' 4 2 - /t- H *& < y REESE LIBRARY OF THK UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA. Received Accessions No.^&?^2-' Shelf No. ^ GRASS OF PARNASSUS WORKS BY ANDREW LANG. MYTH, RITUAL, AND RELIGION. 2 vols. crown 8vo. 21$. CUSTOM AND MYTH ; Studies of Early Usage and Belief. With 15 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. js. 6d. LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS. Fcp. 8vo. 6s. 6d. BOOKS AND BOOKMEN. With 2 Coloured Plates and 17 Illustrations. Crown 8vo. 6s. 6d. GRASS OF PARNASSUS. A Volume of Selected Verses. Fcp. 8vo. 6s. LETTERS ON LITERATURE. Fcp. 8vo. 6s. 6d. BALLADS OF BOOKS. Edited by ANDREW LANG. Fcp. 8vo. 6s. JOHNNY NUT AND THE GOLDEN GOOSE. Done into English by ANDREW LANG, from the French of CHARLES DEULIN. Illustrated by Am. Lynen. Royal 8vo. los. 6d. gilt edges. London : LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO. GRASS OF PARNASSUS RHYMES OLD AND NEW BY ANDREW LANG SECOND EDITION LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK : 15 EAST 16* STREET 1889 All rights reserved PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE PritnA dicta mihi, summa dicenda, CamenA. The years will pass, and hearts will range, You conquer Time, and Care, and Change. Though Time doth still delight to shed The dust on many a younger head ; Though Care, oft coming, hath the guile From younger lips to steal the smile ; Though Change makes younger hearts wax cold, And sells new loves for loves of old, Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art To fleck your hair, to chill your heart, To touch your tresses with the snow, To mar your mirth of long ago. Change, Care, nor Time, while life endure, Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure, The love which flows from sacred springs In 'old unhappy far-off things,' From sympathies in grief and joy, Through all the years of man and boy. Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung When even this ' brindled ' head was young I bring, and later rhymes I bring That flit upon as weak a wing, But still for you, for yours, they sing ! MANY of the verses and translations in this volume were published first in Ballads and Lyrics of Old France (1872). Though very sensible that they have the demerits of imitative and even of undergraduate rhyme, I print them again because people I like have liked them. The rest are of different dates, and lack (though doubt- less they need) .the excuse of having been written, like some of the earlier pieces, during College Lectures. I would gladly have added to this volume what other more or less serious rhymes I have written, but circumstances over which I have no control have bound them up with Ballades^ and other toys of that sort. It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said in verse, that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in the marshes at the foot of the Muses' Hill, and other hills, not at the top by any means. Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been published in the Fortnightly Review, and the sonnet on Colonel Burnaby appeared in Punch. These, with pieces from other serials, are reprinted by the courteous permission of the Editors. The verses that were published in Ballades and Lyrics , and in Ballades and Verses Vain (Charles Scribner's Sons, New York), are marked in the contents with an asterisk. CONTENTS DEEDS OF MEN PAGE SEEKERS FOR A CITY 3 THE WHITE PACHA 6 MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886 8 ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA 9 COLONEL BURNABY n MELVILLE AND COGHILL 12 RHODOCLEIA To RHODOCLEIA 15 AVE CLEVEDON CHURCH 21 *TWILIGHT ON TWEED .23 *METEMPSYCHOSIS 25 *LOST IN HADES . 26 *A STAR IN THE NIGHT 27 *A SUNSET ON YARROW 28 ANOTHER WAY 29 CONTENTS *HESPEROTHEN THE SEEKERS FOR PH/EACIA A SONG OF PH^EACIA THE DEPARTURE FROM PH^ACIA . 37 A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME .... 40 CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED THE LIMIT OF LANDS VERSES MARTIAL IN TOWN . . 49 APRIL ON TWEED TIRED OF TOWNS SCYTHE SONG PEN AND INK A DREAM THE SINGING ROSE . 59 A REVIEW IN RHYME . 02 *COLINBTTE . . *. 63 *A SUNSET OF WATTEAU NIGHTINGALE WEATHER ' 6 *LOVE AND WISDOM ' 6 *GOOD-BYE *AN OLD PRAYER *A LA BELLE HE"LENE *SYLVIE ET AURELIE *A LOST PATH *THE SHADE OF HELEN CONTENTS SONNETS PAGE SHE 8 3 HERODOTUS IN EGYPT . 84 *GERARD DE NERVAL 8 5 RONSARD 86 *LOVE'S MIRACLE 8 7 DREAMS 8 *Two SONNETS OF THE SIRENS 8 9 TRANSLA TIONS *HYMN TO THE WINDS 93 MOONLIGHT , APRIL 94 *THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE 95 *A Vow TO HEAVENLY VENUS 9 6 *OF His LADY'S OLD AGE 97 SHADOWS OF His LADY 9 99 AN OLD TUNE z 3 *OLD LOVES - 1C *A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE Io6 *!ANNOULA IC THE MILK WHITE DOE I0 9 HELIODORE IJ THE PROPHET II3 LAIS " 4 CLEARISTA xl THE FISHERMAN'S TOMB ll6 OK His DEATH II7 CONTENTS PAGE RHODOPE . 