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 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 NEW BALLADS
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 UNIFORM WITH THIS: 
 
 Ballads and Songs. 4th edition. $1.50. 
 A Random Itinerary. $1.50. 
 
 Also, small 4to, $2.50. 
 
 Plats. An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; 
 Bruce, a Chronicle Play; Smith, a Tragic Farce; 
 Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. 
 
 John Lane, The Bodley Head, 140 Fifth Avenue, 
 New York.
 
 l^W gALL>\D5 
 
 JOHN LANE 
 
 THE BODLEYHEAD 
 
 LONDON ^ NEW YORK 
 
 1897 
 
 \' i " } 
 
 I'l " > ' 
 
 J 3 » » ) P
 
 Copyright, 1896, 
 By John Lane. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A. 
 
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 CONTENTS 
 
 Page 
 
 A Ballad of an Artist's Wife ... 8 
 
 Spring Song i8 
 
 A Northern Suburb 20 
 
 A Woman and her Son 22 
 
 A Song of the Road 46 
 
 A Highway Pimpernel 50 
 
 A Ballad of Euthanasia 52 
 
 Sunset 60 
 
 Winter Rain 62 
 
 A Ballad of a Poet Born 64 
 
 Serenade yj 
 
 A Frosty Morning 80 
 
 A Ballad of a Workman 82 
 
 Piper, Play ! 96 
 
 A New Ballad of TannhAuser . . . 100 
 
 _Il_ 6 «-* *.j.- »y Nn^
 
 Some said, *He was strong.' He was 
 
 weak; 
 For he never could sing or speak 
 Of the things beneath or the things above, 
 Till his soul was touched by death or love. 
 
 Some said, * He was weak. ' They were 
 
 wrong ; 
 For the soul must be strong 
 That can break into song 
 Of the things beneath and the things 
 
 above. 
 At the stroke of death, at the touch of 
 
 love.
 
 A BALLAD OF AN ARTIST'S 
 WIFE 
 
 * Sweet wife, this heavy-hearted age 
 Is nought to us; we two shall look 
 
 To Art, and fill a perfect page 
 
 In Life's ill-written doomsday book.' 
 
 He wrought in colour; blood and brain 
 Gave fire and might; and beauty grew 
 
 And flowered with every magic stain 
 His passion on the canvas threw. 
 
 They shunned the world and worldly ways ; 
 He laboured with a constant will; 
 
 8
 
 A BALLAD OF AN ARTISTS WIFE 
 
 But few would look, and none would praise, 
 Because of something lacking still. 
 
 After a time her days with sighs 
 
 And tears o'erflowed; for blighting 
 need 
 
 Bedimmed the lustre of her eyes, 
 And there were little mouths to feed. 
 
 * My bride shall ne'er be commonplace,' 
 He thought, and glanced; and glanced 
 again : 
 
 At length he looked her in the face; 
 And lo, a woman old and plain ! 
 
 About this time the world's heart failed — 
 The lusty heart no fear could rend; 
 
 In every land wild voices wailed, 
 And prophets prophesied the end. 
 
 9
 
 NEIV BALLADS 
 
 ' To-morrow or to-day, ' he thought, 
 
 * May be Eternity; and I 
 Have neither felt nor fashioned aught 
 
 That makes me unconcerned to die. 
 
 * With care and counting of the cost 
 
 My life a sterile waste has grown, 
 Wherein my better dreams are lost 
 Like chaff in the Sahara sown. 
 
 * I must escape this living tomb ! 
 
 My life shall yet be rich and free, 
 And on the very stroke of Doom 
 My soul at last begin to be. 
 
 * Wife, children, duty, household fires 
 
 For victims of the good and true ! 
 For me my infinite desires, 
 
 Freedom and things untried and new! 
 
 lO
 
 A BALLAD OF AN ARTIST'S WIFE 
 
 * I would encounter all the press 
 
 Of thought and feeling life can show, 
 The sweet embrace, the aching stress 
 Of every earthly joy and woe; 
 
 * And from the world's impending wreck 
 
 And out of pain and pleasure weave 
 Beauty undreamt of, to bedeck 
 The Festival of Doomsday Eve.' 
 
 He fled, and joined a motley throng 
 That held carousal day and night ; 
 
 With love and wit, with dance and song, 
 They snatched a last intense delight. 
 
 Passion to mould an age's art, 
 Enough to keep a century sweet. 
 
 Was in an hour consumed ; each heart 
 Lavished a life in every beat. 
 
 II
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Amazing beauty filled the looks 
 Of sleepless women ; music bore 
 
 New wonder on its wings ; and books 
 Throbbed with a thought unknown 
 before. 
 
 The sun began to smoke and flare 
 Like a spent lamp about to die ; 
 
 The dusky moon tarnished the air; 
 The planets withered in the sky. 
 
 Earth reeled and lurched upon her road ; 
 
 Tigers were cowed, and wolves grew 
 tame; 
 Seas shrank, and rivers backward flowed, 
 
 And mountain-ranges burst in flame. 
 
 The artist's wife, a soul devout. 
 
 To all these things gave little heed; 
 
 12
 
 A BALLAD OF AN ARTISTS WIFE 
 
 For though the sun was going out, 
 There still were little mouths to feed. 
 
 And there were also shrouds to stitch, 
 And chares to do; with all her might, 
 
 To feed her babes, she served the rich. 
 And kept her useless tears till night. 
 
 But by and by her sight grew dim ; 
 
 Her strength gave way; in desperate 
 mood 
 She laid her down to die. ' Tell him,* 
 
 She sighed, * I fed them while I could, ' 
 
 The children met a wretched fate; 
 
 Self-love was all the vogue and vaunt, 
 And charity gone out of date ; 
 
 Wherefore they pined and died of 
 want. 
 
 13
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Aghast he heard the story : * Dead ! 
 
 All dead in hunger and despair! 
 I courted misery,' he said; 
 
 * But here is more than I can bear.* 
 
 Then, as he wrought, the stress of woe 
 Appeared in many a magic stain ; 
 
 And all adored his work, for, lo. 
 
 Tears mingled now with blood and brain ! 
 
 * Look, look! ' they cried; * this man can 
 weave 
 
 Beauty from anguish that appals;* 
 And at the feast of Doomsday Eve 
 
 They hung his pictures in their halls, 
 
 And gazed ; and came again between 
 
 The faltering dances eagerly; 
 They said, * The loveliest we have seen, 
 
 The last, of man's work, we shall see!* 
 
 14
 
 A BALLAD OF AN ARTIST'S WIFE 
 
 Then was there neither death nor birth ; 
 
 Time ceased; and through the ether fell 
 The smoky sun, the leprous earth, — 
 
 A cinder and an icicle. 
 
 No wrathful vials were unsealed; 
 
 Silent, the first things passed away: 
 No terror reigned ; no trumpet pealed 
 
 The dawn of Everlasting Day, 
 
 The bitter draught of sorrow's cup 
 
 Passed with the seasons and the years ; 
 
 And Wisdom dried for ever up 
 
 The deep, old fountainhead of tears. 
 
 Out of the grave and ocean's bed 
 The artist saw the people rise; 
 
 And all the living and the dead 
 Were borne aloft to Paradise. 
 15
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 He came where on a silver throne 
 
 A spirit sat forever young; 
 Before her Seraphs worshipped prone, 
 
 And Cherubs silver censers swung. 
 
 He asked, * Who may this martyr be? 
 
 What votaress of saintly rule ? ' 
 A Cherub said, ' No martyr; she 
 
 Had one gift ; she was beautiful. * 
 
 Then came he to another bower 
 Where one sat on a golden seat, 
 
 Adored by many a heavenly Power 
 With golden censers smoking sweet. 
 
 * This was some gallant wench who led 
 
 Faint-hearted folk and set them free ? ' 
 
 * Oh, no ! a simple maid, ' they said, 
 
 * Who spent her life in charity.' 
 
 i6
 
 A BALLAD OF AN ARTIST'S WIFE 
 
 At last he reached a mansion blest 
 Where on a diamond throne, endued 
 
 With nameless beauty, one possessed 
 Ineffable beatitude. 
 
 The praises of this matchless soul 
 The sons of God proclaimed aloud ; 
 
 From diamond censers odours stole; 
 And Hierarchs before her bowed. 
 
 * Who was she? ' God Himself replied: 
 
 * In misery her lot was cast; 
 She lived a woman's life, and died 
 
 Working My work until the last.* 
 
 It was his wife. He said, * I pray 
 
 Thee, Lord, despatch me now to Hell. * 
 
 But God said, ' No ; here shall you stay, 
 And in her peace forever dwell. ' 
 
 2 17
 
 SPRING SONG 
 
 About the flowerless land adventurous 
 bees 
 Pickeering hum; the rooks debate, 
 
 divide, 
 With many a hoarse aside, 
 In solemn conclave on the budding trees ; 
 Larks in the skies and ploughboys o'er 
 
 the leas 
 Carol as if the winter ne'er had been; 
 The very owl comes out to greet the 
 
 sun; 
 Rivers high-hearted run; 
 And hedges mantle with a flush of green. 
 
 i8
 
 SPRING SONG 
 
 The curlew calls me where the salt winds 
 blow; 
 His troubled note dwells mournfully 
 
 and dies; 
 Then the long echo cries 
 Deep in my heart. Ah, surely I must go ! 
 For there the tides, moon-haunted, ebb 
 
 and flow; 
 And there the seaboard murmurs resonant ; 
 The waves their interwoven fugue 
 
 repeat 
 And brooding surges beat 
 A slow, melodious, continual chant. 
 
 19
 
 A NORTHERN SUBURB 
 
 Nature selects the longest way, 
 
 And winds about in tortuous grooves ; 
 
 A thousand years the oaks decay; 
 The wrinkled glacier hardly moves. 
 
 But here the whetted fangs of change 
 Daily devour the old demesne — 
 
 The busy farm, the quiet grange. 
 The wayside inn, the village green. 
 
 In gaudy yellow brick and red, 
 
 With rooting pipes, like creepers rank. 
 The shoddy terraces o'erspread 
 
 Meadow, and garth, and daisied bank. 
 20
 
 A NORTHERN SUBURB 
 
 With shelves for rooms the houses crowd, 
 Like draughty cupboards in a row — 
 
 Ice-chests when wintry winds are loud, 
 Ovens when summer breezes blow. 
 
