 Of Muscovy, frost-bound Siberian plains, 
 And scalding sands of Ethiopia, 
 Where groans oppress the bosom of the wind, 
 And men in gangs are driven to icy graves, 
 Or lashed to brutish slavery under suns
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 23 
 
 Whose sheer beams scorch and flay like burning 
 
 blades, 
 Shall ring, enfranchised, with divine delight. 
 At home, where millions mope, in labyrinths 
 Of hideous streets astray without a clue, 
 Unfed, unsexed, unsoulled, unhelped, I bring 
 Life, with the gospel, " Up, quit you like 
 
 Gods ! " 
 
 J with this, upon his father's hour 
 Of new-found happiness he burst, and cried, 
 4 Father, my father, I have news to tell ! 
 I know the word that shall uproot the thrones 
 Of oldest monarchs, and for ever lay 
 The doting phantom with the triple crown : 
 A word dynamic with the power of doom 
 To blast conventicles and parliaments, 
 Unsolder federations, crumble states,
 
 24 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 And in the fining pot cast continents. 
 A word that shall a new beginning be, 
 And out of chaos make the world again. 
 Behold, my father ! we, who heretofore, 
 Fearful and weak, deep-dyed in Stygian creeds 
 Against the shafts of pain and woe, have 
 
 walked 
 The throbbing earth, most vulnerable still 
 In every pore and nerve : we, trembling things, 
 Who but an hour ago in frantic dread 
 Burned palsied women, and with awe beheld 
 A shaven pate mutter a latin spell 
 Over a biscuit : we, even we are Gods ! 
 Nothing beneath, about us, or above 
 Is higher than ourselves. Henceforth degree, 
 Authority, religion, government, 
 Employer and employed are obsolete 
 As penal torture or astrology.
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 25 
 
 The mighty spirit of the universe, 
 Conscious in us, shall.' . . . 
 
 Suddenly aware 
 Of gaping horror on his father's face, 
 He paused; and he, the old man, white as death, 
 With eyes like stars upon the crack of doom, 
 Rose quaking; and ■ The unpardonable sin ! — 
 The unpardonable sin ! ' he whispered hoarse. 
 1 This was the sin of Lucifer — to make 
 Himself God's equal. If I may, my son — 
 If it be God's will, I shall go to hell 
 To be beside you. I shall be there first : 
 I have not many hours to live. I thought — 
 Here as I sat beside your mother's chair — 
 I — my boy ! — I wander somewhat. Let me — 
 I'll sit again. — Let me remember now 
 How happy I have been to-day, my son
 
 26 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 A member of the Church of Christ, and I 
 
 Beside him at Communion, seeing him 
 
 And seeing at the window of heaven the face 
 
 Of her who bore him, sweet and glorified. 
 
 At home I sit and think that, as he lived 
 
 Most absolute in sin, he shall, like Paul 
 
 Be as insatiable in doing well. 
 
 I think how, when my time comes, I shall go 
 
 And tell his mother of his holy life 
 
 Of labour for the Lord ; and then I see 
 
 My boy at last appear before the Throne. 
 
 " By what right com'st thou here ? " the Judge 
 
 demands. 
 He hangs his head; but round about him throng 
 A crowd of souls, who cry '* He was our staff; 
 He led us here." " Sit thou on My right hand," 
 The sentence falls; and we, my wife and I, 
 Awaiting you. . . . There came a devil in
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 27 
 
 Wearing the likeness of my boy, and said 
 He was predestined for a reprobate, 
 A special vessel of the wrath of God. 
 Holy he was begotten; holy born; 
 With tearful prayers attended all his life; 
 Cherished with scrupulous love, and shown the 
 
 path 
 To heaven by her who ne'er shall see him there; 
 For out of this there comes but blasphemy 
 And everlasting Hell. ... Ah! who are these? 
 My soul is hustled by a multitude 
 Of wild-eyed prodigals and wrenched about. 
 Boy, help me to blaspheme. I cannot face 
 Without you her that nursed you at her breast. 
 Let us curse God together and going forth 
 Plunge headlong in the waves, and be at rest 
 In Hell for evermore. Some end to this ! — 
 This awful gnawing pain in every part !
 
 28 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Or certainty that this will never end ! 
 
 This, now, is Hell ! . . . There was a paltry way 
 
 Of fooling God some casuists hit upon. 
 
 How went it ? Yes, that God did fore-ordain 
 
 And so foreknew that those who should believe 
 
 Should enter glory of their own free-will. 
 
 Ah ! pink of blasphemies that makes of God 
 
 An impotent spectator ! Let us two 
 
 Believe in this, and that shall damn us best ! . . 
 
 I dare, but cannot; for the Lord of Hosts, 
 
 The God of my salvation, is my God : 
 
 He, ere the world began, predestined me 
 
 To life eternal : to the bitter end 
 
 Against my will I persevere, a saint; 
 
 And find my will at length the will of God. 
 
 What is my son, and what the hopes and fears 
 
 Of my dead wife and me before the flame 
 
 Of God's pure purpose, His, from whose dread eyes
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 29 
 
 The earth and heaven fled and found no place! 
 
 Beside the crystal river I shall walk 
 
 For ever with the Lord. The city of gold, 
 
 The jasper walls thereof, the gates of pearl, 
 
 The bright foundation-stones of emerald, 
 
 Of sapphire, chrysoprase, of every gem, 
 
 And the high triumph of unending day 
 
 Shall be but wildfire on a summer eve 
 
 Beside the exceeding glory of delight, 
 
 That shall entrance me with the constant thought 
 
 Of how in Hell through all eternity 
 
 My son performs the perfect will of God. 
 
 Amen. I come, Lord Jesus. If his sin 
 
 Be not to death . . . Heaven opens ! ' . . . 
 
 Thus he died; 
 For this was in the North where Time stands still, 
 And Change holds holiday; where Old and New
 
 30 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Welter upon the border of the world, 
 And savage creeds can kill. 
 
 The trembling boy 
 Knelt down, but dared to think, 'A dreadful 
 
 death ! 
 To die believing in so dull a God, 
 A useless Hell, a jewel-huckster's Heaven ! ' 
 Forthwith it flashed like light across his mind, 
 ' If it be terrible into the hands 
 Of the living God to fall, how much more dire 
 To sicken face to face, like our sad age, 
 Chained to an icy corpse of deity, 
 Decked though it be and painted and embalmed ! ' 
 
 He took his father's hand and kissed his brow 
 And, weeping like a woman, watched him long; 
 Then softly rose and stepped into the night. 
 He stood beside the house a little space,
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 31 
 
 Hearing the wind speak low in whispers quaint, 
 An irresponsible and wandering voice. 
 But soon he hastened to the water's edge; 
 For from the shore there came sea-minstrelsy 
 Of waves that broke upon the hollow beach, 
 With liquid sound of pearling surges blent, 
 Cymbals, and muffled drums and dulcimers. 
 
 Sparse diamonds in the dead-black dome of night, 
 A few stars lit the moon-deserted air 
 And swarthy heaving of the firth obscure. 
 He, knowing every rock and sandy reach, 
 All night unfalteringly walked the shore, 
 While tempest after tempest rose and fell 
 Within his soul, that like an o'er-wrought sea 
 Laboured to burst its continent and hang 
 Some glittering trophy high among the stars. 
 At last the fugal music of the tide,
 
 32 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 With cymbals, muffled drums, and dulcimers, 
 Into his blood a measured rhythm beat, 
 And gave his passion scope and way in words. 
 
 1 How unintelligent, how blind am I, 
 How vain ! ' he said. ' A God ? a mole, a worm ! 
 An engine frail, of brittle bones conjoined; 
 With tissue packed; with nerves, transmitting 
 
 force; 
 And driven by water, thick and coloured red: 
 That may for some few pence a day be hired 
 In thousands to be shot at ! Oh, a God, 
 That lies and steals and murders ! Such a God ! 
 Passionate, dissolute, incontinent ! 
 A God that starves in thousands, and ashamed 
 Or shameless in the workhouse lurks; that sweats 
 In mines and foundries ! An enchanted God, 
 Whose nostrils in a palace breathe perfume, 
 Whose cracking shoulders hold the palace up,
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 33 
 
 Whose shoeless feet are rotting in the mire ! 
 A God who said a little while ago, 
 11 I'll have no creed; " and of his Godhood straight 
 Patched up a creed unwittingly — with which 
 He went and killed his father. Subtle lie 
 That tempts our weakness always ; magical, 
 And magically changed to suit the time ! 
 " Lo, ye shall be as Gods ! " —the serpent's cry- 
 Rose up again, " Ye shall be sons of God; " 
 And now the glosing word is in the air, 
 " Thou shalt be God by simply taking thought." 
 And if one could, believing this, convert 
 A million to be upright, chaste and strong, 
 Gentle and tolerant, it were but to found 
 A new religion, bringing new offence, 
 Setting the child against the father still. 
 Some thought imprisons us; we set about 
 
 To bring the world within the woven spell : 
 
 c
 
 34 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Our ruthless creeds that bathe the earth in blood 
 
 Are moods by alchemy made dogmas of — 
 
 The petrifaction of a metaphor. 
 
 No creed for me ! I am a man apart : 
 
 A mouthpiece for the creeds of all the world ; 
 
 A soulless life that angels may possess 
 
 Or demons haunt, wherein the foulest things 
 
 May loll at ease beside the loveliest; 
 
 A martyr for all mundane moods to tear ; 
 
 The slave of every passion ; and the slave 
 
 Of heat and cold, of darkness and of light ; 
 
 A trembling lyre for every wind to sound. 
 
 I am a man set by to overhear 
 
 The inner harmony, the very tune 
 
 Of Nature's heart ; to be a thoroughfare 
 
 For all the pageantry of Time ; to catch 
 
 The mutterings of the Spirit of the Hour 
 
 And make them known ; and of the lowliest
 
 A BALLAD IN BLANK VERSE 35 
 
 To be the minister, and therefore reign 
 Prince of the powers of the air, lord of the world, 
 And master of the sea. „ Within my heart 
 I'll gather all the universe, and sing 
 As sweetly as the spheres ; and I shall be 
 The first of men to understand himself. . . 
 And lo ! to give me courage comes the dawn, 
 Crimsoning the smoky east ; and still the sun 
 With fire-shod feet shall step from hill to hill 
 Downward before the night ; winter shall ply 
 His ancient craft, soldering the years with ice ; 
 And spring appear, caught in a leafless brake, 
 Breathless with wonder and the tears half-dried 
 Upon her rosy cheek; summer shall come 
 And waste his passion like a prodigal 
 Right royally; and autumn spend her gold 
 Free-handed as a harlot; men to know, 
 Women to love are waiting everywhere.'
 
 A BALLAD OF THE EXODUS FROM 
 HOUNDSDITCH 
 
 Exodus from Houndsditch. ' That alas ! is impossible as 
 yet, though it is the gist of all writings and wise books, I 
 sometimes think — the goal to be wisely aimed at as the first 
 of all for us. Out of Houndsditch, indeed ! Ah, were we 
 but out, and had our own along with us.' 
 
 Carlyles Journal. 
 
 He glowed and flamed with faith in Heaven and 
 
 Hell, 
 And travailed for his Church in thought and 
 
 deed ; 
 They cast him out because he preached too well 
 
 His peremptory creed.
 
 THE EXODUS FROM HOUNDSDITCH 37 
 
 He hid himself among the northern heights ; 
 He watched the misty torrents, thundering, 
 fall; 
 He watched the shortening days, the lengthening 
 nights ; 
 
 And heard the Lord God call, 
 
 1 Go back, and noise abroad the wrath to come ; 
 Ask no man's help ; proclaim me in the 
 crowd ; 
 Shall my anointed minister be dumb, 
 When all my foes are loud ? ' 
 
 He hastened to the city : in a square 
 He preached the gospel. 'Fellowmen,' he 
 cried, 
 ' Jehovah speaks through me ; you shall not 
 dare 
 
 To laugh or turn aside. 
 
 1 <mi
 
 38 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 ' I preach no system nebulous and new ; 
 
 God is, or is not : I have not to sell 
 Cosmetics for the soul : I offer you 
 
 The choice of Heaven or Hell. 
 
 1 Heed not bellethrist jargon, nor the rant 
 
 Of wanton art and proud philosophy; 
 But purge your reason of the subtlest cant, 
 And listen now to me. 
 