118 To A GIRL 119 To THE SHIPS 120 A LATE CONVERT 121 THE LIMIT OF LIFE 122 To DANIEL ELZEVIR 123 THE LAST CHANCE THE LAST CHANCE 137 GRASS OF PARNASSUS. T)ALE star that by the lochs of Galloway, In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away, When now the moor shave doffed the heather bright ', Grass of Parnassus , flower of my delight ', How gladly with the unpermitted bay Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay Hoiv gladly would I twine thee if I might ! The bays are out of reach / But far below The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill, Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow Between September and October chill Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago, And these kind faces that are with me still. DEEDS OF MEN TO COLONEL IAN HAMILTON To you, who know the face of war, You, that for England wander far, You that have seen the Ghazis fly From English lads not sworn to die, You that have lain where, deadly chill, The mist crept o'er the Shameful Hill, You that have conquered, mile by mile, The currents of unfriendly Nile, And cheered the march, and eased the strain When Politics made valour vain, Ian, to you, from banks of Ken, We send our lays of Englishmen ! SEEKERS FOR A CITY. ' Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither. . . . But the number and variety of the ways 1 For you know, There is but one road that leads to Corinth.' HERMOTIMUS (Mr. Pater's Version). 'The Poet says dear city of Cecrops, and wilt thou not say, dear city of ZeusY M. ANTONINUS. 'inO Corinth leads one road, you say : Is there a Corinth, or a way ? Each bland or blatant preacher hath His painful or his primrose path, And not a soul of all of these But knows the city 'twixt the seas, Her fair unnumbered homes and all Her gleaming amethystine wall ! Blind are the guides who know the way, The guides who write, and preach, and pray, I watch their lives, and I divine They differ not from yours and mine ! One man we knew, and only one, Whose seeking for a city 's done, SEEKERS FOR A CITY For what he greatly sought he found, A city girt with fire around, A city in an empty land Between the wastes of sky and sand, A city on a river-side, Where by the folk he loved, he died. 1 Alas ! it is not ours to tread That path wherein his life he led, Not ours his heart to dare and feel, Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel ; Yet are we not quite city-less, Not wholly left in our distress Is it not said by One of old, Sheep have I of another fold ? Ah ! faint of heart, and weak of will, For us there is a city still ! Dear city of Zeus, the Stoic says, 2 The Voice from Rome's imperial days, In Thee meet all things, and disperse, In Thee, for Thee, Universe ! To me all ^s fruit thy seasons bring, Alike thy summer and thy spring ; The winds that wail, the stins that burn, From Thee proceed, to Thee return. 1 January z6, 1885. a M. Antoninus, IT. 23. SEEKERS FOR A CITY Dear city of Zeus , shall we not say, Home to which none can lose the way ? Born in that city's flaming bound, We do not find her, but are found. Within her wide and viewless wall The Universe is girdled all. All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth, All things that travail on the earth, God's will they work, if God there be, If not, what is my life to me ? Seek we no further, but abide Within this city great and wide, In her and for her living, we Have no less joy than to be free ; Nor death nor grief can quite appal The folk that dwell within her wall, Nor aught but with our will befall ! THE WHITE PACHA THE WHITE PACHA. VAIN is the dream ! However Hope may rave, He perished with the folk he could not save, And though none surely told us he is dead, And though perchance another in his stead, Another, not less brave, when all was done, Had fled unto the southward and the sun, Had urged a way by force, or won by guile To streams remotest of the secret Nile, Had raised an army of the Desert men, And, waiting for his hour, had turned again And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know GORDON is dead, and these things are not so ! Nay, not for England's cause, nor to restore Her trampled flag for he loved Honour more Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory, Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. He will not come again, whate'er our need, He will not come, who is happy, being freed From the deathly flesh and perishable things, And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings. THE WHITE PACHA Nay, somewhere by the sacred River's shore He sleeps like those who shall return no more, No more return for all the prayers of men Arthur and Charles they never come again ! They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem : Whate'er sick Hope may whisper, vain the dream ! MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886 MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886. TO-MORROW is a year since Gordon died ! A year ago to-night, the Desert still Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied, And paltered, and evaded, and denied ; -Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will, And craven heart, and calculated skill In long delays, of their great homicide. A year ago to-night 'twas not too late. The thought comes through our mirth, again, again ; Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate Approaching and approaching us ; and then Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate ! Enough ; he is forgotten amongst men. ADVANCED AUSTRALIA ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA. ON THE OFFER OF HELP FROM THE AUSTRALIANS AFTER THE FALL OF KHARTOUM. SONS of the giant Ocean isle In sport our friendly foes for long, Well England loves you, and we smile When you outmatch us many a while, So fleet you are, so keen and strong. You, like that fairy people set Of old in their enchanted sea Far off from men, might well forget An elder nation's toil and fret, Might heed not aught but game and glee. But what your fathers were you are In lands the fathers never knew, 'Neath skies of alien sign and star You rally to the English war ; Your hearts are English, kind and true. ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA And now, when first on England falls The shadow of a darkening fate, You hear the Mother ere she calls, You leave your ocean-girdled walls, And face her foemen in the gate. COLONEL BURNABY COLONEL BURNABY. (TV 5* ei> rTi, AeAao>teVos t THOU that on every field of earth and sky Didst hunt for Death, who seemed to flee and fear, How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear : ' Not here, alas ! ' may England say, * not here Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die, But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer : Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood, And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight, The bulwark of thy people and their shield, When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood, Till back into the Northland and the Night The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.' MELVILLE AND COGHILL MELVILLE AND COGHILL. (THE PLACE OF THE LITTLE HAND.) DEAD, with their eyes to the foe, Dead, with the foe at their feet, Under the sky laid low Truly their slumber is sweet, Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, And the rain on the wilderness beat. Dead, for they chose to die When that wild race was run ; Dead, for they would not fly, Deeming their work undone, Nor cared to look on the face of the sky, Nor loved the light of the sun. Honour we give them and tears, And the flag they died to save, Rent from the rain of the spears, Wet from the war and the wave, Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust of the years, Back to their lonely grave ! RHODOCLEIA TO RHODOCLEIA ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING. (Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek Anthology.) STILL, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead, Still singing of the meads of asphodel, Lands desolate of delight ? Say, hast thou dreamed of, or remembered, The shores where shadows dwell, Nor know the sun, nor see the stars of night ? There, 'midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze As a girl pines for home, Looking along the way that she hath come, Sick to return, and counts the weary days ! So wouldst thou flee Back to the multitude whose days are done, Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, The sacrament of death ; and die, and be No more in the wind and sun ! TO RHODOCLEIA Thou hast not dreamed it, but remembered ! I know thou hast been there, Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead Rise in the twilight air, And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, And climbed the golden stair ! Nay, by thy cloudy hair And lips that were so fair, Sad lips now mindful of some ancient smart, And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, I know thee who thou art ! That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, Of Hellas, ere her close, That Rhodocleia who, when all was done The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun, Swayed her last poet's heart. With roses did he woo thee, and with song, With thine own rose, and with the lily sweet, The dark-eyed violet, Garlands of wind-flowers wet, And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies, Praising thy golden eyes, And feet more silvery than Thetis' feet! TO RHODOCLEIA 17 But thou didst die and flit Among the tribes outworn, The unavailing myriads of the past : Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, And, waking, wept for it, Till his own time came at last, And then he sought thee in the dusky land ! Wide are the populous places of the dead Where souls on earth once wed May never meet, nor each take other's hand, Each far from the other fled ! So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou Didst never taste of the Lethsean stream, Nor that forgetful fruit, The mystic pom'granate ; But from the Mighty Warden fledst ; and now, The fugitive of Fate, Thou farest in our life as in a dream, Still wandering with thy lute, Like that sweet paynim lady of old song, Who sang and wandered long, For love of her Aucassin, seeking him ! So with thy minstrelsy Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim, Below the veiled sky ! TO RHODOCLEIA There doth thy lover dwell, Singing, and seeking still to find thy face In that forgetful place : Thou shalt not meet him here,. Not till thy singing clear Through all the murmur of the streams of hell Wins to the Maiden's ear ! May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call Thine eager spirit to sit beside her feet, Passing throughout the long unechoing hall Up to the shadowy throne, Where the lost lovers of the ages meet ; Till then thou art alone ! AVE 1 Our Faith and Troth All time and space controules Above the highest sphere we meet Unseen, unknowne, and greet as A?igels greet ' Col. RICHARD LOVELACE. 1649 CLEVEDON CHURCH. IN MEMORIAM H. B. WESTWARD I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the winter day. There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree, The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea. But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain. CLEVEDON CHURCH Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas. And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray. And I remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain. TWILIGHT ON TWEED TWILIGHT ON TWEED. r T^HREE crests against the saffron sky, * Beyond the purple plain, The kind remembered melody Of Tweed once more again. Wan water from the border Jiills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears. Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land ; Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand. A mist of memory broods and floats, The Border waters flow ; The air is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago. TWILIGHT ON TWEED Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day dream, While trout below the blossom'd tree Plashed in the golden stream. ***** Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, Fair and too fair you be ; You tell me that the voice is still That should have welcomed me. 1870. METEMPSYCHOSIS METEMPSYCHOSIS. I SHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall know Perchance, the grey eyes in another's eyes, Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise Shall follow and track, and find thee in disguise Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, When through the scent of heather, faint and low, The weak wind whispers to the day that dies. From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme, Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me ; The shadows of the beauty of all time, In song or story are but shapes of thee ; Alas, the shadowy shapes ! ah, sweet my dear, Shall life or death bring all thy being near ? 26 LOST IN HADES LOST IN HADES. I DREAMED that somewhere in the shadowy place, Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot In welcome, and regret remembered not ; And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise On lips that had been songless many days ; Hope had no more to hope for, and desire And dread were overpast, in white attire New born we walked among the new world's ways. Then from the press of shades a spirit threw Towards me such apples as these gardens bear ; And turning, I was 'ware of her, and knew And followed her fleet voice and flying hair, Followed, and found her not, and seeking you I found you never, dearest, anywhere. A STAR IN THE NIGHT A STAR IN THE NIGHT. r I "'HE perfect piteous beauty of thy face -*- Is like a star the dawning drives away ; Mine eyes may never see in the bright day Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace ; But in the night from forth the silent place Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray Star of the starry flock that in the grey Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment's space. And as the earth at night turns to a star, Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun, So in the spiritual place afar, At night our souls are mingled and made one, And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise, That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes. 28 A SUNSET ON YARROW A SUNSET ON YARROW. 'TpHE wind and the day had lived together, -*- They died together, and far away Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, Out of the sunset, over the heather, The dying wind and the dying day. Far in the south, the summer levin Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air : We seemed to look on the hills of heaven ; You saw within, but to me 'twas given To see your face, as an angel's, there. Never again, ah surely never Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, The low good -night of the hill and the river, The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, Twain grown one in the solitude. ANOTHER WAY 29 ANOTHER WAY. S~*OME to me in my dreams, and then, One saith, / shall be well again, For then the night will more than pay The hopeless longing of the day. Nay, come not thou in dreams, my sweet, With shadowy robes, and silent feet, And with the voice, and with the eyes That greet me in a soft surprise. Last night, last night, in dreams we met, And how, to-day, shall I forget, Or how, remembering, restrain Mine incommunicable pain ? Nay, where thy land and people are, Dwell thou remote, apart, afar, Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep The melancholy ways of Sleep. But if, perchance, the shadows break, If dreams depart, and men awake, If face to face at length we see, Be thine the voice to welcome me. HESPEROTHEN By the example of certain Grecian mariners, who, being safely returned from the war about Troy, leave yet again their old lands and gods, seeking they know not what, and choosing neither to abide in the fair Phseacian island, nor to dwell and die with the Sirens, at length end miserably in a desert country by the sea, is set forth the Vanity of Melancholy. And by the land of Phseacia is to be under- stood the place of Art and of fair Pleasures ; and by Circe's Isle, the place of bodily delights, whereof men, falling aweary, attain to Eld, and to the darkness of that age. Which thing Master Francoys Rabelais feigned, under the similitude of the Isle of the Macrseones. THE SEEKERS FOR PH^ACIA. HpHERE is a land in the remotest day, J- Where the soft night is born, and sunset dies ; The eastern shore sees faint tides fade away, That wash the lands where laughter, tears, and sighs Make life, the lands below the blue of common skies. But in the west is a mysterious sea, (What sails have seen it, or what shipmen known ?) With coasts enchanted where the Sirens be, With islands where a Goddess walks alone, And in the cedar trees the