 Roused by the fee'd policeman's knock, 
 And sad that day should come again, 
 
 Under the stars the workmen flock 
 In haste to reach the workmen's train. 
 
 For here dwell those who must fulfil 
 Dull tasks in uncongenial spheres. 
 
 Who toil through dread of coming ill. 
 And not with hope of happier years, — 
 
 The lowly folk who scarcely dare 
 
 Conceive themselves perhaps misplaced. 
 
 Whose prize for unremitting care 
 Is only not to be disgraced. 
 
 21
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 * Has he come yet ? ' the dying woman 
 
 asked. 
 
 * No, ' said the nurse. * Be quiet. ' 
 
 * When he comes 
 Bring him to me : I may not live an hour. ' 
 
 * Not if you talk. Be quiet* 
 
 ' When he comes 
 Bring him to me. * 
 
 ' Hush, will you ! ' 
 
 22
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 Night came down. 
 The cries of children playing in the street 
 Suddenly rose more voluble and shrill ; 
 Ceased, and broke out again; and ceased 
 
 and broke 
 In eager prate ; then dwindled and expired. 
 
 * Across the dreary common once I saw 
 The moon rise out of London like a ghost. 
 Has the moon risen ? Is he come ? ' 
 
 * Not yet. 
 Be still, or you will die before he comes. ' 
 
 The workingmen with heavy iron tread, 
 
 The thin-shod clerks, the shopmen neat 
 
 and plump. 
 
 Home from the city came. On muddy 
 
 beer 
 
 23
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 The melancholy mean suburban street 
 Grew maudlin for an hour; pianos waked 
 In dissonance from dreams of rusty peace, 
 And unpitched voices quavered tedious 
 
 songs 
 Of sentiment infirm or nerveless mirth. 
 
 * Has he come yet ? * 
 
 * Be still, or you will die ! * 
 
 And when the hour of gaiety had passed, 
 
 And the poor revellers were gone to bed, 
 
 The moon among the chimneys wandering 
 
 long 
 
 Escaped at last, and sadly overlooked 
 
 The waste raw land where doleful suburbs 
 thrive. 
 
 24
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 Then came a firm quick step — measured 
 
 but quick; 
 And then a triple knock that shook the 
 
 house 
 And brought the plaster down. 
 
 *My son ! ' she cried. 
 * Bring him to me ! ' 
 
 He came; the nurse went out. 
 
 ' Mother, I thought to spare myself this 
 
 pain,' 
 He said at once, * but that was cowardly. 
 And so I come to bid you try to think, 
 To understand at last. ' 
 
 * Still hard, my son ? ' 
 
 25
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 ' Hard as the nether millstone.' 
 
 'But I hope 
 To soften you, ' she said, * before I die. ' 
 
 * And I to see you harden with a hiss 
 As life goes out in the cold bath of death. 
 Oh, surely now your creed will set you 
 
 free 
 For one great moment, and the universe 
 Flash on your intellect as power, power, 
 
 power. 
 Knowing not good or evil, God or sin, 
 But only everlasting yea and nay. 
 Is weakness greatness.-* No, a thousand 
 
 times ! 
 
 Is force the greatest ? Yes, for ever yes ! 
 
 Be strong, be great, now you have come 
 
 to die. ' 
 
 26
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 'My son, you seem to me a kind of prig. ' 
 
 ' How can I get it said? Think, mother, 
 
 think ! 
 Look back upon your fifty wretched years 
 And show me anywhere the hand of God. 
 Your husband saving souls — O paltry 
 
 souls 
 That need salvation ! — lost the grip of 
 
 things, 
 And left you penniless with none to aid 
 But me the prodigal. Back to the start ! 
 An orphan girl, hurt, melancholy, frail. 
 Before you learned to play, your toil 
 
 began : 
 That might have been your making, had 
 
 the weight 
 Of drudgery, the unsheathed fire of woe 
 
 27
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Borne down and beat on your defenceless 
 
 life: 
 Souls shrivel up in these extremes of pain, 
 Or issue diamonds to engrave the world; 
 But yours before it could be made or 
 
 marred, 
 Plucked from the burning, saved by faith, 
 
 became 
 Inferior as a thing of paste that hopes 
 To pass for real in heaven's enduing light. 
 You married then a crude evangelist, 
 Whose soul was like a wafer that can take 
 One single impress only. ' 
 
 * Oh, my son ! 
 
 Your father I ' 
 
 * He, my father ! These are times 
 28
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 When all must to the crucible — no 
 
 thought, 
 Practice, or use, or custom sacro-sanct 
 But shall be violable now. And first, 
 If ever we evade the wonted round. 
 The stagnant vortex of the eddying years. 
 The child must take the father by the 
 
 beard. 
 And say, "What did you in begetting 
 
 me?'" 
 
 ' I will not listen ! * 
 
 * But you shall, you must — 
 You cannot help yourself. Death in your 
 
 eyes 
 And voice, and I to torture you with truth, 
 Even as your preachers for a thousand years 
 
 29
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Pestered with falsehood souls of dying 
 
 folk. 
 Look at the man, your husband. Of the 
 
 soil; 
 Broad, strong, adust; head, massive; eyes 
 
 of steel; 
 Yet some way ailing, for he understood 
 But one idea, and he married you. ' 
 
 The dying woman sat up straight in bed ; 
 A ghastly blush glowed on her yellow 
 
 cheek. 
 And flame broke from her eyes, but words 
 
 came not. 
 
 • 
 
 The son's pent wrath burnt on. ' He 
 
 married you ; 
 You were his wife, his servant; cheerfully 
 
 30
 
 A WOMAJV AND HER SON 
 
 You bore him children; and your house 
 
 was hell. 
 Unwell, half-starved, and clad in cast-off 
 
 clothes, 
 We had no room, no sport; nothing but 
 
 fear 
 Of our evangelist, whose little purse 
 Opened to all save us; who squandered 
 
 smiles 
 On wily proselytes, and gloomed at home. 
 You had eight children ; only three grew up : 
 Of these, one died bedrid, and one insane, 
 And I alone am left you. Think of it! 
 It matters nothing if a fish, a plant. 
 Teem with waste offspring, but a conscious 
 
 womb! 
 Eight times you bore a child, and in fierce 
 
 throes, 
 
 3Tt
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 For you were frail and small : of all your 
 
 love, 
 Your hopes, your passion, not a memory 
 
 steals 
 To smooth your dying pillow, only I 
 Am here to rack you. Where does God 
 
 appear ? ' 
 
 * God shall appear,' the dying woman said. 
 
 * God has appeared; my heart is in his 
 
 hand. 
 Were there no God, no Heaven! — Oh, 
 
 foolish boy ! 
 You foolish fellow ! Pain and trouble here 
 Are God's benignest providence — the 
 
 whip 
 And spur to Heaven. But joy was mine 
 
 below — 
 
 32
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 I am unjust to God — great joy was mine : 
 Which makes Heaven sweeter too; because 
 
 if earth 
 Afford such pleasure in mortality 
 What must immortal happiness be like ! 
 Eight times I was a mother. Frail and 
 
 small ? 
 Yes; but the passionate, courageous mate 
 Of a strong man. Oh, boy ! You paltry 
 
 boy! 
 Hush! Think! Think — you! Eight 
 
 times I bore a child, 
 Eight souls for God I In Heaven they 
 
 wait for me — 
 My husband and the seven. I see them 
 
 all! 
 And two are children still — my little 
 
 ones! 
 
 3 33
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 While I have sorrowed here, shrinking 
 sometimes 
 
 From that which was decreed, my Father, 
 God, 
 
 Was storing Heaven with treasure for me. 
 Hush! 
 
 My dowry in the skies! God's thought- 
 fulness ! 
 
 I see it all ! Lest Heaven might, unal- 
 loyed, 
 
 Distress my shy soul, I leave earth in 
 doubt 
 
 Of your salvation: something to hope and 
 fear 
 
 Until I get accustomed to the peace 
 
 That passeth understanding. When you 
 come — 
 
 For you will come, my son. . . .' 
 
 34
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 Her strength gave out ; 
 She sank down panting, bathed in tears 
 and sweat. 
 
 * Could I but touch your intellect,' he 
 
 cried, 
 
 * Before you die ! Mother, the world is 
 
 mad: 
 
 This castle in the air, this Heaven of 
 yours, 
 
 Is the lewd dream of morbid vanity. 
 
 For each of us death is the end of all ; 
 
 And when the sun goes out the race of 
 men 
 
 Shall cease for ever. It is ours to make 
 
 This farce of fate a splendid tragedy: 
 
 Since we must be the sport of circum- 
 stance, 
 
 35
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 We should be sportsmen, and produce a 
 
 breed 
 Of gallant creatures, conscious of their 
 
 doom, 
 Marching with lofty brows, game to the 
 
 last. 
 Oh, good and evil, heaven and hell, are 
 
 lies! 
 But strength is great : there is no other 
 
 truth : 
 This is the yea-and-nay that makes men 
 
 hard. 
 Mother, be hard and happy in your death. ' 
 
 * What do you say ? I hear the waters 
 
 roll. . . .' 
 Then, with a faint cry, striving to arise, — 
 ' After I die I shall come back to you, 
 
 36
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 And then you must believe; you must 
 
 believe, 
 For I shall bring you news of God and 
 
 heaven ! ' 
 
 He set his teeth, and saw his mother die. 
 Outside a city-reveller's tipsy tread 
 Severed the silence with a jagged rent; 
 The tall lamps flickered through the 
 
 sombre street, 
 With yellow light hiding the stainless 
 
 stars : 
 In the next house a child awoke and cried ; 
 Far off a clank and clash of shunting trains 
 Broke out and ceased, as if the fettered 
 
 world 
 Started and shook its irons in the night; 
 Across the dreary common citywards, 
 
 37 
 
 P [j»r^.i f*-' i«r^ ^"v, /T "*,
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 The moon, among the chimneys sunk 
 
 again, 
 Cast on the clouds a shade of smoky pearl. 
 