 ' These are the grievous times that Paul foretold 
 
 Men have become self-lovers, moneyers; 
 Boastful and haughty; scorners of the old; 
 Thankless, unholy; worse 
 
 1 Than apes in lusts unspoken that appal ■ 
 
 Sweet love; of dissolute fantastic mood; 
 Egoists, artists, scientists; and all 
 Haters of what is good.
 
 THE EXODUS FROM HOUNDSDITCH 39 
 ' Be warned ye sceptics, poets — fools ; refrain 
 
 Who lick the lip and roll the lustful eye ; 
 Repent, ye rich, that for your pleasures drain 
 The heart of labour dry. 
 
 1 Reformer, bishop, knowledge-monger, quack — 
 
 Kill-Christs ! — I am to every mortal sent ; 
 But chiefly to the wise and good, alack ! 
 I cry, repent ! repent ! 
 
 1 Ye gentle-hearted, lofty-sprited ones 
 
 Who dream, who hope, who think, and who 
 design, 
 And who perform humane things for men's sons, 
 Denying things divine, 
 
 ' Ye labour nobly, asking no reward ; 
 
 But I pronounce unselfishness a crime, 
 And tell you that the Great Day of the Lord 
 Brags in the womb of time.
 
 40 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 ' Soon shall the elements with fervent heat 
 Melt, and the stars be shed like withered 
 leaves; 
 And ye shall stand before the judgment-seat 
 With murderers, liars, thieves. 
 
 ' Repent ! repent ! and shun your awful fate ! 
 
 Why were your souls to your own bodies lent 
 But for your own first care ! Men, good and great, 
 I say, repent ! repent ! 
 
 ' And turn to Christ who put his glory by, 
 
 And suffered on the cross that anguish fell; 
 If you will not believe before you die, 
 You shall believe in Hell ! ' 
 
 The chill wind whispered winter; night set in; 
 
 Stars flickered high; and like a tidal wave, 
 He heard the rolling multitudinous din 
 Of life the city lave,
 
 THE EXOD US FR OM HO UN DSD ITCH 4 1 
 
 And burst in devious streams and eddying 
 wreaths, 
 To fill the halls its glowing surges stain, 
 And hidden nooks wherein it clangs and seethes, 
 And spends itself in vain. 
 
 A glittering-eyed and rosy boy that way 
 
 Went past and gravely gazed; a minstrel 
 thrummed 
 His banjo strings; ' Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay,' 
 A happy harlot hummed. 
 
 Then from a shadowy corner of the square, 
 A phantom stole and took the preacher's 
 hand, 
 And led him swiftly east to Houndsditch where 
 The Aldgate once did stand. 
 
 A vapour sank, ill-smelling and unclean, 
 
 Over the orient city; and writhed and curled
 
 42 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Up Houndsditch like a mist in a ravine, 
 Of some fantastic world, 
 
 Where wild weeds, half-way down the frowning 
 bank, 
 Flutter like poor apparel stained and sere, 
 And lamplike flowers with hearts of flame their 
 rank 
 
 And baleful blossoms rear. 
 
 Nothing he noted of the ceaseless roar 
 
 Of wheels and wearied hoofs and wearied feet, 
 That sounded hoarse behind 'twixt shore and 
 shore 
 
 Of brimming Aldgate Street. 
 
 He only heard a murmur gathering fast, 
 
 Of hidden multitudes in wrath and pain; 
 Anon a visionary pageant passed, 
 
 Through the high-shouldered lane.
 
 THE EXODUS FROM HOUNDSDITCH 43 
 But first the bleared and beetling houses 
 changed 
 To ivied towers and belfries old and gray, 
 And pointed gables, antic chimneys, ranged 
 In ordered disarray. 
 
 Then in the midst of Houndsditch one appeared, 
 
 Panting with haste, and bearing heavily 
 A massive cross; but not as one that feared : 
 Rather he seemed to be 
 
 With desperate courage flying an event, 
 Most woful, unexpected, undesigned, 
 Born of immaculate heroism, meant 
 Wholly to bless mankind. 
 
 He sped along a path of cloud and flame, 
 
 That spanned the city, looking ever back 
 With pity and with horror, till he came 
 Where an abyss yawned black.
 
 44 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Straightway he raised the cross high in the air; 
 
 Its shadow darkened space : into the deep 
 He threw it : then his terrible despair 
 Fell from him, as a sleep 
 
 Falls from a young man on a summer morn: 
 Wondering and glad a lowly way he took 
 By pastures, flowers and fruit, and golden corn, 
 And by a murmuring brook: 
 
 The while were heard descending from the skies 
 
 Or out of future times and future lands, 
 A bruit low and whispers, shadowy cries 
 Of joy and clapping hands. 
 
 But this scarce-heard applause, so far, so faint, 
 
 Like happy tears shed in a stormy sea, 
 Sudden was lost in the deep-voiced complaint, 
 The shouts of victory,
 
 THE EXODUS FROM HOUNDSDITCH 45 
 
 Of hope and woe, that with discordant stress 
 
 Tempestuously filled the phantom street, 
 As from its doors there issued forth a press 
 Of folk with noiseless feet, 
 
 That hurried like a torrent through a strait, 
 
 And o'er the magic path of flame and cloud — 
 Arms, voices, of that silent-footed, great 
 And many-mannered crowd ! 
 
 Above the street the Holy City hung, 
 
 Close as a roof and like a jasper stone 
 Lit by the Lamp of God; while seraphs sung 
 And saints adored the Throne. 
 
 Beneath, the sewers, flaming suddenly, 
 
 Bore down, like offal, souls of men to swell 
 The reeking cess-pool of humanity, 
 The hideous nine-orbed Hell.
 
 46 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Templars and warrior-bishops hewed and hacked 
 Christian and Pagan; kings and priests at feud 
 Each other smote; king, king — priest, priest 
 attacked; 
 
 Creed, creed — zeal, zeal pursued 
 
 With thumbscrews, racks, strappadoes, cord and 
 stake; 
 And victims passed: live folk like tired-off toys 
 Broken and burned — women on fire ! Christ's 
 sake ! 
 
 And tortured girls and boys ! 
 
 And there came also gentle counsellors, 
 
 And some announced that discord now should 
 cease; 
 But every blessing rotted to a curse 
 Upon the lips of peace.
 
 THE EXODUS FROM HOUNDSDITCH 47 
 Then cloth-yard shafts and knightly panoplies 
 Gave place to ordnance and the musketeer; 
 And evermore pealed hymns and battle-cries, 
 And shrieks of pain and fear. 
 
 The king o'erthrew the priest; the folk did tame 
 The king; and, having nobly played the man, 
 Bowed to the yoke again, while God became 
 A sleek-haired Anglican. 
 
 And still the motley pageant thundering poured 
 Along the Heaven-roofed and Hell-drained 
 street — 
 Priest, trooper, harlot, lawyer, lady, lord, 
 And all with noiseless feet. 
 
 Because the way with living flesh was paved, 
 With men and women, stifled, broken, bruised,
 
 48 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Whose blood the thresholds of the Churches 
 laved, 
 
 And stood in pools, and oozed, 
 
 And spirted high like water in a land 
 
 Of mire and moss, at every hoof and foot 
 Spattering the snowy alb, the jewelled hand 
 Of priest and prostitute. 
 
 Voiceless and still the human causey lay, 
 
 Until the City of God began to pale, 
 And Hell grow cold ; then from that dolorous way 
 Broke forth a feeble wail; 
 
 And here and there some sign of life appeared — 
 
 A lifted arm; and faces quick or dead 
 Surged in the bloody plash; and one upreared 
 A ghastly, shrieking head,
 
 THE EXODUS FROM HOUNDSDITCH 49 
 
 That straightway fell, brained by a ruthless hoof: 
 
 But the live stones grew stormier evermore, 
 As dim and dimmer waned the Heavenly roof, 
 And Hell burned low and lower. 
 
 Prone, or half-raised, or upright, desperate blows 
 By these down-trodden ones were dealt about; 
 At last the whole live road in wrath arose, 
 And smote the wanton rout. 
 
 Straightway a blood-red fog darkened and shone 
 And hid the street. . . . Was it the crimson 
 stain 
 Of morn alone ? Or must the New Day dawn 
 O'er mountains of the slain ? 
 
 The mist dissolved : Lo ! Nature's comely face ! 
 
 No Hellish sewer poisoning the air, 
 
 No parish Heaven obliterating space, 
 
 But earth and sky so fair — 
 
 D
 
 50 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Infinite thought, infinite galaxies; 
 
 And on a daisied lawn a shining throng 
 Of noble people sweetly sang : here is 
 The burden of their song : 
 
 • With love and hope we go; 
 
 We neither fear nor hate; 
 We know but what we know; 
 
 We have become as Fate.' 
 
 Then suddenly the winter fog unclean 
 
 Sank o'er the orient city, and writhed and 
 curled 
 Up Houndsditch like a mist in a ravine 
 Of some fantastic world, 
 
 Where wild weeds halfway down the frowning 
 
 bank 
 Flutter like poor apparel stained and sere,
 
 THE EXOD US FROM HO UNDSDITCH 5 1 
 
 And lamplike flowers, with hearts of gold their 
 rank 
 
 And baleful blossoms rear. 
 
 The preacher, ghastlier than the phantom, cried 
 4 Get thee behind me, Satan ! ' clutched the 
 night, 
 Staggered, ran on, shrieked, laughed, fell down 
 and died 
 
 Of that strange-storied sight. 
 
 Few marked his death amid the ceaseless roar 
 
 Of wheels and wearied hoofs and wearied feet, 
 That sounded hoarse behind 'twixt shore and 
 shore 
 Of brimming Aldgate Street.
 
 A BALLAD OF A NUN 
 
 From Eastertide to Eastertide 
 
 For ten long years her patient knees 
 
 Engraved the stones — the fittest bride 
 Of Christ in all the diocese. 
 
 She conquered every earthly lust; 
 
 The abbess loved her more and more; 
 And, as a mark of perfect trust, 
 
 Made her the keeper of the door. 
 
 High on a hill the convent hung, 
 Across a duchy looking down, 
 
 Where everlasting mountains flung 
 Their shadows over tower and town.
 
 A BALLAD OF A NUN 53 
 
 The jewels of their lofty snows 
 
 In constellations flashed at night; 
 Above their crests the moon arose; 
 
 The deep earth shuddered with delight. 
 
 Long ere she left her cloudy bed, 
 
 Still dreaming in the orient land, 
 On many a mountain's happy head 
 
 Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand. 
 
 The adventurous sun took Heaven by storm; 
 
 Clouds scattered largesses of rain; 
 The sounding cities, rich and warm, 
 
 Smouldered and glittered in the plain. 
 
 Sometimes it was a wandering wind, 
 Sometimes the fragrance of the pine, 
 
 Sometimes the thought how others sinned, 
 That turned her sweet blood into wine.
 
 54 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Sometimes she heard a serenade 
 Complaining sweetly far away : 
 
 She said, ' A young man woos a maid ' ; 
 And dreamt of love till break of day. 
 
 Then would she ply her knotted scourge 
 Until she swooned; but evermore 
 
 She had the same red sin to purge, 
 Poor, passionate keeper of the door ! 
 
 For still night's starry scroll unfurled, 
 And still the day came like a flood : 
 
 It was the greatness of the world 
 
 That made her long to use her blood. 
 
 In winter-time when Lent drew nigh, 
 
 And hill and plain were wrapped in snow, 
 
 She watched beneath the frosty sky 
 The nearest city nightly glow.
 
 A BALLAD OF A NUN 55 
 
 Like peals of airy bells outworn 
 Faint laughter died above her head 
 
 In gusts of broken music borne : 
 ' They keep the Carnival,' she said. 
 
 Her hungry heart devoured the town : 
 
 1 Heaven save me by a miracle ! 
 Unless God sends an angel down, 
 
 Thither I go though it were Hell.' 
 
 She dug her nails deep in her breast, 
 
 Sobbed, shrieked, and straight withdrew the 
 bar : 
 
 A fledgling flying from the nest, 
 A pale moth rushing to a star. 
 
 Fillet and veil in strips she tore ; 
 
 Her golden tresses floated wide ; 
 The ring and bracelet that she wore 
 
 As Christ's betrothed, she cast aside.
 
 56 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 ' Life's dearest meaning I shall probe ; 
 
 Lo ! I shall taste of love at last ! 
 Away ! ' She doffed her outer robe, 
 
 And sent it sailing down the blast. 
 