magic winds make moan. Eastward the human cares of house and home, Cities, and ships, and unknown gods, and loves ; Westward, strange maidens fairer than the foam, And lawless lives of men, and haunted groves, Wherein a god may dwell, and where the Dryad rove*. The gods are careless of the days and death Of toilsome men, beyond the western seas ; 34 THE SEEKERS FOR PHMACIA The gods are heedless of their painful breath, And love them not, for they are not as these ; But in the golden west they live and lie at ease. Yet the Phseacians well they love, who live At the light's limit, passing careless hours, Most like the gods ; and they have gifts to give, Even wine, and fountains musical, and flowers, And song, and if they will, swift ships, and magic powers. It is a quiet midland ; in the cool Of the twilight comes the god, though no man prayed, To watch the maids and young men beautiful Dance, and they see him, and are not afraid, For they are near of kin to gods, and undismayed. Ah, would the bright red prows might bring us nigh The dreamy isles that the Immortals keep ! But with a mist they hide them wondrously, And far the path and dim to where they sleep, The loved, the shadowy lands, along the shadowy deep. A SONG OF PH&ACIA 35 A SONG OF PH^EACIA. THE languid sunset, mother of roses, Lingers, a light on the magic seas, The wide fire flames, as a flower uncloses, Heavy with odour, and loose to the breeze. The red rose clouds, without law or leader, Gather and float in the airy plain ; The nightingale sings to the dewy cedar, The cedar scatters his scent to the main. The strange flowers' perfume turns to singing, Heard afar over moonlit seas : The Siren's song, grown faint in winging, Falls in scent on the cedar trees. As waifs blown out of the sunset, flying, Purple, and rosy, and grey, the birds Brighten the air with their wings ; their crying Wakens a moment the weary herds. Butterflies flit from the fairy garden, Living blossoms of flying flowers ; Never the nights with winter harden, Nor moons wax keen in this land of ours. 3 6 A SONG OF PH&ACIA Great fruits, fragrant, green and golden, Gleam in the green, and droop and fall ; Blossom, and bud, and flower unfolden, Swing, and cling to the garden wall. Deep in the woods as twilight darkens, Glades are red with the scented fire ; Far in the dells the white maid hearkens, Song and sigh of the heart's desire. Ah, and as moonlight fades in morning, Maiden's song in the matin grey, Faints as the first bird's note, a warning, Wakes and wails to the new-born day. The waking song and the dying measure Meet, and the waxing and waning light Meet, and faint with the hours of pleasure, The rose of the sea and the sky is white. THE DEPARTURE FROM PHJEACIA THE DEPARTURE FROM PH^EACIA. THE PH^ACIANS. WHY from the dreamy meadows, More fair than any dream, Why seek ye for the shadows Beyond the ocean stream ? Through straits of storm and peril, Through firths unsailed before, Why make you for the sterile, The dark Kimmerian shore ? There no bright streams are flowing, There day and night are one, No harvest time, no sowing, No sight of any sun ; No sound of song or tabor, No dance shall greet you there ; No noise of mortal labour Breaks on the blind chill air. THE DEPARTURE FROM PHJEACIA Are ours not happy places, Where gods with mortals trod ? Saw not our sires the faces Of many a present god ? THE SEEKERS. Nay, now no god comes hither, In shape that men may see ; They fare we know not whither, We know not what they be. Yea, though the sunset lingers Far in your fairy glades, Though yours the sweetest singers, Though yours the kindest maids, Yet here be the true shadows, Here in the doubtful light ; Amid the dreamy meadows No shadow haunts the night. We seek a city splendid, With light beyond the sun ; Or lands where dreams are ended, And works and days are done. A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE 39 A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE. 1 in* AIR white bird, what song art thou singing * In wintry weather of lands o'er sea ? Dear white bird, what way art thou winging, Where no grass grows, and no green tree ? I looked at the far-off fields and grey, There grew no tree but the cypress tree, That bears sad fruits with the flowers of May, And whoso looks on it, woe is he. And whoso eats of the fruit thereof Has no more sorrow, and no more love ; And who sets the same in his garden stead, In a little space he is waste and dead. 1 From the Romaic. THE Y HEAR THE SIRENS THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME. THE weary sails a moment slept, The oars were silent for a space, As past Hesperian shores we swept, That were as a remembered face Seen after lapse of hopeless years, In Hades, when the shadows meet, Dim through the mist of many tears, And strange, and though a shadow, sweet. So seemed the half-remembered shore, That slumbered, mirrored in the blue, With havens where we touched of yore, And ports that over well we knew. Then broke the calm before a breeze That sought the secret of the west ; And listless all we swept the seas Towards the Islands of the Blest. Beside a golden sanded bay We saw the Sirens, very fair FOR THE SECOND TIME The flowery hill whereon they lay, The flowers set upon their hair. Their old sweet song came down the wind, Remembered music waxing strong, Ah now no need of cords to bind, No need had we of Orphic song. It once had seemed a little thing To lay our lives down at their feet, That