 And when her funeral day had come, her 
 
 son, 
 Before they fastened down the coffin lid, 
 Shut himself in the chamber, thereto gaze 
 Upon her dead face, hardening his heart. 
 But as he gazed, into the smooth wan 
 
 cheek 
 Life with its wrinkles shot again ; the eyes 
 Burst open, and the bony fingers clutched 
 The coffin sides ; the woman raised herself. 
 And owl-like in her shroud blinked on the 
 
 light. 
 
 * Mother, what news of God and Heaven } ' 
 
 he asked. 
 
 38
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 Feeble and strange, her voice came from 
 
 afar: 
 * I am not dead : I must have been asleep. ' 
 
 ' Do not imagine that. You lay here 
 
 dead — 
 Three days and nights, a corpse. Life 
 
 has come back : 
 Often it does, although faint-hearted folk 
 Fear to admit it : none of those who die, 
 And come to life again, can ever tell 
 Of any bourne from which they have 
 
 returned : 
 Therefore they were not dead, your casuists 
 
 say. 
 The ancient jugglery that tricks the world ! 
 You lay here dead, three days and nights. 
 
 What news? 
 
 39
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 "After I die I shall come back to you, 
 And then you must believe, " — these were 
 
 your words, — 
 "For I shall bring you news of God and 
 
 Heaven." ' 
 
 She cast a look forlorn about the room : 
 The door was shut; the worn Venetian, 
 
 down; 
 And stuffy sunlight through the dusty 
 
 slats 
 Spotted the floor, and smeared the faded 
 
 walls. 
 He with his strident voice and eyes of steel 
 Stood by relentless. 
 
 * I remember, dear,' 
 She whispered, ' very little. When I died 
 
 40
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 I saw my children dimly bending down, 
 The little ones in front, to beckon me, 
 A moment in the dark; and that is all.' 
 
 * That was before you died — the last 
 
 attempt 
 Of fancy to create the heart's desire. 
 Now, mother, be courageous; now, be 
 
 hard.' 
 
 * What must I say or do, my dearest son } 
 Oh me, the deep discomfort of my mind ! 
 Come to me, hold me, help me to be 
 
 brave, 
 And I shall make you happy if I can. 
 For I have none but you — none any- 
 where . . . 
 Mary, the youngest, whom you never saw, 
 
 41
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Looked out of Heaven first: her little 
 
 hands . . . 
 Three days and nights, dead, and no 
 
 memory ! . . . 
 A poor old creature dying a second death, 
 I understand the settled treachery, 
 The plot of love and hope against the 
 
 world. 
 Fearless, I gave myself at nature's call; 
 And when they died, my children, one by 
 
 one, 
 All sweetly in my heart I buried them. 
 Who stole them while I slept.-* Where 
 
 are they all.'* 
 My heart is eerie, like a rifled grave 
 Where silent spiders spin among the dust. 
 And the wind moans and laughs under its 
 
 breath. 
 
 42
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SOA'' 
 
 But in a drawer. . . . What is there in 
 
 the drawer? 
 No pressure of a little rosy hand 
 Upon a faded cheek — nor anywhere 
 The seven fair stars I made. Oh, love the 
 
 cheat ! 
 And hope, the radiant devil pointing 
 
 up, 
 Lest men should cease to give the couple 
 
 sport 
 And end the world at once! For three 
 
 days dead — 
 Here in my coffm ; and no memory ! 
 Oh, it is hard ! But I — I, too, am 
 
 hard . . . 
 Be hard, my son, and steep your heart of 
 
 flesh 
 In stony waters till it grows a stone, 
 
 43
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Or love and hope will hack it with blunt 
 
 knives 
 As long as it can feel. * 
 
 He, holding her, 
 With sobs and laughter spoke : his mind 
 
 had snapped 
 Like a frayed string o'erstretched : 
 
 'Mother, rejoice ; 
 For I shall make you glad. There is no 
 
 heaven ; 
 Your children are resolved to dust and 
 
 dew: 
 But, mother, I am God. I shall create 
 The heaven of your desires. There must 
 
 be heaven 
 For mothers and their babes. Let heaven 
 
 be now ! ' 
 
 44
 
 A WOMAN AND HER SON 
 
 They found him conjuring chaos with mad 
 
 words 
 And brandished hands across his mother's 
 
 corpse. 
 
 Thus did he see her harden with a hiss 
 As life went out in the cold bath of death ; 
 Thus did she soften him before she died : 
 For both were bigots — fateful souls that 
 
 plague 
 The gentle world. 
 
 45
 
 A SONG OF THE ROAD 
 
 Among the hills he woke; 
 
 A star, low-hung and late, 
 Dwindled as the morning broke 
 
 The sable-silvered state 
 Wherein night braves the ruddy stroke 
 
 That daily seals her fate. 
 
 He went by bank and brae 
 
 Where fern and heather spread ; 
 
 Azure bells beset the way. 
 And blossoms gold and red; 
 
 Below, the burn sang all the day; 
 The larks sang overhead. 
 46
 
 A SONG OF THE ROAD 
 
 He left the hills and came 
 Among the woods and dells ; 
 
 Golden helmets flashed like flame; 
 The witches wove their spells; 
 
 In moss-green silk the elfin dame 
 Rode by with silver bells. 
 
 He came where four roads met; 
 
 He chose a narrow one; 
 Spiny thorns the way beset; 
 
 But at the end there shone 
 The bright reward that pilgrims get, 
 
 And Heaven's unsetting sun. 
 
 He went with heavy mind, 
 
 For sharp the thorns did sting. 
 
 Far and fitfully behind 
 
 He heard sweet laughter ring — 
 47
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Delighted voices on the wind, 
 And freshness of the spring. 
 
 He paused in sore dismay, 
 
 And, pondering right and wrong. 
 
 Turned and left the narrow way 
 To join the pleasant throng, 
 
 That wandered happily astray 
 The primrose path along. 
 
 Alas ! he fled once more; 
 For at the end a cloud, 
 Streaked with flame, and stained with 
 gore. 
 And torn with curses loud, 
 O'erhung a melancholy shore 
 And veiled a hopeless crowd. 
 48
 
 A SONG OF THE ROAD 
 
 He followed then the road 
 
 Wherein at first he hied; 
 Soon he came where men abode 
 
 And loved, and wrought, and died; 
 And straight the Broad and Narrow ways, 
 
 Heaven fair and Hell obscene, 
 For ever vanished out of space, 
 
 Spectres that ne'er had been. 
 
 49
 
 A HIGHWAY PIMPERNEL 
 
 Blossoms and buds, purple or pale, 
 In saffron kerchiefs or watchet snoods, 
 
 Linger in ditches, crowd in the dale, 
 In passionate tempers, or languorous 
 moods. 
 
 High on the hill, deep in the vale, 
 Over the fences and into the woods ! 
 
 Richer and sweeter far than the rest. 
 On the edge of the rut the cart-wheels 
 chafe, 
 Like a fairy-buoy on a billow's crest. 
 Hangs a wonderful little waif: 
 50
 
 A HIGHWA Y PIMPERNEL 
 
 A pimpernel, clutching the earth's warm 
 breast, 
 Rocked by the traffic and sleeping safe. 
 
 All the morning in crimson state 
 
 It flashed and glowed with zeal entire. 
 
 All the morning, steady as fate, 
 
 Aflame with courage and high desire, 
 
 It watched the sun, its skyey mate. 
 Lighting the world with golden fire. 
 
 But not a petal now will budge — 
 Fast asleep since the stroke of noon ! 
 
 And weary beggar and hawker trudge 
 Grazing its leaves with their mouldy 
 shoon, 
 
 And wheels and hoofs go by with a grudge 
 
 To think that a flower should rest so 
 
 soon! 
 
 51
 
 A BALLAD OF EUTHANASIA 
 
 In magic books she read at night, 
 
 And found all things to be 
 A spectral pageant brought to light 
 
 By nameless sorcery. 
 
 'Bethink you, now, my daughter dear,' 
 
 The King of Norway cried, 
 * ' T is summer, and your twentieth year - 
 
 High time you were a bride! 
 
 ' The sunlight lingers o'er the wold 
 
 By night ; the stars above 
 With passion throb like hearts of gold; 
 
 The whole world is in love. ' 
 52
 
 A BALLAD OF EUTHANASIA 
 
 The scornful princess laughed and said, 
 * This love you praise, I hate. 
 
 Oh, I shall never, never wed; 
 For men degenerate. 
 
 * The sun grows dim on heaven's brow; 
 
 The world's worn blood runs cold; 
 Time staggers in his dotage now; 
 Nature is growing old. 
 
 * Deluded by the summertime, 
 
 Must I with wanton breath 
 Whisper and sigh ? I trow not ! — I 
 Shall be the bride of death. ' 
 
 Fair princes came with gems of price, 
 And kings from lands afar. 
 
 * Jewels ! ' she said. * I may not wed 
 
 Till Death comes with a star.' 
 
 53
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 At midnight when she ceased to read, 
 She pushed her lattice wide, 
 
 And saw the crested rollers lead 
 The vanguard of the tide. 
 
 The mighty host of waters swayed. 
 Commanded by the moon; 
 
 The wind a marching music made; 
 The surges chimed in tune. 
 
 But she with sudden-startled ears 
 O'erheard a ghostly sound — 
 
 Or drums that beat, or trampling feet, 
 Above or underground. 
 
 The mountain-side was girt about 
 With forests dark and deep. 
 
 ' What meteor flashes in and out, 
 Thridding the darksome steep? ' 
 
 54
 
 A BALLAD OF EUTHANASIA 
 
 Soon light and sound reached level ground. 
 
 And lo, in blackest mail, 
 Along the shore a warrior 
 
 Rode on a war-horse pale ! 
 
 And from his helm as on he came 
 
 A crescent lustre gleamed ; 
 The charger's hoofs were shod with flame: 
 
 The wet sand hissed and steamed. 
 
 ' He leaves me! Nay; he turns this way 
 From elfin lands afar. 
 'Tis Death! ' she said. ' He comes to 
 wed 
 His true love with a star! 
 
 * No ring for me, no blushing groom, 
 No love with all its ills, 
 No long-drawn life! I am the wife 
 Of Death, whose first kiss kills.' 
 55
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 The rider reached the city wall ; 
 
 Over the gate he dashed ; 
 Across the roofs the fire-shod hoofs 
 
 Like summer lightning flashed. 
 