 Her body seemed to warm the wind ; 
 
 With bleeding feet o'er ice she ran : 
 ' I leave the righteous God behind ; 
 
 I go to worship sinful man.' 
 
 She reached the sounding city's gate ; 
 
 No question did the warder ask : 
 He passed her in : ' Welcome, wild mate ! ' 
 
 He thought her some fantastic mask. 
 
 Half-naked through the town she went ; 
 
 Each footstep left a bloody mark ; 
 Crowds followed her with looks intent ; 
 
 Her bright eyes made the torches dark.
 
 A BALLAD OF A NUN 57 
 
 Alone and watching in the street 
 
 There stood a grave youth nobly dressed ; 
 
 To him she knelt and kissed his feet ; 
 Her face her great desire confessed. 
 
 Straight to his house the nun he led : 
 
 1 Strange lady, what would you with me ? ' 
 
 I Your love, your love, sweet lord,' she said ; 
 
 4 1 bring you my virginity.' 
 
 He healed her bosom with a kiss ; 
 
 She gave him all her passion's hoard ; 
 And sobbed and murmured ever, ' This 
 
 Is life's great meaning, dear, my lord. 
 
 I I care not for my broken vow ; 
 
 Though God should come in thunder soon, 
 I am sister to the mountains now, 
 And sister to the sun and moon.'
 
 58 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Through all the towns of Belmarie 
 She made a progress like a queen. 
 
 ' She is,' they said, ( whatever she be, 
 The strangest woman ever seen. 
 
 ' From fairyland she must have come, 
 
 Or else she is a mer maiden.' 
 Some said she was a ghoul, and some 
 
 A heathen goddess born again. 
 
 But soon her fire to ashes burned ; 
 
 Her beauty changed to haggardness ; 
 Her golden hair to silver turned ; 
 
 The hour came of her last caress. 
 
 At midnight from her lonely bed 
 
 She rose, and said, ' I have had my will.' 
 
 The old ragged robe she donned, and fled 
 Back to the convent on the hill.
 
 A BALLAD OF A NUN 59 
 
 Half-naked as she went before, 
 
 She hurried to the city wall, 
 Unnoticed in the rush and roar 
 
 And splendour of the carnival. 
 
 No question did the warder ask : 
 
 Her ragged robe, her shrunken limb, 
 
 Her dreadful eyes ! * It is no mask ; 
 It is a she-wolf, gaunt and grim ! ' 
 
 She ran across the icy plain ; 
 
 Her worn blood curdled in the blast ; 
 Each footstep left a crimson stain ; 
 
 The white-faced moon looked on aghast. 
 
 She said between her chattering jaws, 
 'Deep peace is mine, I cease to strive; 
 
 Oh, comfortable convent laws, 
 That bury foolish nuns alive !
 
 60 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 ' A trowel for my passing-bell, 
 
 A little bed within the wall, 
 A coverlet of stones ; how well 
 
 I there shall keep the Carnival 1 ' 
 
 Like tired bells chiming in their sleep, 
 The wind faint peals of laughter bore; 
 
 She stopped her ears and climbed the steep, 
 And thundered at the convent door. 
 
 It opened straight : she entered in, 
 And at the wardress' feet fell prone : 
 
 1 1 come to purge away my sin ; 
 Bury me, close me up in stone.' 
 
 The wardress raised her tenderly; 
 
 She touched her wet and fast-shut eyes : 
 4 Look, sister; sister, look at me; 
 
 Look; can you see through my disguise ? '
 
 A BALLAD OF A NUN 61 
 
 She looked and saw her own sad face, 
 And trembled, wondering, ' Who art thou ? ' 
 
 1 God sent me down to fill your place : 
 I am the Virgin Mary now.' 
 
 And with the word, God's mother shone : 
 The wanderer whispered, ' Mary, hail ! ' 
 
 The vision helped her to put on 
 Bracelet and fillet, ring and veil. 
 
 ' You are sister to the mountains now, 
 
 And sister to the day and night; 
 Sister to God.' And on the brow 
 
 She kissed her thrice, and left her sight. 
 
 While dreaming in her cloudy bed, 
 
 Far in the crimson orient land, 
 On many a mountain's happy head 
 
 Dawn lightly laid her rosy hand.
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF THE DUCHESS 
 
 The sun of Austerlitz had dawned and shone 
 
 and set in blood, 
 When to Illyria Sigismund rode home by fell 
 
 and flood. 
 
 ' What news, what news, Duke Sigismund ? ' the 
 
 Duchess Agnes cried. 
 ' Heavy — an avalanche of lead,' Duke Sigismund 
 
 replied. 
 
 1 Across the astonished land the sun comes con- 
 quering from the west — 
 
 Napoleon's banners, purpled in the blood of 
 Europe's best.'
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF THE DUCHESS 63 
 
 1 Heavy — an avalanche of lead ! ' she echoed in 
 
 dismay. 
 1 Take heart,' he said. But she, ' Ah me ! this 
 
 was our wedding-day 
 
 1 Five years ago ! — Oh ! that base churl, and un- 
 
 imagined thief, 
 That kingdom-breaker ! Give me words, or I 
 
 shall die of grief ! 
 
 'Our wedding-day, and Europe fallen! How 
 
 comes it that earth stands ! ' 
 She paced the room across, along, and wrung her 
 
 jewelled hands. 
 
 At last a new thought dyed her cheek and set 
 
 her eyes on fire : 
 ' Husband, upon my wedding-day, grant me my 
 
 heart's desire.
 
 64 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 4 1 have a thing to do. Take horse. — You're 
 tired, my love ? Drink wine — 
 
 But come — you must — and ride with me to 
 Idria's poisonous mine.' 
 
 By circling paths adown the hill they rode, a 
 
 toilsome way; 
 And came where in a cup-like gap the town of 
 
 Idria lay. 
 
 Far in the hideous mine the haughty Duchess 
 
 Agnes found 
 The thing she sought for buried quick a mile 
 
 beneath the ground : 
 
 A ghastly shape of palsied bones across the lamp- 
 light dim, 
 
 Scarce held together by the chains that bound 
 him limb to limb.
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF THE DUCHESS 65 
 
 While on the earthy slate quicksilver globed 
 
 itself like dew, 
 He struck the sulphurous cinnabar with feeble 
 
 blows and few. 
 
 A clammy sweat welled over him and drenched 
 
 his ragged sash; 
 Upon his back appeared the curious branch-work 
 
 of the lash. 
 
 The Duchess fed her eyes on him unconscious; 
 
 then she said, 
 'So, Casimir; poor Casimir ! ' The prisoner 
 
 raised his head, 
 
 And ceased his work, but looked not round. She 
 
 whispered to her lord, 
 
 'The breathing corpse that swelters here and 
 
 lives this death abhorred, 
 
 E
 
 66 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 4 Dared think of me, the noblest blood and high- 
 est heart there is ! 
 
 Five years ago a youthful god he seemed; now 
 is he — this ! ' 
 
 And then aloud : ' Aha ! my foster-brother, 
 
 Casimir ! 
 Know then at last that it was I who had you 
 
 buried here. 
 
 ' You looked to me ! — and yet you come of better- 
 blooded curs 
 
 Than he who tramples on the necks of kings and 
 emperors. 
 
 ' You looked to me, you peasant's son ! So on 
 my wedding-morn 
 
 You here were set, the enduring mark of my for- 
 getful scorn.
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF THE DUCHESS 67 
 
 'From then till now your memory has been a 
 
 bauble thrust 
 In some disused old cupboard and there left to 
 
 gather dust. 
 
 ' To-day my suffering soul recalled the vengeance 
 
 I had wrought 
 On one who hurt my pride by silent look and 
 
 secret thought. 
 
 ' Under the lash you toil and sweat and know nor 
 
 day nor night, 
 Rotted with steaming mercury and blanched for 
 
 lack of light. 
 
 ' In you I came to see what I would make of that 
 false knave, 
 
 That giant-burglar, Bonaparte, the puddle- 
 blooded slave !
 
 68 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 1 Do you remember Bonaparte who conquered 
 
 Italy ? 
 He is now the master of the world ; while you — 
 
 why, you are he — 
 
 ' With fortunes cast like Bonaparte's, a match 
 
 perhaps for him — 
 Who here lie buried quick to please an idle 
 
 woman's whim.' 
 
 When she had done he raised his eyes — wide, 
 
 hollow orbs. She shook 
 With instant dread, beholding awful meanings 
 
 in his look. 
 
 As feeble as a child's his dwindled flesh and 
 
 palsied frame, 
 But manhood lightened round him from his 
 
 glance of purest flame.
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF THE DUCHESS 69 
 
 ' Agnes,' he sighed ; and that was all he uttered 
 
 of rebuke. 
 He paused, and then melodiously said, though 
 
 low, ' You took 
 
 ' God's way when here you buried me ; nothing 
 
 can touch my soul 
 To discord with the universe. I understand the 
 
 whole 
 
 1 Great wonder of creation : every atom in the 
 
 earth 
 Aches to be man unconsciously, and every living 
 
 birth— 
 
 ' The lowest struggling motion and the fiercest 
 
 blood on fire, 
 The tree, the flower, are pressing towards a 
 
 future ever higher,
 
 70 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 1 To reach that mood august wherein we know 
 
 we suffer pain. 
 Napoleon ! I am greater by this woe and by 
 
 this chain ; 
 
 ' Because where all blaspheme and die, slaves of 
 
 their agony, 
 I still am master of my thought, friend of my 
 
 enemy. 
 
 ' I reverence the force that was before the world 
 
 began, 
 And which in me obtained the signal grace to 
 
 be a man. 
 
 ' Millions of men there are who happy live and 
 
 happy die : 
 But what of that ? I, too, am born a man, I, 
 
 even I ! '
 
 THE VENGEANCE OF THE DUCHESS 71 
 
 He shone on her serenely like a solitary star, 
 Then turned and toiled in anguish at the 
 poisonous cinnabar. 
 
 The Duchess gnawed her nether lip, but found 
 
 no word to say. 
 ' The man is mad,' the Duke declared, and led 
 
 his wife away. 
 
 Glory to those who conquer Fate and peace to 
 those who fail ! 
 
 But who would be the Duchess, who, her victor- 
 victim pale ?
 
 A BALLAD OF HEAVEN * 
 
 He wrought at one great work for years ; 
 
 The world passed by with lofty look: 
 Sometimes his eyes were dashed with tears; 
 
 Sometimes his lips with laughter shook. 
 
 His wife and child went clothed in rags, 
 And in a windy garret starved : 
 
 He trod his measures on the flags, 
 
 And high on heaven his music carved. 
 
 Wistful he grew but never feared; 
 
 For always on the midnight skies 
 His rich orchestral score appeared 
 
 In stars and zones and galaxies. 
 
 * See note at the end of the book.
 
 A BALLAD OF HEA VEN 73 
 
 He thought to copy down his score : 
 The moonlight was his lamp : he said, 
 ' Listen, my love ; ' but on the floor 
 His wife and child were lying dead. 
 
 Her hollow eyes were open wide; 
 
 He deemed she heard with special zest : 
 Her death's-head infant coldly eyed 
 
 The desert of her shrunken breast. 
 
 ' Listen, my love : my work is done; 
 I tremble as I touch the page 
 To sign the sentence of the sun 
 And crown the great eternal age. 
 
 ' The slow adagio begins ; 
 
 The winding-sheets are ravelled out 
 
 That swathe the minds of men, the sins 
 
 That wrap their rotting souls about.
 
 74 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 ' The dead are heralded along ; 
 
 With silver trumps and golden drums, 
 And flutes and oboes, keen and strong, 
 
 My brave andante singing comes. 
 
 ' Then like a python's sumptuous dress 
 
 The frame of things is cast away, 
 And out of Time's obscure distress, 
 
 The thundering scherzo crashes Day. 
 
 ' For three great orchestras I hope 
 My mighty music shall be scored : 
 
 On three high hills they shall have scope 
 With heaven's vault for a sounding-board. 
 
 4 Sleep well, love ; let your eyelids fall ; 
 
 Cover the child ; goodnight, and if . . . 
 What ? Speak . . . the traitorous end of all ! 
 
 Both . . . cold and hungry . . . cold and stiff !
 
 A BALLAD OF HEA VEN 75 
 
 1 But no, God means us well, I trust : 
 Dear ones, be happy, hope is nigh : 
 We are too young to fall to dust, 
 And too unsatisfied to die.' 
 
 He lifted up against his breast 
 
 The woman's body stark and wan ; 
 
 And to her withered bosom pressed 
 The little skin-clad skeleton. 
 