dying we might hear them sing, And dying see their faces sweet ; But now, we glanced, and passing by, No care had we to tarry long ; Faint hope, and rest, and memory Were more than any Siren's song. CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED. A H, Circe, Circe ! in the wood we cried ; * * Ah, Circe, Circe ! but no voice replied ; No voice from bowers o'ergrown and ruinous As fallen rocks upon the mountain side. There was no sound of singing in the air ; Faded or fled the maidens that were fair, No more for sorrow or joy were seen of us, No light of laughing eyes, or floating hair. The perfume, and the music, and the flame Had passed away ; the memory of shame Alone abode, and stings of faint desire, And pulses of vague quiet went and came. Ah, Circe ! in thy sad changed fairy place, Our dead youth came and looked on us a space, With drooping wings, and eyes of faded fire, And wasted hair about a weary face. CIRCE'S ISLE REVISITED 43 Why had we ever sought the magic isle That seemed so happy in the days erewhile ? Why did we ever leave it, where we met A world of happy wonders in one smile ? Back to the westward and the waning light We turned, we fled ; the solitude of night Was better than the infinite regret, In fallen places of our dead delight. THE LIMIT OF LANDS THE LIMIT OF LANDS. T) ETWEEN the circling ocean sea *-* And the poplars of Persephone There lies a strip of barren sand, Flecked with the sea's last spray, and strown With waste leaves of the poplars, blown From gardens of the shadow land. With altars of old sacrifice The shore is set, in mournful wise The mists upon the ocean brood ; Between the water and the air The clouds are born that float and fare Between the water and the wood. Upon the grey sea never sail Of mortals passed within our hail, Where the last weak waves faint and flow ; We heard within the poplar pale The murmur of a doubtful wail Of voices loved so long ago. THE LIMIT OF LANDS 45 We scarce had care to die or live, We had no honey cake to give, No wine of sacrifice to shed ; There lies no new path over sea, And now we know how faint they be, The feasts and voices of the dead. Ah, flowers and dance ! ah, sun and snow ! Glad life, sad life we did forego To dream of quietness and rest ; Ah, would the fleet sweet roses here Poured light and perfume through the drear Pale year, and wan land of the west. Sad youth, that let the spring go by Because the spring is swift to fly, Sad youth, that feared to mourn or love, Behold how sadder far is this, To know that rest is nowise bliss, And darkness is the end thereof. VERSES MARTIAL IN TOWN. T AST night, within the stifling train, * ' Lit by the foggy lamp o'erhead, Sick of the sad Last News, I read Verse of that joyous child of Spain, Who dwelt when Rome was waxing cold, Within the Roman din and smoke. And like my heart to me they spoke, These accents of his heart of old : Brother ; had we but time to live, And fleet the careless hours together ; With all that leisure has to give Of perfect life and peaceful weather, The Rich Man's halls, the anxious faces, The weary Forum, courts, and cases Should know us not ; but quiet nooks, But summer shade by field and well, But country rides, and talk of books > At home, with these, we fain would dwell! E MARTIAL IN TOWN Now neither lives^ but day by day Sees the suns wasting in the west. And feels their flight, and doth delay To lead the life he loveth best. So from thy city prison broke, .Maxtial, tfey wail iwrfffe -misspent, And so, through London's noise and smoke My heart replies to the lament. For dear as Tagus with his gold, And swifter Salo, were to thee, So dear to me the woods that fold The streams that circle Fernielea ! APRIL ON TWEED 51 APRIL ON TWEED. AS birds are fain to build their nest The first soft sunny day, So longing wakens in my breast A month before the May, When now the wind is from the West, And Winter melts away. The snow lies yet on Eildon Hill, But soft the breezes blow. If melting snows the waters fill, We nothing heed the snow, But we must up and take our will, A fishing will we go ! Below the branches brown and bare, Beneath the primrose lea, The trout lies waiting for his fare, A hungry trout is he ; He 's hooked, and springs and splashes there Like salmon from the sea ! 52 APRIL ON TWEED Oh, April tide 's a pleasant tide, However times may fall, And sweet to welcome Spring, the Bride, You hear the mavis call ; But all adown the water-side The Spring 's most fair of all. TIRED OF TOWNS 53 TIRED OF TOWNS. 'When we spoke to her of the New Jerusalem, she said she would rather g to a country place in Heaven.' Letters front the Black Country. I'M weary of towns, it seems a' most a pity We didn't stop down i' the country and clem, And you say that I'm bound for another city, For the streets o' the New Jerusalem. And the streets are never like Sheffield, here, Nor the smoke don't cling like a smut to them ; But the water o' life flows cool and clear Through the streets o' the New Jerusalem. And the houses, you say, are of jasper cut, And the gates are gaudy wi' gold and gem ; But there's times I could wish as the gates was shut- The gates o' the New Jerusalem. For I come from a country that's over-built Wi' streets that stifle, and walls that hem, And the gorse on a common's worth all the gilt And the gold of your New Jerusalem. TIRED OF TOWNS And I hope that they'll bring me, in Paradise, To green lanes leafy wi' bough and stem To a country place in the land o' the skies, And not to the New Jerusalem. SCYTHE SONG 5 5 SCYTHE SONG. MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe, What is the word methinks ye know, Endless over-word that the Scythe Sings to the blades of the grass below ? Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, Something, still, they say as they pass ; What is the word that, over and over, Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass ? Hush) ah hush, the Scythes are saying, Hush, cmd heed not, and fall asleep ; Hush, they say to the grasses swaying, Hush, they sing to the clover deep ! Hush 'tis the lullaby Time is singing Hush, and heed not, for all things pass, Hush, ah hush ! and the Scythes are swinging Over the clover, over the grass ! 56 PEN AND INK PEN AND INK. YE wanderers that were my sires, Who read men's fortunes in the hand, Who voyaged with your smithy fires From waste to waste across the land, Why did you leave for garth and town Your life by heath and river's brink, Why lay your gipsy freedom down And doom your child to Pen and Ink ? You wearied of the wild -wood meal That crowned, or failed to crown, the day ; Too honest or too tame to steal You broke into the beaten way : Plied loom or awl like other men, And learned to love the guineas' chink Oh, recreant sires, who doomed me then To earn so few with Pen and Ink ! Where it hath fallen the tree must lie. 'Tis over late for me to roam, Yet the caged bird who hears the cry Of his wild fellows fleeting home, PEN AND INK May feel no sharper pang than mine, Who seem to hear, whene'er I think, Spate in the stream, and wind in pine, Call me to quit dull Pen and Ink. For then the spirit wandering, That slept within the blood, awakes ; For then the summer and the spring I fain would meet by streams and lakes ; But ah, my Birthright long is sold, But custom chains me, link on link, And I must get me, as of old, Back to my tools, to Pen and Ink. A DREAM A DREAM. WHY will you haunt my sleep ? You know it may not be, The grave is wide and deep, That sunders you and me ; In bitter dreams we reap The sorrow we have sown, And I would I were asleep, Forgotten and alone ! We knew and did not know, We saw and did not see, The nets that long ago Fate wove for you and me ; The cruel nets that keep The birds that sob and moan, And I would we were asleep, Forgotten and alone ! THE SINGING ROSE 59 THE SINGING ROSE. 1 La Rose qui chante et Fherbe gut fearc.' JX7HITE Rose on the grey garden wall, Where noiv no night-wind whispereth^ Call to the far-off flower S) and call With murmured breath and musical Till all the Roses hear, and all Sing to my Love what the White Rose saith. White Rose on the grey garden wall That long ago we sung ! Again you come at Summer's call, Again beneath my windows all With trellised flowers is hung, With clusters of the roses white Like fragrant stars in a green night. Once more I hear the sister towers Each unto each reply, The bloom is on those limes of ours, 60 THE SINGING ROSE The weak wind shakes the bloom in showers, Snow from a cloudless sky ; There is no change this happy day Within the College Gardens grey ! St. Mary's, Merton, Magdalen still Their sweet bells chime and swing, The old years answer them, and thrill A wintry heart against its will With memories of the Spring That Spring we sought the gardens through For flowers which ne'er in gardens grew ! For we, beside our nurse's knee, In fairy tales had heard Of that strange Rose which blossoms free On boughs of an enchanted tree, And sings like any bird ! And of the weed beside the way That leadeth lovers' steps astray ! In vain we sought the Singing Rose Whereof old legends tell, Alas, we found it not mid those Within the grey old College close, That budded, flowered, and fell, We found that herb called * Wandering ' And meet no more, no more in Spring ! THE SINGING ROSE 61 Yes, unawares the unhappy grass That leadeth steps astray, We trod, and so it came to pass That never more we twain, alas, Shall walk the self-same way. And each must deem, though neither knows, That neither found the Singing Rose ! 62 A REVIEW IN RHYME A REVIEW IN RHYME. A LITTLE of Horace, a little of Prior, A sketch of a Milkmaid, a lay of the Squire These, these are 'on draught' 'At the Sign of the Lyre!' A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself, A talk of the Books on the Sheraton shelf, A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the Guelph, A Iai 9 a pantoum, a ballade, a rondeau, A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau, And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go, A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove, 'Neath a dance by Laguerre on the ceiling above, And a dream of the days when the bard was in love, A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun, A toss of old powder, a glint of the sun, They meet in the volume that Dobson has done ! If there 's more that the heart of a man can desire, He may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire ; If he 's wise he'll alight ' At the Sign of the Lyre ! ' COLINETTE 63 COLINETTE. FOR A SKETCH BY MR. G. LESLIE, R.A. FRANCE your country, as we know ; Room enough for guessing yet, What lips now or long ago, Kissed and named you Colinette. In what fields from sea to sea, By what stream your home was set, Loire or Seine was glad of thee, Marne or Rhone, O Colinette ? Did you stand with maidens ten, Fairer maids were never seen, When the young king and his men Passed among the orchards green ? Nay, old ballads have a note Mournful, we would fain forget ; No such sad old air should float Round your young brows, Colinette. 