 Before her bower the pale horse pawed 
 
 The air, unused to rest; 
 The sable groom, he whispered, * Come ! ' 
 
 And stooped his shining crest. 
 
 She sprang behind him; on her brow 
 
 He placed his glowing star. 
 Back o'er the roofs the fire-shod hoofs 
 
 Like lightning flashed afar. . 
 
 Through hissing sand and shrivelled grass 
 And flowers singed and dead, 
 
 By wood and lea, by stream and sea. 
 The pale horse panting sped. 
 
 S6
 
 A BALLAD OF EUTHANASIA 
 
 At last as they beheld the morn 
 
 His sovereignty resume, 
 Deep in an ancient land forlorn 
 
 They reached a marble tomb. 
 
 They lighted down and entered in : 
 The tears, they brimmed her eyes ; 
 
 She turned and took a lingering look, 
 A last look at the skies; 
 
 Then went with Death. Her lambent star 
 
 The sullen darkness lit 
 In avenues of sombre yews. 
 
 Where ghosts did peer and flit. 
 
 But soon the way grew light as day; 
 
 With wonderment and awe, 
 A golden land, a silver strand. 
 
 And grass-green hills she saw. 
 57
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 In gown and smock good country folk 
 In fields and meadows worked ; 
 
 The salt seas wet the ruddy net 
 Where glistering fishes lurked. 
 
 The meads were strewn with purple 
 flowers, 
 
 With every flower that blows ; 
 And singing loud o'er cliff and cloud 
 
 The larks, the larks arose! 
 
 ' The sun is bright on heaven's brow, 
 The world's fresh blood runs fleet; 
 
 Time is as young as ever now, 
 Nature as fresh and sweet, ' 
 
 Her champion said; then through the 
 wood 
 He led her to a bower; 
 S8
 
 A BALLAD OF EUTHANASIA 
 
 He doffed his sable casque and stood 
 A young man in his flower ! 
 
 * Lo ! I am Life, your lover true ! ' 
 
 He kissed her o'er and o'er. 
 And still she wist not what to do, 
 
 And still she wondered more. 
 
 And they were wed. The swift years sped 
 Till children's children laughed; 
 
 And joy and pain and joy again 
 Mixed in the cup they quaffed. 
 
 Upon their golden wedding day. 
 He said, * How now, dear wife.^* ' 
 
 Then she : * I find the sweetest kind 
 Of Death is Love and Life. ' 
 
 59
 
 SUNSET 
 
 By down and shore the South-west bore 
 The scent of hay, an airy load : 
 
 As if at fault it seemed to halt, 
 
 Then, softly whispering, took the road, 
 
 To haunt the evening like a ghost, 
 
 Or some belated pilgrim lost. 
 
 High overhead the slow clouds sped; 
 
 Beside the moon they furled their sails; 
 Soon in the skies their merchandise 
 
 Of vapour, built in toppling bales, 
 Fulfilled a visionary pier 
 That spanned the eastern atmosphere. 
 
 60
 
 SUNSET 
 
 Low in the west the sun addressed 
 
 His courtship to the dark-browed night; 
 
 While images of molten seas, 
 
 Of snowy slope and crimson height, 
 
 Of valleys dim and gulfs profound, 
 
 Aloft a dazzling pageant wound. 
 
 Where shadows fell in glade and dell 
 Uncovered shoulders nestled deep. 
 
 And here and there the braided hair 
 Of rosy goddesses asleep; 
 
 For in a moment clouds may be 
 
 Dead, and instinct with deity. 
 
 6i
 
 WINTER RAIN 
 
 Motionless, leaden cloud 
 The region roofed and walled; 
 
 Beneath, a tempest shrieked aloud. 
 And the forest beckoned and called. 
 
 The blackthorn coppice was all ablaze, 
 
 And shot and garlanded, 
 With bronzed and wreathing bramble 
 sprays, 
 
 And bright leaves green and red. 
 
 The dripping pollards their shock-heads 
 hung. 
 And in the glistening shaws. 
 Lustres and glories of rubies, swung 
 The dark wet crimson haws. 
 62
 
 WINTER RAIN 
 
 The dead leaves pattered and stole about 
 Like elves in the sheltered glades, 
 
 And rushed down the broad green rides 
 and out 
 O'er the fields in windy raids. 
 
 The motionless, leaden sky 
 
 Emptied itself amain, 
 And the angry east with hue and cry 
 
 Dashed at the pouring rain. 
 
 The forest rocked and sang : 
 
 Behind the passing blast 
 Far off the new blast faintly rang, 
 
 Arrived and roared, and passed, 
 In the liberty of the open sea 
 
 To find a home at last. 
 
 63
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN 
 
 Upon a ruddy ember eve 
 
 They feasted in the hall ; 
 By custom bound they handed round 
 
 The harp to each and all. 
 
 While still the smoky rafters rang 
 With burdens loud and long, 
 
 There rose a blushing youth and sang 
 A wonderful new song. 
 
 For he had lounged among the flowers, 
 Beside the mountain streams, 
 
 Deep-dyeing all the rosy hours 
 With rosier waking dreams. 
 64
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN 
 
 And lurked at night in seaside caves, 
 Or rowed o'er harbour-bars, 
 
 Companion of the winds and waves, 
 Companion of the stars. 
 
 Therefore as searching-sweet as musk 
 The words were and the tune, 
 
 The while he sang of dawn and dusk, 
 Of midnight and of noon. 
 
 ^&^ 
 
 * No longer shall more gifted lands 
 
 Cast hither words of scorn. 
 Behold ! ' they said, and clapped their 
 hands, 
 
 * We have a poet born ! 
 
 * Go forth with harp and scrip, ' they cried, 
 
 * And sing by land and sea, 
 
 S 65
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 In lanes and streets ; the world is wide 
 For errant minstrelsy. 
 
 * Accept their lot in every clime 
 
 Who win the poet's name, 
 Homeless and poor, but rich in rhyme, 
 And glittering with fame.' 
 
 * Forth would I go without all fear. 
 
 Gladly to meet my fate; 
 But in the house my mother dear 
 And my three sisters wait. 
 
 ' My father 's dead; my mother's eyes 
 
 Are overcast with woe; 
 I hear my sisters' hungry cries; 
 
 I dare not rise and go. ' 
 66
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN 
 
 They jeered him for a craven lout : 
 
 * What care is this of thine ? 
 Thou speakest now, without a doubt. 
 
 Like some false Philistine! 
 
 * No poet can to others give : 
 
 Leave folk to starve alone. ' 
 He said, * I dare not while I live; 
 
 She has no other son.' 
 
 His sweetheart whispered in his ear, 
 ' And me, love ! what of me.? ' 
 
 He shook her off. ' Of you, enough,' 
 He sighed; ' I set you free.' 
 
 He herded sheep, he herded kine; 
 
 He rose before the day; 
 He ploughed and sowed and reaped and 
 mowed, 
 To keep the wolf at bay. 
 67
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 His harp, it rusted on the wall; 
 
 His hands, his heart, grew hard; 
 The wine of life was turned to gall 
 
 Because the song was marred. 
 
 So stubborn the accursed soil. 
 
 So poor his pastoral lore, 
 With all his weary task and toil 
 
 The wolf still pawed the door. 
 
 His mother died uncomforted; 
 
 His sisters, one by one, 
 By beggars born were wooed and wed, 
 
 And all his hopes undone. 
 
 Haggard and worn he took his harp; 
 
 The sun shone broad and low : 
 'At dawn of night there shall be light; 
 
 I now may rise and go. ' 
 68
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN- 
 
 As he went o'er the plain he met 
 The sweetheart of his youth : 
 
 * Whither away at close of day ? 
 
 Now answer me in sooth. ' 
 
 * My kin have left me ; it is time 
 
 To win the poet's name : 
 Homeless and poor, but rich in rhyme, 
 I go to conquer fame. ' 
 
 * Oh, once you throned me in your heart 
 
 All other maids above; 
 Sing to me here, before we part, 
 Your sweetest, song of love. ' 
 
 He said, 'I '11 play and sing a lay 
 
 The sweetest ever sung; ' 
 Then fumbled with his knotted hands 
 
 The rusty strings among. 
 
 69
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 His quivering lips gave forth no song, 
 
 His harp no silver sound; 
 Deep like a boy he blushed, and long 
 
 He looked upon the ground. 
 
 He gnashed his teeth: * Hell has begun,' 
 , He thought; * I feel its blaze.' 
 With that he faced the setting sun, 
 And then the woman's gaze. 
 
 * We two, ' she said, ' must never part 
 
 Till one shall reach death's goal.* 
 Her burning tears blistered his heart; 
 Her pity flayed his soul. 
 
 * Sweetheart, ' she pled, * we can unite 
 
 Life's torn and ravelled weft; 
 We yet may know love's deep delight: 
 I have some beauty left. ' 
 70
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN 
 
 ' But I am old — half dead ; alack ! 
 
 I know the double loss 
 Of song and love ! ' He warned her back, 
 
 And broke his harp across. 
 
 She stretched her arms : her pleading eyes, 
 Her pleading blush were vain; 
 
 He fled towards the sunset skies 
 Across the shadowed plain. 
 
 For years he wandered far and near, 
 
 And begged in silence sad ; 
 The children shrank from him in fear; 
 
 The people called him mad. 
 
 Upon a ruddy ember eve 
 
 They feasted in the hall : 
 The old broken man, with no one's leave, 
 
 Sat down among them all. 
 71
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 And while the swarthy rafters rang 
 
 With antique praise of wine, 
 There rose a conscious youth and sang 
 
 A ditty new and fine. 
 
 Of Fate's mills, and the human grist 
 
 They grind at, was his song; 
 He cursed the canting moralist 
 
 Who measures right and wrong. 
 
 * The earth, a flying tumour, wends 
 
 Through space all blotched and blown 
 With suns and worlds, with odds and ends 
 Of systems seamed and sewn : 
 
 * Beneath the sun it froths like yeast; 
 
 Its fiery essence flares ; 
 It festers into man and beast; 
 It throbs with flowers and tares. 
 
 72
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN 
 
 * Behold ! 't is but a heap of dust, 
 
 Kneaded by fire and flood; 
 While hunger fierce, and fiercer lust, 
 Drench it with tears and blood. 
 