 'You see you are alive,' he cried. 
 
 He rocked them gently to and fro. 
 * No, no, my love, you have not died ; 
 
 Nor you, my little fellow ; no.' 
 
 Long in his arms he strained his dead 
 And crooned an antique lullaby ; 
 
 Then laid them on the lowly bed, 
 And broke down with a doleful cry.
 
 76 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 1 The love, the hope, the blood, the brain, 
 
 Of her and me, the budding life, 
 And my great music — all in vain ! 
 
 My unscored work, my child, my wife ! 
 
 ' We drop into oblivion, 
 
 And nourish some suburban sod : 
 My work, this woman, this my son, 
 Are now no more : there is no God. 
 
 ' The world's a dustbin ; we are due, 
 
 And death's cart waits : be life accurst ! ' 
 He stumbled down beside the two, 
 
 And clasping them, his great heart burst. 
 
 Straightway he stood at heaven's gate, 
 Abashed and trembling for his sin : 
 
 I trow he had not long to wait, 
 For God came out and led him in.
 
 A BALLAD OF HEAVEN 77 
 
 And then there ran a radiant pair, 
 
 Ruddy with haste and eager-eyed 
 To meet him first upon the stair — 
 
 His wife and child beatified. 
 
 They clad him in a robe of light, 
 And gave him heavenly food to eat; 
 
 Great seraphs praised him to the height, 
 Archangels sat about his feet. 
 
 God, smiling, took him by the hand, 
 And led him to the brink of heaven : 
 
 He saw where systems whirling stand, 
 Where galaxies like snow are driven. 
 
 Dead silence reigned; a shudder ran 
 
 Through space; Time furled his wearied wings; 
 
 A slow adagio then began 
 
 Sweetly resolving troubled things.
 
 78 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 The dead were heralded along : 
 
 As if with drums and trumps of flame, 
 
 And flutes and oboes keen and strong, 
 A brave andante singing came. 
 
 Then like a python's sumptuous dress 
 The frame of things was cast away, 
 
 And out of Time's obscure distress 
 
 The conquering scherzo thundered Day. 
 
 He doubted; but God said ' Even so; 
 
 Nothing is lost that's wrought with tears 
 The music that you made below 
 
 Is now the music of the spheres.'
 
 A BALLAD OF HELL 
 
 ' A letter from my love to-day ! 
 
 Oh, unexpected, dear appeal ! ' 
 She struck a happy tear away, 
 
 And broke the crimson seal. 
 
 ' My love, there is no help on earth, 
 No help in heaven; the dead-man's bell 
 
 Must toll our wedding; our first hearth 
 Must be the well-paved floor of hell.' 
 
 The colour died from out her face, 
 Her eyes like ghostly candles shone; 
 
 She cast dread looks about the place, 
 
 Then clenched her teeth and read right on.
 
 80 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 1 1 may not pass the prison door; 
 Here must I rot from day to day, 
 Unless I wed whom I abhor, 
 
 My cousin, Blanche of Valencay. 
 
 ' At midnight with my dagger keen, 
 I'll take my life; it must be so. 
 Meet me in hell to-night, my queen, 
 For weal and woe.' 
 
 She laughed although her face was wan, 
 She girded on her golden belt, 
 
 She took her jewelled ivory fan, 
 And at her glowing missal knelt. 
 
 Then rose, ' And am I mad ? ' she said : 
 She broke her fan, her belt untied; 
 
 With leather girt herself instead, 
 And stuck a dagger at her side.
 
 A BALLAD OF HELL 8r 
 
 She waited, shuddering in her room, 
 Till sleep had fallen on all the house. 
 
 She never flinched; she faced her doom : 
 They two must sin to keep their vows. 
 
 Then out into the night she went, 
 And stooping crept by hedge and tree; 
 
 Her rose-bush flung a snare of scent, 
 And caught a happy memory. 
 
 She fell, and lay a minute's space; 
 
 She tore the sward in her distress; 
 The dewy grass refreshed her face; 
 
 She rose and ran with lifted dress. 
 
 She started like a morn-caught ghost 
 
 Once when the moon came out and stood 
 
 To watch; the naked road she crossed, 
 
 And dived into the murmuring wood. 
 
 F
 
 82 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 The branches snatched her streaming cloak; 
 
 A live thing shrieked; she made no stay 1 
 She hurried to the trysting-oak — 
 
 Right well she knew the way. 
 
 Without a pause she bared her breast, 
 And drove her dagger home and fell, 
 
 And lay like one that takes her rest, 
 And died and wakened up in hell. 
 
 She bathed her spirit in the flame, 
 And near the centre took her post; 
 
 From all sides to her ears there came, 
 The dreary anguish of the lost. 
 
 The devil started at her side, 
 
 Comely, and tall, and black as jet. 
 
 1 1 am young Malespina's bride; 
 Has he come hither yet ? '
 
 A BALLAD OF HELL 
 
 1 My poppet, welcome to your bed.' 
 
 4 Is Malespina here ? ' 
 1 Not he ! To-morrow he must wed 
 
 His cousin Blanche, my dear ! ' 
 
 4 You lie, he died with me to-night.' 
 4 Not he ! it was a plot.' 4 You lie.' 
 
 4 My dear, I never lie outright.' 
 4 We died at midnight he and I.' 
 
 The devil went. Without a groan 
 She, gathered up in one fierce prayer, 
 
 Took root in hell's midst all alone, 
 And waited for him there 
 
 She dared to make herself at home 
 Amidst the wail, the uneasy stir. 
 
 The blood-stained flame that filled the dome, 
 Scentless and silent, shrouded her.
 
 84 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 How long she stayed I cannot tell; 
 
 But when she felt his perfidy, 
 She marched across the floor of hell; 
 
 And all the damned stood up to see. 
 
 The devil stopped her at the brink : 
 She shook him off; she cried, ' Away ! ' 
 
 4 My dear, you have gone mad, I th 
 1 1 was betrayed : I will not stay.' 
 
 Across the weltering deep she ran ; 
 
 A stranger thing was never seen : 
 The damned stood silent to a man ; 
 
 They saw the great gulf set between. 
 
 To her it seemed a meadow fair; 
 
 And flowers sprang up about her feet ; 
 She entered heaven ; she climbed the stair; 
 
 And knelt down at the mercy-seat.
 
 A BALLAD OF HELL 85 
 
 Seraphs and saints with one great voice 
 Welcomed that soul that knew not fear ; 
 
 » 
 
 Amazed to find it could rejoice, 
 
 Hell raised a hoarse half-human cheer.
 
 LONDON 
 
 Athwart the sky a lowly sigh 
 
 From west to east the sweet wind carried ; 
 The sun stood still on Primrose Hill ; 
 
 His light in all the city tarried : 
 The clouds on viewless columns bloomed 
 Like smouldering lilies unconsumed. 
 
 1 Oh sweetheart, see ! how shadowy, 
 Of some occult magician's rearing, , 
 
 Or swung in space of heaven's grace 
 Dissolving, dimly reappearing, 
 
 Afloat upon ethereal tides 
 
 St Paul's above the city rides ! '
 
 LONDON 87 
 
 A rumour broke through the thin smoke 
 Enwreathing abbey, tower, and palace, 
 
 The parks, the squares, the thoroughfares, 
 The million-peopled lanes and alleys, 
 
 An ever-muttering prisoned storm, 
 
 The heart of London beating warm.
 
 A LOAFER 
 
 I hang about the streets all day, 
 
 At night I hang about ; 
 I sleep a little when I may, 
 
 But rise betimes the morning's scout ; 
 For through the year I always hear 
 
 Afar, aloft, a ghostly shout. 
 
 My clothes are worn to threads and loops ; 
 
 My skin shows here and there ; 
 About my face like seaweed droops 
 
 My tangled beard, my tangled hair ; 
 From cavernous and shaggy brows 
 
 My stony eyes untroubled stare.
 
 A LOAFER 89 
 
 I move from eastern wretchedness 
 Through Fleet Street and the Strand ; 
 
 And as the pleasant people press 
 I touch them softly with my hand, 
 
 Perhaps to know that still I go 
 Alive about a living land. 
 
 For, far in front the clouds are riven ; 
 
 I hear the ghostly cry, 
 As if a still voice fell from heaven 
 
 To where sea-whelmed the drowned folk lie 
 In sepulchres no tempest stirs 
 
 And only eyeless things pass by. 
 
 In Piccadilly spirits pass : 
 
 Oh, eyes and cheeks that glow ! 
 Oh, strength and comeliness ! Alas, 
 
 The lustrous health is earth I know
 
 90 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 From shrinking eyes that recognise 
 No brother in my rags and woe. 
 
 I know no handicraft, no art, 
 But I have conquered fate; 
 
 For I have chosen the better part, 
 And neither hope, nor fear, nor hate. 
 
 With placid breath on pain and death, 
 My certain alms, alone I wait. 
 
 And daily, nightly comes the call, 
 
 The pale unechoing note, 
 The faint ' Aha ! ' sent from the wall 
 
 Of heaven, but from no ruddy throat 
 Of human breed or seraph's seed, 
 
 A phantom voice that cries by rote.
 
 THIRTY BOB A WEEK 
 
 I couldn't touch a stop and turn a screw, 
 
 And set the blooming world a-work for me, 
 Like such as cut their teeth — I hope, like you — 
 On the handle of a skeleton gold key; 
 
 I cut mine on a leek, which I eat it every week : 
 I'm a clerk at thirty bob as you can see. 
 
 But I don't allow it's luck and all a toss ; 
 
 There's no such thing as being starred and 
 crossed; 
 It's just the power of some to be a boss, 
 
 And the bally power of others to be bossed :
 
 92 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 I face the music, sir; you bet I ain't a cur; 
 Strike me lucky if I don't believe I'm lost ! 
 
 For like a mole I journey in the dark, 
 A-travelling along the underground 
 From my Pillar'd Halls and broad Suburbean 
 Park, 
 To come the daily dull official round; 
 And home again at night with my pipe all alight, 
 -scheming how to count ten bob a pound. 
 
 And it's often very cold and very wet, 
 
 And my missis stitches towels for a hunks; 
 
 And the Pillar'd Halls is half of it to let- 
 Three rooms about the size of travelling 
 trunks. 
 
 And we cough, my wife and I, to dislocate a sigh, 
 When the noisy little kids are in their bunks.
 
 THIRTY BOB A WEEK 93 
 
 But you never hear her do a growl or whine, 
 For she's made of flint and roses, very odd ; 
 And I've got to cut my meaning rather fine, 
 Or I'd blubber, for I'm made of greens and 
 
 sod: 
 o p'r'aps we are in Hell for all that I can tell, 
 And lost and damn'd and served up hot to 
 God. 
 
 I ain't blaspheming, Mr Silver-tongue; 
 
 I'm saying things a bit beyond your art : 
 Of all the rummy starts you ever sprung, 
 
 Thirty bob a week's the rummiest start ! 
 With your science and your books and your 
 the'ries about spooks, 
 
 Did you ever hear of looking in your heart ? 
 
 I didn't mean your pocket, Mr., no : 
 I mean that having children and a wife,
 
 94 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 With thirty bob on which to come and go, 
 Isn't dancing to the tabor and the fife : 
 
 When it doesn't make you drink, by Heaven ! it 
 makes you think, 
 And notice curious items about life. 
 
 I step into my heart and there I meet 
 A god-almighty devil singing small, 
 
 Who would like to shout and whistle in the street, 
 And squelch the passers flat against the wall; 
 
 If the whole world was a cake he had the power 
 to take, 
 He would take it, ask for more, and eat it all. 
 
 And I meet a sort of simpleton beside, 
 The kind that life is always giving beans: 
 
 With thirty bob a week to keep a bride 
 He fell in love and married in his teens :
 
 THIRTY BOB A WEEK 95 
 
 At thirty bob he stuck; but he knows it isn't luck: 
 He knows the seas are deeper than tureens. 
 
 And the god-almighty devil and the fool 
 
 That meet me in the High Street on the strike, 
 
 When I walk about my heart a-gathering wool, 
 Are my good and evil angels if you like. 
 
 And both of them together in every kind of 
 weather 
 Ride me like a double-seated bike. 
 
 That's rough a bit and needs its meaning curled. 
 
 But I have a high old hot un in my mind — 
 A most engrugious notion of the world, 
 
 That leaves your lightning 'rithmetic behind : 
 I give it at a glance when I say • There ain't no 
 chance, 
 
 Nor nothing of the lucky-lottery kind.'
 