64 COL1NETTE Say, did Ronsard sing to you, Shepherdess, to lull his pain, When the court went wandering through Rose pleasances of Touraine ? Ronsard and his famous Rose Long are dust the breezes fret ; You, within the garden close, You are blooming, Colinette. Have I seen you proud and gay, With a patched and perfumed beau, Dancing through the summer day, Misty summer of Watteau ? Nay, so sweet a maid as you Never walked a minuet With the splendid courtly crew ; Nay, forgive me, Colinette. Not from Greuze's canvases Do you cast a glance, a smile ; You are not as one of these, Yours is beauty without guile. Round your maiden brows and hair Maidenhood and Childhood met Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair, New art's blossom, Colinette. A SUNSET OF WATTE A U 65 A SUNSET OF WATTEAU. LUI. r T"*HE silk sail fills, the soft winds wake, JL Arise and tempt the seas ; Our ocean is the Palace lake, Our waves the ripples that we make Among the mirrored trees. Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song, And dear the languid dream ; The music mingled all day long With paces of the dancing throng, And murmur of the stream. An hour ago, an hour ago, We rested in the shade ; And now, why should we seek to know What way the wilful waters flow ? There is no fairer glade. A SUNSET OF WATTEAU LUI. Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail, And seek him everywhere ; Perchance in sunset's golden pale He listens to the nightingale, Amid the perfumed air. Come, he has fled ; you are not you, And I no more am I ; Delight is changeful as the hue Of heaven, that is no longer blue In yonder sunset sky. Nay, if we seek we shall not find, If we knock none openeth ; Nay, see, the sunset fades behind The mountains, and the cold night wind Blows from the house of Death. NIGHTINGALE WEATHER 67 NIGHTINGALE WEATHER. 4 Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non ? Serai-je nonnette ? je crois que non. Derriere chez mon pere II est un bois taillis, Le rossignol y chante Et le jour et la nuit. II chante pour les filles Qui n'ont pas d'ami ; II ne chant pas pour moi, J'en ai un, Dieu merci.' Old French. I'LL never be a nun, I trow, While apple bloom is white as snow, But far more fair to see ; I'll never wear nun's black and white While nightingales make sweet the night Within the apple tree. Ah, listen ! 'tis the nightingale, And in the wood he makes his wail, Within the apple tree ; He singeth of the sore distress Of many ladies loverless ; Thank God, no song for me. 68 NIGHTINGALE WEATHER For when the broad May moon is low, A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow In the boughs of the apple tree, A step I know is at the gate ; Ah love, but it is long to wait Until night's noon bring thee ! Between lark's song and nightingale's A silent space, while dawning pales, The birds leave still and free For words and kisses musical, For silence and for sighs that fall In the dawn, 'twixt him and me. LOVE AND WISDOM 69 LOVE AND WISDOM. When last we gathered roses in the garden I found my wits, but truly you lost yours.' The Broken Heart. JULY and June brought flowers and love To you, but I would none thereof, Whose heart kept all through summer time A flower of frost and winter rime. Yours was true wisdom was it not ? Even love ; but I had clean forgot, Till seasons of the falling leaf, All loves, but one that turned to grief. At length at touch of autumn tide When roses fell, and summer died, All in a dawning deep with dew, Love flew to me, Love fled from you. The roses drooped their weary heads, I spoke among the garden beds ; You would not hear, you could not know, Summer and love seemed long ago, As far, as faint, as dim a dream, As to the dead this world may seem. LOVE AND WISDOM Ah sweet, in winter's miseries, Perchance you may remember this, How Wisdom was not justified In summer time or autumn tide, Though for this once below the sun, Wisdom and Love were made at one ; But Love was bitter-bought enough, And Wisdom light of wing as Love. GOOD-BYE GOOD-BYE. KISS me, and say good-bye ; Good-bye, there is no word to say but this, Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss, Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry ; Kiss me, and say, good-bye. Farewell, be glad, forget ; There is no need to say * forget,' I know, For youth is youth, and time will have it so, And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet, Farewell, you must forget. You shall bring home your sheaves, Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined Of memories that go not out of mind ; Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves When you bring home your sheaves. In garnered loves of thine, The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears ; It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine Of life, this love of mine. GOOD-BYE This sheaf was spoiled in spring, And over-long was green, and early sere, And never gathered gold in the late year From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, But failed in frosts of spring. Yet was it thine, my sweet, This love, though weak as young corn withered, Whereof no man may gather and make bread ; Thine, though it never knew the summer heat ; Forget not quite, my sweet. AN OLD PRAYER 73 AN OLD PRAYER, vc-v/ Q 7 Xcupe /u.ot, a> j3a