 * Yet why seek after some new birth? 
 
 For surely, late or soon, 
 This ague-fit we call the earth 
 Shall be a corpse-cold moon. 
 
 * Why need we, lacking help and hope, 
 
 By fears and fancies tossed, 
 Vainly debate with ruthless Fate, 
 Fighting a battle lost.? 
 
 * Fill high the bowl ! We are the scum 
 
 Of matter; fill the bowl; 
 Drink scathe to him, and death to him, 
 Who dreams he has a soul. ' 
 73
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 They clinked their cans and roared 
 applause ; 
 
 The singer swelled with pride. — 
 ' You sneer and carp ! Give me the harp, ' 
 
 The old man, trembling, cried. 
 
 They laughed and wondered, and grew 
 still. 
 
 To see one so aghast 
 Smiting the chords; but all his skill 
 
 Came back to him at last. 
 
 And lo, as searching-sweet as musk 
 The words were and the tune, 
 
 The while he sang of dawn and dusk, 
 Of midnight and of noon ; 
 
 Of heaven and hell, of times and tides; 
 Of wintry winds that blow, 
 74
 
 A BALLAD OF A POET BORN 
 
 Of spring that haunts the world and hides 
 Her flowers among the snow; 
 
 Of summer, rustling green and glad, 
 
 With blossoms purfled fair; 
 Of autumn's wine-stained mouth and sad, 
 
 Wan eyes, and golden hair; 
 
 Of Love, of Love, the wild sweet scent 
 Of flowers, and words, and lives, 
 
 And loyal Nature's urgent bent 
 Whereby the world survives; 
 
 Of magic Love that opes the ports 
 
 Of sense and soul, that saith 
 The moonlight's meaning, and extorts 
 
 The fealty of Death. 
 
 75
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 He sang of peace and work that bless 
 
 The simple and the sage; 
 
 He sang of hope and happiness, 
 He sang the Golden Age. 
 
 And the shamed listeners knew the spell 
 That still enchants the years, 
 
 When the world's commonplaces fell 
 In music on their ears. 
 
 * Go, bring a wreath of glossy bay 
 
 To place upon his head ! 
 A poet born ! ' Woe worth the day, 
 
 They crowned a poet dead ! 
 
 Dead, while upon the pulsing string 
 Still beat his early rhyme — 
 
 The song the poet born shall sing 
 Until the end of Time ! 
 
 76
 
 SERENADE 
 
 (1250 A. D.) 
 
 With stars, with trailing galaxies, 
 
 Like a white-rose bower in bloom, 
 Darkness garlands the vaulted skies, 
 
 Day's adorn'd tomb; 
 A whisper without from the briny west 
 
 Thrills and sweetens the gloom ; 
 Within, Miranda seeks her rest 
 
 High in her turret-room. 
 
 Armies upon her walls encamp 
 
 In silk and silver thread ; 
 Chased and fretted, her silver lamp 
 
 Dimly lights her bed; 
 
 77
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 And now the silken screen is drawn, 
 
 The velvet coverlet spread ; 
 And the pillow of down and snowy lawn 
 
 Mantles about her head. 
 
 With violet-scented rain 
 
 Sprinkle the rushy floor; 
 Let the tapestry hide the tinted pane, 
 
 And cover the chamber door; 
 But leave a glimmering beam, 
 
 Miranda belamour, 
 To touch and gild my waking dream. 
 
 For I am your troubadour. 
 
 I sound my throbbing lyre, 
 
 And sing to myself below; 
 Her damsel sits beside the fire 
 
 Crooning a song I know ; 
 78
 
 SERENADE 
 
 The tapestry shakes on the wall, 
 
 The shadows hurry and go, 
 The silent flames leap up and fall, 
 
 And the muttering birch-logs glow. 
 
 Deep and sweet she sleeps, 
 
 Because of her love for me; 
 And deep and sweet the peace that keeps 
 
 My happy heart in fee ! 
 Peace on the heights, in the deeps, 
 
 Peace over hill and lea. 
 Peace through the starlit steeps, 
 
 Peace on the starlit sea. 
 Because a simple maiden sleeps 
 
 Dreaming a dream of me ! 
 
 79
 
 A FROSTY MORNING 
 
 From heaven's high embrasure 
 The sun with tufted rays 
 
 Ilium *d the wandering azure 
 And all the world's wide ways. 
 
 Usurping in its olden 
 
 Abode the fog's demesne, 
 
 In watchet weeds and golden 
 The still air sparkled keen. 
 
 On window-sill and door-post, 
 On rail and tramway rust, 
 
 Embroidery of hoar-frost 
 Was sewn like diamond dust. 
 So
 
 A FROSTY MORNING 
 
 Unthronged, or crowded densely 
 
 By people business-led, 
 The pavements, tuned intensely, 
 
 Rang hollow to the tread. 
 
 The traffic hurled and hammered 
 Down every ringing street ; 
 
 Like gongs the causeys clamoured, 
 Like drums the asphalt beat. 
 
 While ruling o'er the olden 
 
 Abode of fog unclean, 
 In watchet weeds and golden 
 
 The still air sparkled keen. 
 
 8i
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN 
 
 All day beneath polluted skies 
 He laboured in a clanging town; 
 
 At night he read with bloodshot eyes 
 And fondly dreamt of high renown. 
 
 * My time is filched by toil and sleep; 
 
 My heart,' he thought, * is clogged 
 with dust; 
 My soul that flashed from out the deep, 
 A magic blade, begins to rust. 
 
 * For me the lamps of heaven shine; 
 
 For me the cunning seasons care; 
 The old undaunted sea is mine. 
 The stable earth, the ample air. 
 
 82
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN 
 
 * Yet a dark street — at either end, 
 
 A bed, an anvil — prisons me, 
 Until my desperate state shall mend. 
 And Death, the Saviour, set me free. 
 
 * Better a hundred times to die. 
 
 And sink at once into the mould. 
 Than like a stagnant puddle lie 
 
 With arabesques of scum enscrolled. 
 
 * I must go forth and view the sphere 
 
 I own. What can my courage daunt.? 
 Instead of dying daily here, 
 
 The worst is dying once of want. 
 
 * I drop the dream of high renown; 
 
 I ask but to possess my soul. ' 
 At dawn he left the silent town. 
 
 And quaking toward the forest stole.
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 He feared that he might want the wit 
 To light on Nature's hidden hearth, 
 
 And deemed his rusty soul unfit 
 To win the beauty of the earth. 
 
 But when he came among the trees, 
 So slowly built, so many-ring'd, 
 
 His doubting thought could soar at ease 
 In colour steep'd, with passion wing'd. 
 
 Occult remembrances awoke 
 
 Of outlaws in the good greenwood, 
 
 And antique times of woaded folk 
 Began to haunt his brain and blood. 
 
 No longer hope appeared a crime : 
 He sang; his very heart and flesh 
 
 Aspired to join the ends of time, 
 
 And forge and mould the world afresh. 
 84
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN' 
 
 * I dare not choose to run in vain ; 
 
 I must continue toward the goal. 
 
 The pulse of life beat strong again, 
 
 And in a flash he found his soul. 
 
 * The worker never knows defeat, 
 
 Though unvictorious he may die : 
 The anvil and the grimy street, 
 My destined throne and Calvary ! ' 
 
 Back to the town he hastened, bent — 
 So swiftly did his passion change — 
 
 On selfless plans. * I shall invent 
 A means to amplify the range 
 
 * Of human power: find the soul wings, 
 
 If not the body ! Let me give 
 
 Mankind more mastery over things. 
 
 More thought, more joy, more will to 
 
 live.' 
 
 85
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 He overtook upon the way 
 
 A tottering ancient travel-worn: 
 
 * Lend me your arm, good youth, I pray; 
 I scarce shall see another morn. ' 
 
 Dread thought had carved his pallid 
 face, 
 And bowed his form, and blanched his 
 hair; 
 In every part he bore some trace, 
 Or some deep dint of uncouth care. 
 
 The workman led him to his room. 
 
 And would have nursed him. 'No,' he 
 said; 
 ' It is my self-appointed doom 
 To die upon a borrowed bed; 
 86
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN 
 
 * But hear and note my slightest word. 
 
 I am a man without a name. 
 I saw the Bastille fall ; I heard 
 The giant Mirabeau declaim. 
 
 * I saw the stormy dawn look pale 
 
 Across the sea-bound battle-field, 
 When through the hissing sleet and hail 
 The clarions of Cromwell pealed : 
 
 ' I watched the deep-souled Puritan 
 
 Grow greater with the desperate strife : 
 
 The cannon waked; the shouting van 
 Charged home; and victory leapt to life. 
 
 ' At Seville in the Royal square 
 I saw Columbus as he passed 
 
 Laurelled to greet the Catholic pair 
 Who had believed in him at last: 
 
 87
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 * I saw the Andalusians fill 
 
 Windows, and roofs, and balconies, — 
 A firmament of faces still, 
 A galaxy of wondering eyes : 
 
 * For he had found the unknown shore. 
 
 And made the world's great dream come 
 true : 
 I think that men shall never more 
 Know anything so strange and new. 
 
 * By meteor light when day had set 
 
 I looked across Angora's plain, 
 And watched the fall of Bajazet, 
 The victory of Tamerlane. 
 
 * In that old city where the vine 
 
 Dislodged the seaweed, once I saw 
 The inexorable Florentine : 
 
 He looked my way ; I bent with awe 
 
 88
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN 
 
 ' Before his glance, for this was he 
 
 Who drained the dregs of sorrow's cup 
 
 In fierce disdain; it seemed to me 
 A spirit passed, my hair stood up. 
 
 * Draw nearer: breath and sight begin 
 
 To fail me : nearer, ere I die. — 
 I saw the brilliant Saladin, 
 
 Who taught the Christians courtesy; 
 
 * And Charlemagne, whose dreaded name, 
 
 I first in far Bokhara heard ; 
 Mohammed, with the eyes of flame, 
 The lightning-blow, the thunder-word. 
 
 * I saw Him nailed upon a tree, 
 
 Whom once beside an inland lake 
 I had beheld in Galilee 
 
 Speaking as no man ever spake. 
 89
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 * I saw imperial Ccesar fall ; 
 
 I saw the star of Macedon ; 
 I saw from Troy's enchanted wall 
 The death of Priam's mighty son. 
 