 96 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 And it's this way that I make it out to be : 
 
 No fathers, mothers, countries, climates — none; 
 Not Adam was responsible for me, 
 
 Nor society, nor systems, nary one : 
 A little sleeping seed, I woke — I did, indeed — 
 
 A million years before the blooming sun. 
 
 I woke because I thought the time had come ; 
 
 Beyond my will there was no other cause ; 
 And everywhere I found myself at home, 
 
 Because I chose to be the thing I was ; 
 And in whatever shape of mollusc or of ape 
 
 I always went according to the laws. 
 
 I was the love that chose my mother out ; 
 
 I joined two lives and from the union burst ; 
 My weakness and my strength without a doubt 
 
 Are mine alone for ever from the first :
 
 THIRTY BOB A WEEK 97 
 
 It's just the very same with a difference in the 
 name 
 As ' Thy will be done.' You say it if you durst ! 
 
 They say it daily up and down the land 
 As easy as you take a drink, it's true ; 
 
 But the difficultest go to understand, 
 And the difficultest job a man can do, 
 
 Is to come it brave and meek with thirty bob a 
 week, 
 And feel that that's the proper thing for you. 
 
 It's a naked child against a hungry wolf ; 
 
 It's playing bowls upon a splitting wreck ; 
 It's walking on a string across a gulf 
 
 With millstones fore-and-aft about your neck ; 
 
 But the thing is daily done by many and many 
 
 a one; 
 
 And we fall, face forward, fighting, on the deck. 
 
 G
 
 TO THE STREET PIANO 
 
 I 
 
 A LABOURER'S WIFE 
 TUNE — Ta-ra-ra-hoom-de-ay. 
 
 All the day I worked and played 
 
 When I was a little maid, 
 
 Soft and nimble as a mouse, 
 
 Living in my father's house. 
 
 If I lacked my liberty, 
 
 All my thoughts were free as free; 
 
 Though my hands were hacked all o'er, 
 
 Ah ! my heart was never sore.
 
 TO THE STREET PIANO 99 
 
 Oh ! once I had my fling ! 
 I romped at ging-go-ring ; 
 I used to dance and sing, 
 And play at everything. 
 I never feared the light; 
 I shrank from no one's sight; 
 I saw the world was right; 
 I always slept at night. 
 
 What a simpleton was I 
 To go and marry on the sly ! 
 Now I work and never play : 
 Three pale children all the day 
 Fight and whine; and Dick, my man, 
 Is drunk as often as he can. 
 Ah ! my head and bones are sore, 
 And my heart is hacked all o'er.
 
 ioo BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Yet, once I had my fling; 
 I romped at ging-go-ring; 
 I used to dance and sing, 
 And play at everything. 
 Now I fear the light; 
 I shrink from every sight ; 
 I see there's nothing right; 
 I hope to die to-night. 
 
 II 
 
 AFTER THE END 
 TONE— After the Ball. 
 
 Oh sorry meaning ! Oh, wistful sound ! 
 Lilted and shouted, whistled and ground, 
 Still in my brain you will waltz and beat ? 
 Haunt me no longer, tune of the street ! 
 Standing between the quick and the dead, 
 I buy you off with a word of dread :
 
 TO THE STREET PIANO 101 
 
 What will it matter who danced at the ball, 
 Or whose heart broke at the end of all ? 
 
 After the end of all things, 
 After the years are spent, 
 
 After the loom is broken, 
 After the robe is rent, 
 
 Will there be hearts a-beating, 
 Will friend converse with friend, 
 
 Will men and women be lovers, 
 After the end ?i 
 
 Roses and dew, the stars and the grass, 
 Kingdoms and homes like fashions must pass, 
 Seedtime and harvest, sunshine and rain 
 Cease and be welcomed never again; 
 But passion and power, courage and truth, 
 Grace and delight and beauty and youth,
 
 102 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Will they go out like the lights at a ball 
 With sun, moon and stars, at the end of all ? 
 
 After the spheral music 
 
 Ceases in Heaven's wide room, 
 
 After the trump has sounded, 
 After the crack of doom, 
 
 Never will any sweetheart 
 A loving message send, 
 
 Never a blush light the darkness 
 After the end ?
 
 SONG OF A TRAIN 
 
 A monster taught 
 
 To come to hand 
 
 Amain, 
 
 As swift as thought 
 
 Across the land 
 
 The train. 
 
 The song it sings 
 Has an iron sound; 
 Its iron wings 
 Like wheels go round. 
 
 Crash under bridges, 
 Flash over ridges,
 
 104 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 And vault the downs; 
 The road is straight — 
 Nor stile, nor gate; 
 For milestones — towns ! 
 
 Voluminous, vanishing, white, 
 The steam plume trails; 
 Parallel streaks of light, 
 The polished rails. 
 
 Oh, who can follow ? 
 
 The little swallow, 
 
 The trout of the sky : 
 
 But the sun 
 
 Is outrun, 
 
 And Time passed by. 
 
 O'er bosky dens, 
 By marsh and mead,
 
 SONG OF A TRAIN 105 
 
 Forest and fens 
 
 Embodied speed 
 
 Is clanked and hurled; 
 
 O'er rivers and runnels; 
 
 And into the earth 
 
 And out again 
 
 In death and birth 
 
 That know no pain, 
 
 For the whole round world 
 
 Is a warren of railway tunnels. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! hark ! 
 
 It screams and cleaves the dark; 
 
 And the subterranean night 
 
 Is gilt with smoky light. 
 
 Then out again apace 
 
 It runs its thundering race, 
 
 The monster taught
 
 io6 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 To come to hand 
 
 Amain, 
 
 That swift as thought 
 
 Speeds through the land, 
 
 The train.
 
 IN ROMNEY MARSH 
 
 As I went down to Dymchurch Wall, 
 I heard the South sing o'er the land ; 
 
 I saw the yellow sunlight fall 
 
 On knolls where Norman churches stand. 
 
 And ringing shrilly, taut and lithe, 
 Within the wind a core of sound, 
 
 The wire from Romney town to Hythe 
 Alone its airy journey wound. 
 
 A veil of purple vapour flowed 
 
 And trailed its fringe along the Straits; 
 The upper air like sapphire glowed ; 
 
 And roses filled Heaven's central gates.
 
 1 08 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Masts in the offing wagged their tops; 
 
 The swinging waves pealed on the shore; 
 The saffron beach, all diamond drops 
 
 And beads of surge, prolonged the roar. 
 
 As I came up from Dymchurch Wall, 
 I saw above the Downs' low crest 
 
 The crimson brands of sunset fall, 
 Flicker and fade from out the west. 
 
 Night sank : like flakes of silver fire 
 The stars in one great shower came down; 
 
 Shrill blew the wind; and shrill the wire 
 Rang out from Hythe to Romney town. 
 
 The darkly shining salt sea drops 
 
 Streamed as the waves clashed on the shore; 
 The beach, with all its organ stops 
 
 Pealing again, prolonged the roar.
 
 A CINQUE PORT 
 
 Below the down the stranded town, 
 What may betide forlornly waits, 
 
 With memories of smoky skies, 
 
 When Gallic navies crossed the straits; 
 
 When waves with fire and blood grew bright, 
 
 And cannon thundered through the night. 
 
 With swinging stride the rhythmic tide 
 Bore to the harbour barque and sloop; 
 
 Across the bar the ship of war, 
 
 In castled stern and lanterned poop, 
 
 Came up with conquests on her lee, 
 
 The stately mistress of the sea.
 
 no BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Where argosies have wooed the breeze, 
 The simple sheep are feeding now; 
 
 And near and far across the bar 
 The ploughman whistles at the plough ; 
 
 Where once the long waves washed the shore, 
 
 Larks from their lowly lodgings soar. 
 
 Below the down the stranded town 
 
 Hears far away the rollers beat; 
 About the wall the seabirds call; 
 
 The salt wind murmurs through the street; 
 Forlorn the sea's forsaken bride, 
 Awaits the end that shall betide.
 
 SPRING 
 
 Over hill and dale and fen 
 Winds adust and roving strum 
 
 Broken music now and then 
 Out of hedges, lately dumb, 
 
 Snow enshrouded; for again, 
 Here and now the Spring is come. 
 
 
 
 Hungry cold no more shall irk 
 Beast or bird on hill or lea; 
 
 Rivers in the meadows lurk, 
 
 Whispering on the flowers to be;
 
 112 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Rustics sing about their work; 
 Spring is come across the sea. 
 
 Pink and emerald buds adorn 
 
 Squares and gardens up and down ; 
 
 Madge, quite early in the morn, 
 Gads about in her new gown ; 
 
 Daisies in the streets are born ; 
 Spring is come into the town. 
 
 II 
 
 Certain, it is not wholly wrong 
 To hope that yet the skies may ring 
 
 With the due praises that belong 
 To April over all the Spring : 
 
 If one could only make a song 
 The birds would wish to sing.
 
 SPRING 113 
 
 The beggar starts his pilgrimage; 
 
 And kings their tassel-gentles fly; 
 The labourer earns a long day's wage; 
 
 The knight, a star of errantry, 
 With some lost princess for a page 
 
 Strays about Arcady. 
 
 Now fetching water in the dusk 
 The maidens linger by the wells ; 
 
 The ploughmen cast their homespun husk, 
 And, while old Tuck his chaplet tells, 
 
 Themselves in spangled fustian busk, 
 And garters girt with bells. 
 
 Maid Marian's kirtle, somewhat old, 
 
 A welt of red must now enhance; 
 
 Oho ! ho ho ! in silk and gold 
 
 The gallant hobby horse shall prance; 
 
 H
 
 U4 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Sing hey, for Robin Hood the bold; 
 Heigh ho, the morris-dance ! 
 
 Oh foolish fancy, feebly strong ! 
 
 To England shall we ever bring 
 The old mirth back? Yes, yes; nor long 
 
 It shall be till that greater Spring; 
 And some one yet may make a song 
 
 The birds would like to sing. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Foxes peeped from out their dens; 
 
 Day grew pale and olden; 
 Blackbirds, willow-warblers, wrens 
 
 Staunched their voices golden. 
 
 High, oh high, from the opal sky, 
 Shouting against the dark, 
 ' Why, why, why must the day go by ? ' 
 Fell a passionate lark.
 
 SPRING 115 
 
 But the cuckoos beat their brazen gongs, 
 
 Sounding, sounding, so; 
 And the nightingales poured in starry songs 
 
 A galaxy below. 
 
 Slowly tolling, the vesper bell 
 
 Ushered the shadowy night : 
 Down-a-down in a hawthorn dell 
 
 A boy and a girl and love's delight. 
 
 IV 
 
 By lichened tree and mossy plinth 
 Like living flames of purple fire, 
 
 Flooding the wood, the hyacinth 
 Uprears its heavy-scented spire. 
 
 The redstart shakes its crimson plume, 
 Singing alone till evening's fall
 
 1 1 6 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Beside the pied and homely bloom 
 Of wallflower on the crumbling wall. 
 
 Now dandelions light the way, 
 
 Expecting summer's near approach ; 
 
 And, bearing lanterns night and day, 
 The great marsh-marigolds keep watch.
 
 SUMMER 
 
 I 
 The poets' May is dead and done 
 
 That warm and soft came shoulder-high 
 On Leda's twins ; for now the sun 
 
 Scarce breaks the cold and cloudy sky. 
 
 But still by fields of grass and corn 
 
 With mantling green like blushes spread, 
 
 The milk-maid in the early morn 
 Trips with her milkpail on her head. 
 
 And still through mists that droop and float, 
 Beside the river lingering white,
 
 n8 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Dew on his wings and in his note, 
 The lark goes singing out of sight. 
 
 And still the hawthorn blossoms blow ; 
 
 The belted bee on nectar sups ; 
 And still the dazzling daisies grow 
 
 Beside the golden buttercups. 
 
 II 
 
 Glow-worm-like the daisies peer ; 
 
 Roses in the thickets fade 
 Grudging every petal dear ; 
 
 Swinging incense in the shade 
 The honeysuckle's chandelier 
 
 Twinkles down a shadowy glade. 
 
 Now is Nature's restful mood : 
 Death-still stands the sombre fir ;
 
 SUMMER 119 
 
 Hardly where the rushes brood 
 Something crawling makes a stir ; 
 
 Hardly in the underwood 
 Russet pinions softly whirr. 
 
 HI 
 
 Above the shimmering square 
 
 Swallows climb the air ; 
 Like crystal trees the fountain's shower, 
 A-bloom with many a rainbow flower. 
 
 Where the lake is deep 
 
 Water-lilies sleep, 
 Dreaming dreams with open eyes 
 Enchanted by the dragon-flies — 
 
 Azure dragon -flies, 
 Slivered from the skies,
 
 120 BALLADS AND SOAGS 
 
 Chased and burnished, joints and rings, 
 Elfin magic wands on wings. 
 
 Like an army dressed 
 In diamond mail and crest, 
 The silent light o'er park and town 
 In burning phalanxes comes down ; 
 
 And lustrous ambuscades 
 In glittering streets and glades, 
 Where daisies crowd or people throng, 
 Keep watch and ward the whole day long. 

 
 AUTUMN 
 
 All the waysides now are flowerless ; 
 
 Soon the swallows shall be gone, 
 And the Hamadryads bowerless, 
 
 And the waving harvest done ; 
 But about the river sources 
 
 And the meres, 
 And the winding watercourses, 
 
 Summer smiles through parting tears. 
 
 Wanderers weary, oh, come hither 
 Where the green-leaved willows bend,
 
 122 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Where the grasses never wither, 
 Or the purling noises end ; 
 
 O'er the serried sedge, late blowing, 
 Surge and float 
 
 Golden flags, their shadows showing 
 Deep as in a castle-moat. 
 
 Like a ruby of the mosses 
 
 Here the marish pimpernel, 
 Glowing crimson, still embosses 
 
 Velvet verdure with its bell ; 
 And the scallop-leaved and splendid 
 
 Silver-weed, 
 By the maiden breezes tended, 
 
 Wears her flowers of golden brede. 
 
 Water-plantain, rosy vagrant, 
 Flings his garland on the wave ;
 
 AUTUMN 123 
 
 Mint in midstream rises fragrant, 
 Dressed in green and lilac brave ; 
 
 And that spies may never harass 
 In their baths 
 
 The shining naiads, purple arras 
 Of the loosestrife veils the paths. 
 
 II 
 
 Aftermaths of pleasant green 
 
 Bind the earth in emerald bands; 
 Pouring golden in between, 
 
 Tides of harvest flood the lands. 
 Showers of sunlight splash and dapple 
 
 The orchard park; 
 And there the plum hangs and the apple, 
 
 Like smouldering gems and lanterns dark. 
 
 Let no shallow jester croak ! 
 
 Fill the barn and brim the bowl !
 
 124 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Here is harvest, starving folk, 
 Here, with bread for every soul ! 
 
 Rouse yourselves with happy ditties, 
 And hither roam, 
 
 Forsaking your enchanted cities 
 To keep the merry harvest-home. 
 
 Surely now there needs no sigh ! 
 
 Bid the piper bring his pipe; 
 Sound aloud the harvest-cry — 
 
 Once again the earth is ripe ! 
 Golden grain in sunlight sleeping, 
 
 When winds are laid, 
 Can dream no dismal dream of weeping 
 
 Where broken-hearted women fade. 
 
 More than would for all suffice 
 
 From the earth's broad bosom pours;
 
 AUTUMN I25 
 
 Yet in cities wolfish eyes 
 
 Haunt the windows and the doors. 
 Mighty One in Heaven who carvest 
 
 The sparrows' meat, 
 Bid the hunger and the harvest 
 Come together we entreat ! 
 
 Aftermaths of pleasant green 
 
 Bind the earth in emerald bands; 
 Pouring golden in between 
 
 Tides of harvest flood the lands. 
 Let the wain roll home with laughter, 
 
 The piper pipe, 
 And let the girls come dancing after, 
 
 For once again the earth is ripe.
 
 WINTER 
 
 Darkness turned on her pillow white; 
 
 A star serenely shone; 
 Deeply, deeply into the night 
 
 Cut the sword of dawn. 
 
 Over the snow the pale east threw, 
 Abroach where daylight broke, 
 
 Crimson stains on the abbey panes 
 Above the hamlet smoke. 
 
 All night the sad world dreamed; 
 
 The sad world wakes all day, 
 And casts on the snow a ruddy glow 
 
 From its heart that bleeds for aye.
 
 THE HAPPIEST WAY 
 
 What will my father say 
 
 To a poor man's son ? 
 I will think of a way ; 
 
 My father must be won. 
 
 Love, I know, is strong, 
 
 And breaks the barriers down, 
 Fighting with sword and song, 
 
 A champion of renown. 
 
 But oh, for the lover's art 
 That finds the happiest way ! 
 est to strike at his heart, 
 And tell him all to-day ?
 
 128 BALLADS AND SONGS 
 
 Or after harvest-home 
 
 When the leaves begin to fall, 
 
 Hand in hand we'll come, 
 And he shall tell him all ? 
 
 But now while sweet birds sing 
 We can roam in the woods all day, 
 
 And swing on the orchard swing : 
 That is the happiest way.
 
 FOR H. J. LE G. 
 
 What boat is this comes o'er the sea 
 From islands of eternity ? 
 
 A little boat, a cradle boat, 
 The signals at the most denote; 
 
 And in the boat a little life: 
 Happy husband, happy wife !
 
 IN MEMORIAM M. LE G. 
 
 Our songs are sweeter far; 
 The flowers about our feet 
 Sweet and more sweet ; 
 And every star 
 Is starrier, 
 Because of her.
 
 1 A Ballad of Heaven ' and ' A Ballad of Hell ' 
 are included here as they will not be reprinted in 
 ' A Random Itinerary ' and ' Fleet Street Eclogues,' 
 and because I should like them to be read along 
 with ' A Ballad of the Making of a Poet ' and 
 1 A Ballad of the Exodus from Houndsditch.' 
 
 J.D.
 
 Books by John Davidson 
 
 'John Davidson is a prodigal of every divine gift, pouring 
 out untold treasure from his celestial cornucopia. Fancy and 
 imagination, wit and humour, fun and epigram, characterisation 
 and creation and observation, insight and philosophy, passion 
 and emotion and sincerity — all are his. Nothing is lacking from 
 that long catalogue by which Imlac convinced Rasselas that it 
 was impossible to be a poet. He will turn you a metaphor 
 as deftly as any Elizabethan dramatist, and wields as rich a 
 vocabulary. Nature he loves, and, next to nature, man, if one 
 may adapt Landor. And all these glorious gifts have found vent 
 in the most diverse artistic or inartistic shapes, — novels, dramas, 
 eclogues, ballads, Reisebilder, — some written for the market, but 
 the bulk in defiance of it. Of these products of a somewhat 
 riotous genius, only a few have the hall-mark of perfection, — 
 some pieces about music-halls, a sheaf of ballads, a bundle of 
 songs, a set of eclogues, — but they are already quite enough bag- 
 gage to go down to posterity with. And it is significant that all 
 Mr Davidson's chief successes are won when he surrenders himself 
 to the inspiration of the modern. . . . This is the work that 
 we need. . . . Let all who wish to see how the poet's eye, in a 
 fine frenzy rolling, may body forth, not the shapes of things un- 
 known, but, what is much more taxing, the shapes of things 
 known and disesteemed, betake themselves in haste to " Fleet 
 Street Eclogues," "In a Music-Hall," " A Random Itinerary," 
 and the rest of Mr Davidson's books.'— Mr Zangwill in The 
 Cosmopolitan. 
 
 PLAYS 
 Sm. 4to, 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' The whole of him counts. He is a personality as well as a 
 poet. . . . There is, so to say, a burliness of constitution under- 
 lying his most delicate fanciful work. Its beauty is that best 
 beauty which is the blossom of robust deep-rooted health ; and 
 its sweetness is that sweetness which is hived in the hearts of 
 strong men. This background of manhood gives Mr Davidson 
 a unique significance among the younger men. There is not 
 another among them of whom it can be said. . . . Scaramouch 
 in Naxos : a Pantomime, it is not too much to say, is worthy of our 
 greatest living master of fantasy, the author of "The Shaving of 
 Shagpat." Indeed no one else but Mr Meredith and Mr Davidson, 
 of living writers, could have written it. ... An Unhistorical
 
 [2] 
 
 Pastoral is frankly a nineteenth-century excursion to the Forest 
 of Arden. It is A Midsummer-Night's Dream over again, but 
 with what amazing freshness of invention and enchanting lyric 
 rapture ! . . . Whether as fantastic dramatist, fantastic novelist, 
 pastoral poet, or tragic balladist, he is easily " head of all our 
 quire." ' — Mr Le GALL1ENNE in The Nineteenth Century. 
 
 ' The best play in the present volume is entitled " Smith ; " a 
 tragic farce. The motive is as modern as Ibsen, the method is as 
 ancient as Shakespeare, and yet, in spite of this incongruity, the 
 play must be pronounced a fair one.' — Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 ' We would willingly fill columns with quotations — in a word, 
 there is no truer poet in England to-day than Mr John Davidson.' 
 — Westminster Gazette. 
 
 ' He has drunk, and drunk deep of the Mermaid wine. He 
 seems a kind of belated member of that fellowship where Beau- 
 mont was always " Frank," and Shakespeare only " Will," and 
 in his verse, in his prose, and, above all, in the many exquisite 
 snatches of song that star his pages, he shows that if he has 
 wrestled with the angel of Elizabethan drama he has not been 
 compelled to let the angel go.' — Black and White. 
 
 FLEET STREET ECLOGUES 
 
 Second Edition, Fcap. 8vo, buckram, 5s. net. 
 
 Mr Andhkw Lang in The Illustrated London A T ews, referring 
 to the article in The Edinburgh Review on l Contemporary Poets,' 
 says : — ' Where so many new poets were considered, Mr John 
 Davidson's " Fleet Street Eclogues " deserved a word, and a 
 notably good word. Sometimes, after " a torrent of applause," 
 you hear one lonely belated pair of hands clapping. Such a 
 demonstration is this of mine, as Mr Davidson's remarkable book 
 came out in spring, and I have only made its acquaintance lately. 
 One never met journalists like those in Mr Davidson's eclogues, 
 indeed — men pining in Fleet Street for the country — but one 
 heartily sympathises with them, on the whole ; and, as for the 
 versification, it is admirable and original, and often beautiful. 
 
 1 Mr Davidson's journalists sing as simply and sweetly of nature 
 as any Mantuan swain, though they mix their pipings with 
 passionate criticism of life. . . . Everything Mr Davidson does 
 bears the hall-mark of originality. . . . He is more than a minor 
 poet — he does not even sing much in the minor key. He is a type 
 of the younger generation which is knocking at the door, and will 
 assuredly vivify us with the breath of its new life and the ardour 
 of its new song.'— Mr Zangwii.i. in The Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 1 In his new book Mr Davidson has hit on a conception all his 
 own, and he controls his gifts with an art which doubles their 
 effectiveness. His treatment of the Elizabethan eclogue, his
 
 [3] 
 
 infusing it with a modern intensity of note, while retaining its old 
 lyric sweetness, his dramatic vitalisation and his merely metrical 
 development of it, is a notable artistic triumph. None of our 
 younger poets has published a book so full of creative energy, of 
 fancy and imagination so compact, of poetic glamour so irresist- 
 iole, so marked from end to end by the careless fecundity of 
 power.' — Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' The verses have the severe restraint and very deliberately 
 willed simplicity of M. Guy de Maupassant's work of this kind. 
 . . . Now and then a picture of green fields and heather-clad 
 slopes is flashed on us with the intensity of a picture from a lantern 
 slide.' — Daily News. 
 
 * The great charm of the book consists in the happy rural note 
 which is struck on almost every page. . . . An odour of violets, 
 a gleam of primroses, a breath of the hills and trees greet us in 
 these pages. And as though this were not enough, Mr Davidson 
 lavishly throws in, at the end of the volume, a tragic ballad of 
 singular power and beauty. In its kind, indeed, this is perhaps 
 the most memorable volume of the year.' — Academy. 
 
 ' His style is instinct with the magic of eclectic inevitable 
 words, and yet there is no straining after effect, no eccentric 
 archaisms, no barbarous neologisms. His English is as natural 
 and direct as that of the Elizabethans or the Cavaliers.' — Speaker. 
 
 ' Mr Davidson's " Fleet Street Eclogues " have much brightness 
 of invention. . . . The interchange of sentiments throughout 
 these clever poems is admirably true to the poetic style of the 
 eclogue, while each of the interlocutors is presented in perfect 
 accord with the age, and is faithful to the type represented.' — 
 Saturday Review. 
 