 ' I heard in streets of Troy at night 
 Cassandra prophesying fire. . . . 
 
 A flamelit face upon my sight 
 
 Flashes: I see the World's Desire! 
 
 ' My life ebbs fast : nearer ! I sought 
 A means to overmaster fate : 
 
 Me, the Egyptian Hermes taught 
 In old Hermopolis the Great: 
 
 * I pierced to Nature's inmost hearth, 
 
 And wrung from her with toil untold 
 The soul and substance of the earth, 
 The seed of life, the seed of gold. 
 90
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN 
 
 ' Until the end I meant to stay; 
 
 But thought has here so small a range ; 
 And I am tired of night and day, 
 
 And tired of men who never change. 
 
 * All earthly hope ceased long ago ; 
 
 Yet, like a mother young and fond 
 Whose child is dead, I ache to know 
 If there be anything beyond. 
 
 * Dark — all is darkness ! Are you there ? 
 
 Give me your hand. — I choose to die, — 
 This holds my secret — should you dare; 
 And this, to bury me. . . . Good-bye.' 
 
 Amazement held the workman's soul; 
 
 He took the alchemist's bequest, — 
 A light purse and a parchment scroll, — 
 
 And watched him slowly sink to rest. 
 91
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 And nothing could he dream or think; 
 
 He went like one bereft of sense, 
 Till passion overbore the brink 
 
 Of all his wistful continence, 
 
 When his strange guest was laid in earth 
 And he had read the scroll : * Behold, 
 
 I can procure from Nature's hearth 
 The Seed of Life, the Seed of Gold ! 
 
 * For ever young ! Now, time and tide 
 
 Must wait for me; my life shall vie 
 With fate and fortune stride for stride 
 Until the sun drops from the sky. 
 
 * Gold at a touch ! Nations and kings 
 
 Shall come and go at my command. 
 I shall control the secret springs 
 Of enterprise in every land. 
 92
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN 
 
 * And hasten on the Perfect Day : 
 
 Great men may break the galling chains ; 
 Sweet looks light up the toilsome way; 
 But I alone shall hold the reins ! 
 
 ' All fragrance, all delightfulness, 
 And all the glory, all the power, 
 
 That sound and colour can express, 
 Shall be my ever-growing dower. 
 
 * And I shall know, and I shall love 
 
 In every age, in every clime, 
 All beauty. ... I, enthroned above 
 Humanity, the peer of Time ! 
 
 * Nay — selfish! I shall give to men 
 
 The Seed of Life, the Seed of Gold; 
 Restore the Golden Age again 
 At once, and let no soul grow old. 
 
 93
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 ' But gold were then of no avail, 
 
 And death would cease — unhallowed 
 doom ! 
 
 The heady wine of life grow stale, 
 And earth become a living tomb ! 
 
 * And youth would end, and truth decline, 
 
 And only pale illusion rule; 
 For it is death makes love divine. 
 
 Men human, life so sweet and full ! ' 
 
 He burnt the scroll. * I shall not cheat 
 My destiny. Life, death for me ! 
 
 The anvil and the grimy street. 
 My unknown throne and Calvary ! 
 
 ' Only obedience can be great; 
 
 It brings the Golden Age again: 
 Even to be still, abiding fate. 
 
 Is kingly ministry to men ! 
 
 94
 
 A BALLAD OF A WORKMAN' 
 
 * I drop the dream of high renown, 
 
 A nameless private in the strife: 
 Life, take me; take me, clanging town; 
 And death, the eager zest of life, 
 
 * The hammered anvils reel and chime; 
 
 The breathless, belted wheels ring true; 
 The workmen join the ends of time, 
 And forge and mould the world anew. * 
 
 95
 
 PIPER, PLAY! 
 
 Now the furnaces are out, 
 
 And the aching anvils sleep; 
 Down the road the grimy rout 
 Tramples homeward twenty deep. 
 Piper, play! Piper, play! 
 
 Though we be o'erlaboured men, 
 Ripe for rest, pipe your best ! 
 Let us foot it once again ! 
 
 Bridled looms delay their din; 
 
 All the humming wheels are spent; 
 Busy spindles cease to spin; 
 
 Warp and woof must rest content. 
 
 96
 
 PIPER, PLAY I 
 
 Piper, play! Piper, play! 
 
 For a little we are free ! 
 Foot it girls and shake your curls. 
 
 Haggard creatures though we be ! 
 
 Racked and soiled the faded air 
 
 Freshens in our holiday; 
 Clouds and tides our respite share; 
 Breezes linger by the way. 
 Piper, rest! Piper, rest! 
 
 Now, a carol of the moon ! 
 Piper, piper, play your best ! 
 Melt the sun into your tune! 
 
 We are of the humblest grade ; 
 
 Yet we dare to dance our fill : 
 Male and female were we made, — 
 
 Fathers, mothers, lovers still! 
 7 97
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 Piper — softly ; soft and low ; 
 
 Pipe of love in mellow notes, 
 Till the tears begin to flow, 
 
 And our hearts are in our throats ! 
 
 Nameless as the stars of night 
 
 Far in galaxies unfurled, 
 Yet we wield unrivalled might, 
 Joints and hinges of the world! 
 Night and day! night and day! 
 
 Sound the song the hours rehearse ! 
 Work and play ! work and play ! 
 The order of the universe ! 
 
 Now the furnaces are out. 
 
 And the aching anvils sleep; 
 Down the road a merry rout 
 
 Dances homeward, twenty deep. 
 98
 
 PIPER, PLAY! 
 
 Piper, play! Piper, play! 
 
 Wearied people though we be, 
 Ripe for rest, pipe your best ! 
 
 For a little we are free ! 
 
 99
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF 
 TANNHAUSERi 
 
 * What hardy, tattered wretch is that 
 Who on our Synod dares intrude ? ' 
 
 Pope Urban with his council sat, 
 
 And near the door Tannhauser stood. 
 
 His eye with light unearthly gleamed; 
 
 His yellow hair hung round his head 
 In elf locks lusterless : he seemed 
 
 Like one new-risen from the dead. 
 
 1 See note at the end of the book. 
 
 lOO
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 ' Hear me, most Holy Father, tell 
 The tale that burns my soul within. 
 
 I stagger on the brink of hell ; 
 
 No voice but yours can shrive my sin. ' 
 
 ' Speak, sinner. ' * From my father's house 
 Lightly I stepped in haste for fame ; 
 
 And hoped by deeds adventurous 
 
 High on the world to carve my name. 
 
 ' At early dawn I took my way, 
 
 My heart with peals of gladness rang ; 
 
 Nor could I leave the woods all day, 
 Because the birds so sweetly sang. 
 
 * But when the happy birds had gone 
 To rest, and night with panic fears 
 
 And blushes deep came stealing on. 
 Another music thrilled my ears. 
 
 lOI
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 ' I heard the evening wind serene, 
 And all the wandering waters sing 
 
 The deep delight the day had been, 
 
 The deep delight the night would bring. 
 
 * I heard the wayward earth express 
 
 In one long-drawn melodious sigh 
 The rapture of the sun's caress, 
 The passion of the brooding sky. 
 
 * The air, a harp of myriad chords, 
 
 Intently murmured overhead ; 
 My heart grew great with unsung words : 
 I followed where the music led. 
 
 * It led me to a mountain-chain. 
 
 Wherein athwart the deepening gloom, 
 High-hung above the wooded plain, 
 Appeared a summit like a tomb. 
 
 1 02
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 * Aloft a giddy pathway wound 
 
 That brought me to a darksome cave : 
 I heard, undaunted, underground 
 Wild winds and wilder voices rave, 
 
 * And plunged into that stormy world. 
 
 Cold hands assailed me impotent 
 In the gross darkness; serpents curled 
 About m^ limbs; but on I went. 
 
 * The wild winds buffeted my face; 
 
 The wilder voices shrieked despair; 
 A stealthy step with mine kept pace, 
 And subtle terror steeped the air. 
 
 ' But the sweet sound that throbbed on 
 high 
 Had left the upper world; and still 
 A cry rang in my heart — a cry ! 
 For lo, far in the hollow hill, 
 103
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 'The dulcet melody withdrawn 
 Kept welling through the fierce uproar. 
 
 As I have seen the molten dawn 
 Across a swarthy tempest pour, 
 
 ' So suddenly the magic note. 
 
 Transformed to light, a glittering brand, 
 Out of the storm and darkness smote 
 
 A peaceful sky, a dewy land. 
 
 * I scarce could breathe, I might not stir. 
 The while there came across the lea, 
 
 With singing maidens after her, 
 A woman wonderful to see. 
 
 ' Her face — her face was strong and sweet ; 
 
 Her looks were loving prophecies; 
 She kissed my brow : I kissed her feet — 
 
 A woman wonderful to kiss. 
 104
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 ' She took me to a place apart 
 Where eglantine and roses wove 
 
 A bower, and gave me all her heart — 
 A woman wonderful to love. 
 
 ' As I lay worshipping my bride, , 
 While rose leaves in her bosom fell, 
 
 And dreams came sailing on a tide 
 Of sleep, I heard a matin bell. 
 
 * It beat my soul as with a rod 
 
 Tingling with horror of my sin; 
 I thought of Christ, I thought of God, 
 And of the fame I meant to win. 
 
 * I rose ; I ran ; nor looked behind ; 
 
 The doleful voices shrieked despair 
 In tones that pierced the crashing wind; 
 And subtle terror warped the air. 
 105
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 * About my limbs the serpents curled; 
 
 The stealthy step with mine kept pace; 
 But soon I reached the upper world : 
 I sought a priest ; I prayed for grace. 
 
 ' He said, " Sad sinner, do you know 
 What fiend this is, the baleful cause 
 
 Of your dismay? " I loved her so 
 I never asked her what she was. 
 
 * He said, " Perhaps not God above 
 
 Can pardon such unheard-of ill : 
 It was the pagan Queen of Love 
 Who lured you to her haunted hill ! 
 
 " Each hour you spent with her was more 
 Than a full year? Only the Pope 
 
 Can tell what heaven may have in store 
 For one who seems past help and hope." 
 io6
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 * Forthwith I took the way to Rome: 
 I scarcely slept; I scarcely ate: 
 
 And hither quaking am I come, 
 But resolute to know my fate. 
 
 * Most Holy Father, save my soul ! , 
 Ah God ! again I hear the chime, 
 
 Sweeter than liquid bells that toll 
 Across a lake at vesper time . . . 
 
 * Her eyelids drop ... I hear her 
 sigh . . . 
 The rose leaves fall. . . . She falls 
 asleep . . . 
 The cry rings in my blood — the cry 
 That surges from the deepest deep. 
 107
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 * No man was ever tempted so ! — 
 I say not this in my defence. . . . 
 
 Help, Father, help ! or I must go ! 
 The dulcet music draws me hence ! * 
 
 He knelt — he fell upon his face. 
 
 Pope Urban said, * The eternal cost 
 Of guilt like yours eternal grace 
 
 Dare not remit : your soul is lost. 
 
 ' When this dead staff I carry grows 
 Again and blossoms, heavenly light 
 
 May shine on you. ' Tannhauser rose ; 
 And all at once his face grew bright. 
 
 He saw the emerald leaves unfold, 
 
 The emerald blossoms break and glance; 
 
 They watched him, wondering to behold 
 The rapture of his countenance. 
 1 08
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 The undivined, eternal God 
 
 Looked on him from the highest heaven, 
 And showed him by the budding rod 
 
 There was no need to be forgiven. 
 
 He heard melodious voices call 
 Across the world, an elfin shout; 
 
 And when he left the council-hall, 
 It seemed a great light had gone out. 
 
 With anxious heart, with troubled brow. 
 The Synod turned upon the Pope. 
 
 They saw; they cried, * A living bough, 
 A miracle, a pledge of hope ! ' 
 
 And Urban trembling saw: * God's way 
 Is not as man's, ' he said. * Alack ! 
 
 Forgive me, gracious heaven, this day 
 My sin of pride. Go, bring him back.' 
 
 109
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 But swift as thought Tannhauser fled, 
 And was not found. He scarcely slept ; 
 
 He sarcely ate; for overhead 
 The ceaseless, dulcet music kept 
 
 Wafting him on. And evermore 
 The foliate staff he saw at Rome 
 
 Pointed the way; and the winds bore 
 Sweet voices whispering him to come. 
 
 The air, a world-enfolding flood 
 Of liquid music poured along; 
 
 And the wild cry within his blood 
 Became at last a golden song. 
 
 * All day, ' he sang — ' I feel all day 
 The earth dilate beneath my feet; 
 
 I hear in fancy far away 
 The tidal heart of ocean beat. 
 no
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 ' My heart amasses as I run 
 
 The depth of heaven's sapphire flower; 
 The resolute, enduring sun 
 
 Fulfils my soul with splendid power. 
 
 * I quiver with divine desire; 
 
 I clasp the stars ; my thoughts immerse 
 Themselves in space; like fire in fire 
 I melt into the universe. 
 
 * For I am running to my love: 
 
 The eager roses burn below; 
 Orion wheels his sword above, 
 To guard the way God bids me go. ' 
 
 At dusk he reached the mountain chain. 
 Wherein athwart the deepening gloom, 
 
 High hung above the wooded plain. 
 The Horselberg rose like a tomb. 
 Ill
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 He plunged into the under-world ; 
 
 Cold hands assailed him impotent 
 In the gross darkness ; serpents curled 
 
 About his limbs; but on he went. 
 
 The wild winds buffeted his face ; 
 
 The wilder voices shrieked despair; 
 A stealthy step with his kept pace ; 
 
 And subtle terror steeped the air. 
 
 But once again the magic note, 
 
 Transformed to light, a glittering brand, 
 Out of the storm and darkness smote 
 
 A peaceful sky, a dewy land. 
 
 And once again he might not stir, 
 The while there came across the lea, 
 
 With singing maidens after her. 
 The Queen of Love so fair to see. 
 
 112
 
 A NEW BALLAD OF TANNHAUSER 
 
 Her happy face was strong and sweet; 
 
 Her looks were loving prophecies; 
 She kissed his brow; he kissed her feet — ■ 
 
 He kissed the ground her feet did kiss. 
 
 She took him to a place apart 
 Where eglantine and roses wove 
 
 A bower, and gave him all her heart — 
 The Queen of Love, the Queen of Love. 
 
 As he lay worshipping his bride, 
 While rose leaves in her bosom fell, 
 
 And dreams came sailing on a tide 
 Of sleep, he heard a matin bell. 
 
 * Hark ! Let us leave the magic hill,' 
 
 He said, ' and live on earth with men.* 
 
 * No; here,' she said, *we stay, until 
 
 The Golden Age shall come again. ' 
 8 113
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 And SO they wait, while empires sprung 
 Of hatred thunder past above, 
 
 Deep in the earth for ever young 
 Tannhauser and the Queen of Love. 
 
 114
 
 His heart was worn and sore; 
 He was old before his time; 
 He had wasted half his life. 
 
 Night — it was always night, 
 And never a star above : 
 But the ring of a manly stroke. 
 The flash of a gentle look, 
 The touch of a comrade's hand 
 Groping for his on the march, 
 Were more to him than the day. 
 At the thought of his youth, 
 "5
 
 NEW BALLADS 
 
 At the pulse of love, 
 
 At the swoop of death, 
 
 He sang aloud in the dark. 
 
 And touched the heart of the world. 
 
 ii6
 
 NOTE 
 
 The story of Tannhauser is best known in the 
 sophisticated version of Wagner's great opera. In 
 reverting to a simpler form I have endeavoured to 
 present passion rather than sentiment, and once more 
 to bear a hand in laying the ghost of an unwholesome 
 idea that still haunts the world, — the idea of the 
 inherent impurity of nature. 
 
 I beg to submit to those who may be disposed to 
 think with me, and also to those who, although other- 
 wise minded, are at liberty to alter their opinions, that 
 ' A New Ballad of Tannhauser ' is not only the most 
 modern, but the most humane interpretation of the 
 world-legend with which it deals. 
 
 J. D.
 
 A 
 
 List of Books 
 
 IN 
 
 BELLES LETTRES 
 
 JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD 
 
 140 Fifth Avenue 
 
 New York 
 
 1896
 
 List of Books in Belles Lettres 
 
 ALLEN (GRANT). 
 
 The Lower Slopes. "With a Titlepage by J. Illing- 
 WORTH Kay. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 That Mr. Allen is a poet, quite individual, if limited, these ex- 
 cursions leave no manner of doubt. — Bookman (Londofi). 
 
 The power of passionate and pointed utterance displayed in 
 this little volume ought certainly not to be allowed to run to 
 waste- — IVestminster Gazette (London). 
 
 ATHERTON (GERTRUDE). 
 
 Patience Sparhawk and her Times. A Novel. 
 Crown 8vo. $1.50. \_In preparation. 
 
 BEECHING (REV. H. C). 
 
 St. Augustine at Ostia : Oxford Sacred Poem. 
 Crown Svo, wrappers. 50 cents. 
 
 The worit o£ a man of genuine poetic feeling and of erudition 
 besides, who has known how to give a gracefully imaginative ren- 
 dering to that struggle between conflicting ideas and faiths of 
 which St. Augustine was the outcome. — Times {London). 
 
 BENNETT (E. A.). 
 
 A Man from the North. A Novel. Crown Svo. 
 $1.25. [In preparation. 
 
 BENSON (ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER). 
 
 Lord Vyet and other Poems. Fcap. Svo. $1.25. 
 
 BROTHERTON (MARY). 
 
 Rosemary for Remembrance. With Titlepage and 
 Cover Design by Walter West. Fcap. Svo. 
 
 $1.25. 
 
 A rarely beautiful little volume of verse. Suggests the work of 
 one or two very famous women poets. — Realm (London). 
 
 BROWN (VINCENT). 
 
 Two in Captivity. A Novel. i6mo. 75 cents. 
 
 [/« preparation.
 
 4 BOOKS IN BELLES LETTRES 
 
 CHAPMAN (ELIZABETH RACHEL). 
 
 Marriage Questions in Modern Fiction. Crown 
 8vo. $1.^0. \In preparation. 
 
 CHARLES (JOSEPH F.). 
 
 The Duke of Linden. A Novel. Crown 8vo. $1.25. 
 
 \In preparation. 
 CRACKANTHORPE (HUBERT). 
 
 Vignettes : a Miniature Journal of Whim and Sen- 
 timent. Fcap. 8vo. Boards. $1.00. 
 
 CRANE (WALTER). 
 
 Toy Books. A Re-issue. Each with new Cover 
 Designs and end papers. 25 cents each. 
 I. Mother Hubbard. 
 IL The Three Bears. 
 in. The Absurd ABC. 
 
 The group of three bound in one volume, with a deco- 
 rative cloth cover, end papers, and a newly written 
 and designed Titlepage and Preface. 4to. $1.25. 
 
 CROSKEY (JULIAN). 
 
 Max. a Novel. Crown Svo. $1.50. 
 
 [/« preparation. 
 CUSTANCE (OLIVE). 
 
 Love's First Fruits. Poems. Fcap. Svo. $1.25. 
 
 \In preparation. 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN). 
 
 New Ballads. With a Titlepage and Cover Design 
 by Walker West. Fcap. Svo. $1.50. 
 
 Ballads and Songs. With a Titlepage and Cover 
 Design by Walter West. Fcap. Svo. $1.50. 
 
 [Fourth edition. 
 We must acknowledge that Mr. Davidson's work in this volume 
 
 displays great power There is strength and to spare. — 
 
 Times {London). 
 
 Mr. Davidson's new book is the best he has done, and to say 
 this, is a good deal. Here, at all events, is a poet who is never tame 
 or dull ; v\ho, at all events, never leaves us indifferent. His verse 
 speaks to the blood, and there are times when " the thing becomes 
 a trumpet." — Saturday Review (London), 
 
 A Random Itinerary and a Ballad. With a 
 Frontispiece and Titlepage by Laurence Hous- 
 man. Fcap. Svo. $1.50. 
 