 ' The very title has a smack of delicious quaintness and incon- 
 sequence, and the skill with which the modernity of the age-end 
 journalist's life and work is wrought into the grace and spacious- 
 ness of the verse is admirable.' — Vanity Fair. 
 
 A RANDOM ITINERARY 
 
 Fcap. 8vo, 5 s. net, 
 
 ' One part of "A Random Itinerary" should not be praised above 
 the others. The whole volume is of a wholesome flavour and is 
 beautiful withal.' — Literary World. 
 
 ' The chapters in the book which tell of the forests and commons 
 within a few miles of the town, and of the wonderful spring beauty 
 of the London parks and squares, are written with great freshness 
 and charm.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 • The book is eminently worth reading.' — Black and While. 
 1 It is a delightful book to read.'— A. T. Q. C. in Speaker.
 
 [4] 
 
 ' Every reader who cares for charm of style will welcome " A 
 Random Itinerary." ' — Review of Reviews. 
 
 ' The book is a landscape painting, pure and simple ; one 
 breathes the open air all through . . . these fascinating rambles. 
 . . . Delightfully written.' — St. James's Gazette, 
 
 ' It is a book for Londoners to read and delight in.' — Nature 
 Notes. 
 
 IN A MUSIC HALL : and Other Poems 
 
 Cr. 8vo, 5s. 
 
 1 Mr Davidson adapts his metre, his language, his metaphors to 
 the character he is portraying, and he throws into the effort a 
 natural vigour and keenness of insight that make them glow with 
 the tints of life. — Scottish Leader. 
 
 ' Fresh imaginative power . . . subtlety of epithet and phrase 
 . . . accomplishment of verbal melody. . . . The poems could 
 scarcely have been more aptly chosen had the writer's intention 
 been merely to indicate the range of his sympathy and power.' — 
 Academy. 
 
 PERFERV ID 
 
 Cr. 8vo, 2s. 6d. 
 
 'We do not laugh at the hero but with him. The reason is that 
 he is young, handsome, fascinating, of brilliant mental power, and 
 above all, rejoices in what seldom goes along with moonstruck 
 ambition, a keen relish for practical joking. — The Times. 
 
 ' It is quite certain that anyone who reads the first chapter will 
 read on to the end of the book without skipping a line.' — 
 Manchester Guardian. 
 
 THE GREAT MEN: and A PRACTICAL 
 NOVELIST 
 
 Cr. 8vo, 3s. 6d. 
 
 'What luxury of laughter proceeds from the design we cannot 
 prove by quotation ; but we can, and do say, that for pure and 
 simple delight few modern books have beaten Mr Davidson's.' — 
 A nti-Jacobin. 
 
 ' " The Schoolboy's Tragedy" is superlatively good.' — Academy. 
 
 ' " A Practical Novelist " is one of the merriest tales I hav'e 
 read for a long time. ..." The Schoolboy's Tragedy " is a 
 memorable example of the short story, though the pathos of it is 
 almost cruel.' — Speaker. 
 
 ' The interest is absorbing. . . . Brevity, said an old wise man, 
 is the soul of wit, and gravity, as is proved by Mr Davidson, 
 the spirit of humour.' — Library Review.
 
 List of Books 
 
 in 
 
 gelles Jettres 
 
 1894 
 
 ALL BOOKS IN THIS CATALOGUE 
 ARE PUBLISHED AT NET PRICES 
 
 Telegraphic Address — 
 ' Bodleian, London '
 
 A FEW PRESS NOTES 
 
 GALLIENNE (RICHARD LE). 
 
 Prose Fancies. Third Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 'The sentiment rings true, and the quaint conceits which abound have a 
 dainty prettiness which gives distinction to the prose.' — Athentzum. 
 _ ' A more delightful collection of essays has not issued from the press 
 since the time of Charles Lamb.' — Weekly Sun. 
 
 ' They deserve to rank forthwith among the gems of English prose. And 
 why? Because they could have been written only by a poet.' — Daily 
 Chronicle. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 Plays. Small 4to. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Mr. Davidson is in many ways one of the most remarkable of the 
 younger poets, and in many respects the most richly endowed of all.' — 
 Mr. Quiller Couch in Speaker. 
 
 'A very singular dramatist indeed, and, as a poet, so full of curious and 
 varied power that we have conceived the greatest interest as to his per- 
 sonality and his plans.' — Spectator. 
 
 ' There is no truer poet in England to-day than Mr. John Davidson.' — 
 Westminster Gazette. 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 Keynotes. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 ' Singularly artistic in its brilliant suggestiveness.' — Daily Nevis. 
 
 ' Eight of the prettiest short stories that have appeared for many a day.' 
 — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 ' We have met with nothing so lovely in its tenderness since Mr. Kipling's 
 "Without Benefit of Clergy." '—Daily Chronicle. 
 
 ' Not since ' ' The Story of an African Farm " was written has any woman 
 delivered herself of so strong, so forcible a book.'— Queen. 
 
 STREET (G. S.). 
 
 The Autobiography of a Boy. Second Edition. 
 Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 ' A creation in which there appears to be no flaw.' — Pall Mall Gazette. 
 'A quite priceless treasure. Tubby is indeed a new immortal.' — 
 Academy. 
 
 ' There is more observation and art of presentment in this little book 
 than in a wilderness of three-volume novels, even by eminent hands.' — 
 Athen&um. 
 
 ' It is admirably done throughout, full of delicate strokes of ironical wit.' 
 — Daily Telegraph.
 
 1894- 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LETT RES 
 
 {Including some Transfers) 
 
 Published by John Lane 
 
 VIGO STREET, LONDON, W. 
 
 N. B. — The A uthors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting 
 any book in this list if a new edition is called for, except in cases 
 •where a stipulation has been made to the contrary, and of printing 
 a separate edition of any of the books for America irrespective of the 
 numbers to which the English editions are limited. The numbers 
 mentioned do not include copies sent to the public libraries, nor those 
 sent for review. 
 
 Most of the books are published simultaneously in England and 
 America, and in viany instances the names of the American 
 Publishers are appended. 
 
 ADAMS (FRANCIS). 
 
 Essays in Modernity. Crown 8vo. 5s.net. [Shortly. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 ADAMS (FRANCIS). 
 
 A Child of the Age. Crown Svo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 (See Keynotes Series.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 The Lower Slopes : A Volume of Verse. With Title- 
 page and Cover Design by J. Illingworth Kay. 
 600 copies. Crown 8vo. 5 s - ne '- 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 The Woman Who Did. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 (See Keynotes Series.) [In rapid preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 BEARDSLEY (AUBREY). 
 
 The Story of Venus and Tannhauser, in which is set 
 forth an exact account of the Manner of State held by 
 Madam Venus, Goddess and Meretrix, under the 
 famous Horselberg, and containing the adventures of 
 Tannhauser in that place, his repentance, his jour- 
 neying to Rome, and return to the loving mountain. 
 By Aubrey Beardsley. With 20 full-page illus- 
 trations, numerous ornaments, and a cover from the 
 same hand. Sq. i6mo. 10s.6d.net. [In preparation. 
 
 BEECHING (Rev. H. C). 
 
 In a Garden : Poems. With a specially-designed Title- 
 page. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [In preparation. 
 
 BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). 
 
 A New Volume of Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 BROTHERTON (MARY). 
 
 Rosemary for Remembrance. With Title-page and 
 Cover Design by Walter West. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 DALMON (C. W.). 
 
 Song Favours. With a specially-designed Title-page. 
 Sq. i6mo. 4s. 6d. net. [In preparation.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 D'ARCY (ELLA). 
 
 A Volume of Stories. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 {See Keynotes Series.) [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 Plays : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; 
 Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; 
 Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime, with a Frontis- 
 piece and Cover Design by Aubrey Beardsley. 
 Printed at the Ballantyne Press. 500 copies. Small 
 4to. 7s. 6d. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 Fleet Street Eclogues. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo, 
 buckram. 5s. net. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 A Random Itinerary and a Ballad. With a Fron- 
 tispiece and Title-page by Laurence Housman. 
 600 copies. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 The North Wall. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 The few remaining copies transferred by the Author 
 to the present Publisher. 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 Ballads and Songs. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 DE TABLEY (LORD). 
 
 Poems, Dramatic and Lyrical. By John Leicester 
 Warren (Lord De Tabley). Illustrations and Cover 
 Design by C. S. Ricketts. Second Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 DE TABLEY (LORD). 
 
 A New Volume of Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [in preparation.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 Keynotes. Fifth Edition. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 (See Keynotes Series.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 Discords. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 (See Keynotes Series.) [In rapid preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 EGERTON (GEORGE). 
 
 Young Ofeg's Ditties. A translation from the Swedish 
 of Ola Hansson. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 FARR (FLORENCE). 
 
 The Dancing Faun. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 (See Keynotes Series.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 FLETCHER (J. S.). 
 
 The Wonderful Wapentake. By 'A Son of the 
 Soil.' With 18 full-page Illustrations on Japanese 
 vellum, by J. A. SYMINGTON. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. 
 net. [In rapid preparation. 
 
 GALE (NORMAN). 
 
 Orchard Songs. With Title-page and Cover Design 
 by J. Illingworth Kay. Fcap. 8vo, Irish Linen. 
 5s. net. 
 Also a Special Edition limited in number on hand-made paper 
 bound in English vellum. £1, is. net. 
 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 GARNETT (RICHARD). 
 
 Poems. With Title-page by J. Illingworth Kay. 
 350 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 GOSSE (EDMUND). 
 
 The Letters of Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Now 
 first edited. Pott 8vo. 5s. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 GRAHAME (KENNETH). 
 
 Pagan Papers : A Volume of Essays. With Title- 
 page by Aubrey Beardsley. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 GREENE (G. A.). 
 
 Italian Lyrists of To-day. Translations in the 
 original metres from about thirty-five living Italian 
 poets, with bibliographical and biographical notes. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 GREENWOOD (FREDERICK). 
 
 Imagination in Dreams. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 HAKE (T. GORDON). 
 
 A Selection from his Poems. Edited by Mrs. 
 Meynell. With a Portrait after D. G. Rossetti, 
 and a Cover Design by Gleeson White. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 HARLAND (HENRY). 
 
 The Bohemian Girl and Other Stories. Crown 
 8vo. 3s.6d.net. (See Keynotes Series.) 
 Boston : Roberts Eros. [In preparation. 
 
 HAYES (ALFRED). 
 
 The Vale of Arden and Other Poems. With a 
 Title-page designed by E. H. New. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 3s. 6d. net. [In preparation. 
 
 HOPPER (NORA). 
 
 Ballads in Prose. With a Title-page and Cover by 
 Walter West. Sq. i6mo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation.
 
 8 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 IRVING (LAURENCE). 
 
 Godefroi and Yolande : A Play. With three Illus- 
 trations by Aubrey Beardsley. Sm. 4to. Ss. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 JAMES (W. P.). 
 
 Romantic Professions : A Volume of Essays. With 
 Title - page designed by J. Illingworth Kay. 
 Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 JOHNSON (LIONEL). 
 
 The Art of Thomas Hardy : Six Essays. With 
 Etched Portrait by Wm. Strang, and Bibliography 
 by John Lane. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also 150 copies, large paper, with proofs of the portrait. £1, is. 
 net. {Just published. 
 
 New York : Dodd, Mead & Co. 
 
 JOHNSON (PAULINE). 
 
 White Wampum : Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 KEYNOTES SERIES. 
 
 Each volume with specially designed Title-page by Aubrey 
 
 Beardsley. Crown 8vo, cloth. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Vol. 1. Keynotes. By George Egerton. 
 
 [Fifth edition now ready. 
 
 Vol. 11. The Dancing Faun. By Florence Farr. 
 
 Vol. III. Poor Folk. Translated from the Russian of 
 F. Dostoievsky by Lena Milman. With 
 a Preface by George Moore. 
 
 Vol. iv. A Child of the Age. By Francis Adams. 
 
 Vol. v. The Great God Pan and The Inmost 
 Light. By Arthur Machen. 
 
 [In October.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 KEYNOTES SERIES— continued. 
 
 Vol. vi. Discords. By George Egerton. 
 
 [In November. 
 Vol. vn. Prince Zaleski. By M. P. Shiel. 
 
 [In November. 
 Vol. viii. The Woman who Did. By Grant Allen. 
 
 [In November. 
 Vol. ix. Women's Tragedies. By H. D. Lowry. 
 
 Vol. x. The Bohemian Girl and Other Stories. 
 By Henry Harland. 
 
 Vol. xi. A Volume of Stories. By H. B. Marriott 
 Watson. 
 
 Vol. xii. A Volume of Stories. By Ella D'Arcy. 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 LEATHER (R. K.). 
 
 Verses. 250 copies. Fcap. Svo. 3s. net. 
 
 Trans/erred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 Prose Fancies. With Portrait of the Author by 
 Wilson Steer. Third Edition. C^own Svo. Purple 
 cloth, uniform with 'The Religion of a Literary Man.' 
 5s. net. 
 Also a limited large paper edition. 12s. 6d. net. 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 The Book Bills of Narcissus. An Account rendered 
 by Richard le Gallienne. Third Edition. 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth, uniform with 'The Re- 
 ligion of a Literary Man.' 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [In rapid preparation. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 English Poems. Third Edition. Crown Svo. Purple 
 cloth, uniform with ' The Religion of a Literary Man.' 
 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 George Meredith: Some Characteristics. With a Biblio- 
 graphy (much enlarged) by John Lane, portrait, etc. 
 Fourth Edition. Crown 8vo. Purple cloth, uniform 
 with 'The Religion of a Literary Man.' 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 The Religion of a Literary Man. 5th thousand. 
 Crown 8vo. Purple cloth. 3s. 6d. net. 
 Also a special rubricated edition on hand-made paper. 8vo. 
 10s. 6d. net. 
 New York : G. P. Putnam's Sons. 
 
 LOWRY (H. D.). 
 
 Women's Tragedies. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 (See Keynotes Series.) [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 LUCAS (WINIFRED). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 MACHEN (ARTHUR). 
 
 The Great God Pan and The Inmost Light. Crown 
 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 (See Keynotes Series. ) [In rapid preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 MARZIALS (THEO.). 
 
 The Gallery of Pigeons and Other Poems. Post 
 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. [ Very few remain. 
 
 Trans/erred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
 
 MEREDITH (GEORGE). 
 
 The First Published Portrait of this Author, 
 engraved on the wood by W. Biscombe Gardner, 
 after the painting by G. F. Watts. Proof copies on 
 Japanese vellum, signed by painter and engraver. 
 £1, is. net. 
 
 MEYNELL (MRS.), (ALICE C. THOMPSON). 
 
 Poems. Second Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A 
 few of the 50 large paper copies (First Edition) remain, 
 12s. 6d. net.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 MEYNELL (MRS.). 
 
 The Rhythm of Life and Other Essays. Second 
 Edition. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. A few of the 50 
 large paper copies (First Edition) remain. 12s. 6d. net. 
 
 MILLER (JOAQUIN). 
 
 The Building of the City Beautiful. Fcap 8vo. 
 With a Decorated Cover. 5s. net. [fust published. 
 Chicago : Stone & Kimball. 
 
 MILMAN (LENA). 
 
 Poor Folk. Translated from the Russian of F. Dos- 
 toievsky. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 (See Keynotes Series.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 MONKHOUSE (ALLAN). 
 
 Books and Plays : A Volume of Essays on Meredith, 
 Borrow, Ibsen, and others. 400 copies. Crown 8vo. 
 5s. net. 
 Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Co. 
 
 NESBIT (E.). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. Cr. 8vo. 5s. net. [hi preparation. 
 
 NETTLESHIP (J. T.). 
 
 Robert Browning : Essays and Thoughts. Third 
 
 Edition. With a Portrait. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. 
 
 New York : Chas. Scribner's Sons. [In rapid preparation. 
 
 NOBLE (JAS. ASHCROFT). 
 
 The Sonnet in England and Other Essays Title- 
 page and Cover Design by Austin Young. 600 
 copies. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Also 50 copies large paper. 12s. 6d. net. 
 
 O'SHAUGHNESSY (ARTHUR). 
 
 His Life and His Work. With Selections from his 
 Poems. By Louise Chandler Moulton. Por- 
 trait and Cover Design. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Chicago: Stone & Kimball. [Just published.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 OXFORD CHARACTERS. 
 
 A series of lithographed portraits by Will Rothenstein, 
 with text by F. York Powell and others. To be 
 issued monthly in term. Each number will contain 
 two portraits. Parts I. to V. ready. 200 sets only, 
 folio, wrapper, cs. net per part ; 25 special large 
 paper sets containing proof impressions of the por- 
 traits signed by the artist, 10s. 6d. net per part. 
 
 PETERS (WM. THEODORE). 
 
 Posies out of Rings. Sq. i6mo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 PLARR (VICTOR). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 RICKETTS (C. S.)and C. H. SHANNON. 
 
 Hero and Leander. By Christopher Marlowe 
 and George Chapman. With Borders, Initials, and 
 Illustrations designed and engraved on the wood by 
 C. S. Ricketts and C. H. Shannon. Bound in 
 English vellum and gold. 200 copies only. 35s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 RHYS (ERNEST). 
 
 A London Rose and Other Rhymes. With Title-page 
 designed by Selwyn Image. 350 copies. Crown 
 8vo. 5s. net. 
 New York : Dodd, Mead & Co. 
 
 SHIEL (M. P.). 
 
 Prince Zaleski. Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 {See Keynotes Series.) [In preparation. 
 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 STREET (G. S.). 
 
 The Autobiography of a Boy. Passages selected by 
 his friend G. S. S. With Title-page designed by 
 C. W. Furse. Fcap. 8vo. 3s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Second Edition now ready. 
 Philadelphia : J. B. Lippincott Co.
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 13 
 
 SYMONS (ARTHUR). 
 
 A New Volume of Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 THOMPSON (FRANCIS). 
 
 A Volume of Poems. With Frontispiece, Title-page, 
 and Cover Design by Laurence Housman. Fourth 
 Edition. Pott 4to. 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 TREE (H. BEERBOHM). 
 
 The Imaginative Faculty : A Lecture delivered at the 
 Royal Institution. With portrait of Mr. Tree from 
 an unpublished drawing by the Marchioness of Granby. 
 Fcap. 8vo, boards. 2s. 6d. net. 
 
 TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). 
 
 Cuckoo Songs. With Title-page and Cover Design by 
 Laurence Housman. Fcap. 8vo. 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 TYNAN HINKSON (KATHARINE). 
 Miracle Plays. 
 
 WATSON (H. B. MARRIOTT). 
 
 A Volume of Stories. Crown 8vo. 
 (See Keynotes Series.) 
 Boston : Roberts Bros. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 3s. 6d. net. 
 [In preparation. 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 Odes and Other Poems. 
 
 Fcap. 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 [Early in December. 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 The Eloping Angels : A Caprice. Second Edition. 
 Square i6mo, buckram. 3s. 6d. net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co.
 
 i 4 THE PUBLICATIONS OF 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 Excursions in Criticism : being some Prose Recrea- 
 tions of a Rhymer. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 5s.net. 
 New York : Macmillan & Co. 
 
 WATSON (WILLIAM). 
 
 The Prince's Quest and Other Poems. With a 
 Bibliographical Note added. Second Edition. Fcap. 
 8vo. 4s. 6d. net. 
 
 WATTS (THEODORE). 
 
 Poems. Crown 8vo. 5s. net. [In preparation. 
 
 Tliere will also be an Edition de Luxe 0/ this volume printed at 
 the Kelmscott Press. 
 
 WHARTON (H. T.). 
 
 Sappho. Memoir, Text, Selected Renderings, and a 
 Literal Translation by Henry Thornton Wharton. 
 With three Illustrations. Fcap. 8vo. 7s. 6d. net. 
 
 [In preparation. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 The Sphinx. A poem decorated throughout in line and 
 colour, and bound in a design by Charles Ricketts. 
 250 copies. £2, 2s. net. 25 copies large paper. 
 £S, 5s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 The incomparable and ingenious history of Mr. W. H., 
 being the true secret of Shakespear's Sonnets now for 
 the first time here fully set forth, with Initial Letters 
 and Cover Design by Charles Ricketts. 500 copies. 
 10s. 6d. net. 
 
 Also 50 copies large paper. 21s.net. [In preparation.
 
 JOHN LANE i S 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 Dramatic Works, now printed for the first time. With a 
 specially -designed binding to each volume, by Chas. 
 Shannon. 500 copies. Sm. 4to. 7s. 6d. net per vol. 
 
 Also 50 copies large paper. 15s. net per vol. 
 
 Vol. i. Lady Windermere's Fan : A Comedy in 
 Four Acts. [Out of print. 
 
 Vol. 11. A Woman of No Importance : A Comedy 
 in Four Acts. [ Just published. 
 
 Vol. in. The Duchess of Padua : A Blank Verse 
 Tragedy in Five Acts. [ Very shortly. 
 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 WILDE (OSCAR). 
 
 SalomE : A Tragedy in One Act done into English. 
 With 10 Illustrations, Title-page, Tail-piece, and 
 Cover Design by Aubrey Beardsley. 500 copies. 
 Small 4to. 15s. net. 
 Also 100 copies large paper. 30s. net. 
 Boston : Copeland & Day. 
 
 THE YELLOW BOOK 
 
 An Illustrated Quarterly 
 
 Vol. I. Fourth Edition , 27 '2 pages, 15 Illustrations, Title-page, 
 and a Cover Design. Cloth. Price ^s. net. Pott 4to. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by Max Beerbohm, A. C. Benson, 
 Hubert Crackanthorpe, Ella DArcy, John David- 
 son, George Egerton, Richard Garnett, Edmund 
 Gosse, Henry Harland, John Oliver Hobkes, Henry 
 James, Richard le Gallienne, George Moore, 
 George Saintsbury, Fred. M. Simpson, Arthur 
 Symons, William Watson, Arthur Waugii. 
 
 The Art Contributions by Sir Frederic Leighton, P.R.A., 
 Aubrey Beardsley, R. Anning Bell, Charles W. 
 Furse, Laurence Housman, J. T. Nettleship, Joseph 
 Pennell, Will Rothenstein, Walter Sickert.
 
 THE PUBLICATIONS OF JOHN LANE 
 
 Vol. II. Third Edition. Pott 4I0, 364 pages, 23 Illustrations, 
 
 and a New Title-page and Cover Design. Cloth. Price 55. net. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by Frederick Greenwood, 
 Ella D'Arcy, Charles Willeby, John Davidson, 
 Henry Harland, Dollie Radford, Charlotte M. 
 Mew, Austin Dobson, V., O., C. S., Katharine de 
 Mattos, Philip Gilbert Hamerton, Ronald Camp- 
 bell Macfie, Dauphin Meunier, Kenneth Grahame, 
 Norman Gale, Netta Syrett, Hubert Crackan- 
 thorpe, Alfred Hayes, Max Beerbohm, William 
 Watson, and Henry James. 
 
 The Art Contributions by Walter Crane, A. S. Hartrick, 
 Aubrey Beardsley, Alfred Thornton, P. Wilson 
 Steer, John S. Sargent, A.R.A., Sydney Adamson, 
 Walter Sickert, W. Brown MacDougal, E. J. 
 Sullivan, Francis Forster, Bernhard Sickert, 
 and Aymer Vallance. 
 A Special Feature of Volume II. is a frank criticism of 
 
 the Literature and Art of Volume I. by Philip Gilbert 
 
 Hamerton. 
 
 Vol. III. Now Ready. Pott \to, 280 pages, 15 Illustrations, 
 and a New Title-page and Cover Design. Cloth. Price ^s. net. 
 
 The Literary Contributions by William Watson, Kenneth 
 Grahame, Arthur Symons, Ella D'Arcy, Jose Maria 
 de Heredia, Ellen M. Clerke, Henry Harland, 
 Theo Marzials, Ernest Dowson, Theodore Wratis- 
 law, Arthur Moore, Olive Custance, Lionel John- 
 son, Annie Macdonell, C. S., Nora Hopper, S. 
 Cornish Watkins, Hubert Crackanthorpe, Morton 
 Fullerton, Leila Macdonald, C. W. Dalmon, Max 
 Beerbohm, and John Davidson. 
 
 The Art Contributions by Philip Broughton, George 
 Thomson, Aubrey Beardsley, Albert Foschter, 
 Walter Sickert, P. Wilson Steer, William Hyde, 
 and Max Beerbohm. 
 
 Prospectuses Post Free on Application. 
 LONDON : JOHN LANE 
 BOSTON : COPELAND & DAY 
 
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