 One part of " A Random Itinerary " should not be praised above 
 
 the others The whole volume is of wholesome flavour, and 
 
 is beautiful withal. — Literary World {London).
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN LANE 
 
 DAVIDSON (JOHN), co7tthiued. 
 
 Plays : An Unhistorical Pastoral ; A Romantic Farce ; 
 Bruce, a Chronicle Play ; Smith, a Tragic Farce ; 
 Scaramouch in Naxos, a Pantomime. With a Fron- 
 tispiece and Cover Design by Aubrey Beardsley. 
 500 copies. Small 4to. $2.50. 
 
 The best play in the present volume is entitled " Smith, a 
 Tragic Farce." The motive is as modem as Ibsen, the method is 
 as ancient as Shakespeare ; and yet, in spite of this incongruity, 
 the play must be pronounced a fine one. — Liverpool Daily Post. 
 
 A notable volume "The "Unhistorical Pastoral" is a 
 
 charming conception, delicately wrought. — Saturday Review 
 {^London). 
 
 DAWSON (A. J.). 
 
 Middle Greyness. A Novel. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 \In preparation, 
 
 EGERTON (GEOPtGE) . 
 
 Symphonies. Crown 8vo. $1.00. \^In pi-eparation. 
 
 EGLINTON (JOHN). 
 
 Two Essays on the Remnant. Post 8vo, wrappers. 
 50 cents. \Sccond edition. 
 
 The appreciation of Wordsworth and the caustic criticism of 
 Goethe are particularly delightful, and from first to last the book 
 is simply a work of genius. — Pall Mall Budget {London). 
 
 FEA (ALLAN). 
 
 The Flight of the King. A full, true, and par- 
 ticular Account of the Escape of His Most 
 Sacred Majesty King Charles II., after the Battle 
 of Worcester. With twelve Portraits in Photo- 
 gravure, and nearly 100 other Illustrations. Demy 
 8vo. $7. 50. 
 
 FIFTH (GEORGE). 
 
 The Martyr's Bible. A Novel. Crown8vo. $1.50. 
 
 \In preparation. 
 
 FLETCHER (J. S.). 
 
 God's Failures. Fcap. 8vo. $1.25. 
 
 Ballads of Revolt. Fcap. 8vo. $1.00. 
 
 FLOWERDEW (HERBERT). 
 
 A Celibate's Wife. A Novel. Crown Svo. $1.50. 
 
 \_In preparation .
 
 BOOKS IN BELLES LETTRES' 
 
 GARNETT (RICHARD). 
 
 Poems. With Titlepage by J. Illingm'orth Kay. 
 Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 A book of high poetic merit and charm. — Academy {London). 
 
 Dante, Petrarch, Camoens, cxxiv Sonnets rendered 
 in English. With Titlepage and Cover Design by 
 Patten Wilson. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 Dr. Garnett once more shows his versatility and his gift of fine 
 workmanship in verse by this book. — Times {London). 
 
 Quite apart from their value as translations, Dr. Garnett's 
 sonnets, Petrarchan in form but saturated with the Shakespearian 
 spirit, form a notable contribution to the treasury of English poetic 
 literature. — Graphic (London). 
 
 GRIMSHAWE (BEATRICE). 
 
 Broken Away. A Novel. Crown 80. Sii.25. 
 
 [/« preparation. 
 HAYES (ALFRED). 
 
 The Vale of Arden and other Poems. With 
 a Titlepage and Cover designed by E. H. New. 
 Fcap. 8vo, $1.25. 
 
 Mr. Hayes is a refined writer of unpretentious verse, and his 
 contented mood is sufficiently rare in modem poetry to make his 
 volume notable- — Daily Chronicle (London). 
 
 This little volume contains very beautiful workmanship. It is 
 especially beautiful in the piece which gives its title to the volume. 
 — Daily Neivs (London). 
 
 JAMES (W. P.). 
 
 Romantic Professions : A Volume of Essays. 
 With Titlepage designed by J. Illingworth 
 Kay. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 These essays are chiefly remarkable for the charm of their style 
 and their wealth of illustration. The author's knowledge of fiction 
 of all kinds, and his critical insight into the merits and demerits of 
 writers of fiction, are considerable. — Morning Post (London.) 
 
 JOHNSTONE (C. E.). 
 
 Ballads of Boy and Beak. With a Titlepage by 
 F. H. Townsend. Square 32mo. 75 cents. 
 
 It is impossible to do ether than covet the juvenile spirit of a 
 grown-up poet who lingers so lovingly over the experiences of desk 
 and playground, and whose every written page only lacks the inky 
 smudge of the schoolboy-hand to make it perfect. — Dundee 
 A dvertiser. 
 
 LANDER (HARRY). 
 
 Weighed in the Balance. A Novel. Crown 8vo. 
 
 51.50.
 
 * PUBLISHED BY JOHN LANE 
 
 LEFROY (EDWARD CRACROFT). 
 
 Poems. With a Memoir by W. A. Gill, and a reprint 
 of J. A. Symond's Critical Essay on Echoes 
 FROM Theocritus. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 LE GALLIENNE (RICHARD). 
 
 The Quest of the Golden Girl. With a Cover 
 designed by Will H. Bradley. Crown 8vo. 
 
 $1.50. 
 English Poems. Revised. Crown 8vo. Purple 
 cloth. $1-50. \_Fourtk edition. 
 
 In " English Poems " rhyme, rhythm, and diction are worthy of 
 a writer of ability and high ambition. — Athenceutn {London). 
 
 There is plenty of accomplishment, there is abundance of tuneful 
 
 notes, sentiment often very pleasing, delicacy, grace The 
 
 best thing in the book to one's own taste is the last half of " Sunset 
 in the City." "Paolo and Francesca " is very clever. — Mr. 
 Andrew Lang, in New Review {London). 
 
 Robert Louis Stevenson : An Elegy. And other 
 Poems, mainly Personal. Crown Svo. ^1.50. 
 
 Few, indeed, could be more fit to sing the dirge of the "Virgil 
 of prose" than the poet whose curiosa feliciias is so close akin to 
 Stevenson's own charm. — Daily Chronicle {London). 
 
 LOCKE (W. J.). 
 
 Derelicts. A Novel. Crown Svo. $1.50. 
 
 LOWRY (H. D.). 
 
 Make Believe. Illustrated by Charles Robinson. 
 
 Crown Svo. $1.50. 
 The Happy Exile. With etched Illustrations by 
 
 E. Philip Pimlott. (Arcady Library.) Crown 
 
 Svo. $1.50. 
 
 MARZIALS (THEO.). 
 
 The Gallery of Pigeons and Other Poems. 
 Post Svo. $1.50. 
 
 Endless combinations of wonderfully vivid perceptions, and the 
 picturesque inventions of a joyous fancy. Picturesque and vivid 
 are only words — they are not definite enough to give a clear con- 
 ception of the peculiar quality or the peculiar limits of the pleasure 
 to be found in it. — Academy {London). 
 
 MEREDITH (GEORGE). 
 
 The first Published Portrait of this Author. 
 Engraved on the wood by W. Biscombe Gard- 
 ner, after the painting by G. F. Watts. Proof 
 copies on Japanese vellum, signed by Painter and 
 Engraver. $7.50.
 
 8 BOOKS IN BELLES LETTRES 
 
 MEYNELL (ANNE). 
 
 The Children. Fcap. 8vo. $1.25. 
 
 This is the fiist book pritited at the Wayside Press, by 
 Will H. Bradley. 
 
 Poems. Fcap. 8vo. $1.25. [Third edition 
 
 To the metrical themes attempted by her she brings emotion, 
 sincerity, together with an exquisite play upon our finer chords 
 quite her own, not to be heard from another. Some of her hues 
 have tlie living tremor in them. The poems are beautiful in idea 
 as in grace of touch. — Mr. George Meredith, z« The Natiorzal 
 Review, August, 1896. 
 
 She sings with a very human sincerity, a singular religious 
 intensity — rare, illusive, curiously perfumed verse, so simple 
 always, yet so subtle in its simplicity. — Atheiiaum (London). 
 
 The Rhythm of Life and other Essays. Fcap. 
 8vo. $1.25. [Third edition. 
 
 Full of profound, searching, sensitive appreciation of all kinds 
 of subjects. Exercises in close thinking and exact expression, 
 almost unique in the literature of the day. — Athenceunt (London). 
 
 I am about to direct attention to one of the very rarest products 
 of nature and grace, — a woman of genius, one who I am bound to 
 confess has falsified the assertion 1 made some time ago that no 
 female writer of our time has attained to true "distinction." .... 
 Mrs. Meynell has shown an amount of perceptive reason and 
 ability todiscein self-evident things as yet undiscerned, a reticence, 
 fulness, and effectiveness of expression which place her in the 
 very front rank of living writers in prose. At least half of the 
 volume is classical work, embodying as it does new thought in 
 perfect language, and bearing in every sentence the hall-mark of 
 genius, namely, the marriage of masculine force of insight with 
 feminine grace and tact of expression. — Mr. Coventry Patmore, 
 in Fort7iig!itly Review. 
 
 The Colour of Life and other Essays. Fcap. 
 8vo. $1.25. [Third edition. 
 
 Mrs. Meynell's papers are little sermons, ideal sermons, — let no 
 one uninstructed by tliem take fright at the title, — they are not 
 preachments ; they are of the sermon's right length, about as long 
 as the passage of a cathedral chant in the ear, and keeping 
 thnughout to the plain step of daily speech, they leave a sense of 
 stilled singing in the mind they fill. The writing is limpid in its 
 depths. She must be a diligent reader of the Saintly Lives. Her 
 manner presents to me the image of one accustomed to walk in holy 
 places and keep the eye of a fresh mind on our tangled world, 
 happier in observing than in speaking. And I can fancy Matthew 
 Arnold lighting on such Essays as I have named, saying with 
 refreshment, " She can write I " It does not seem to me too bold 
 to imagine Carlyle listening, without the weariful gesture, to his 
 wife's reading of the same, hearing them to the end, and giving 
 his comment, " That woman thinks." — Mr. George Meredith, 
 in The National Review, Atignst, 1896.
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN LANE 9 
 
 MAKOWER (STANLEY V.). 
 
 Cecilia. A Novel. Crown 8vo. $1.25. 
 
 OPPENHEIM (MICHAEL). 
 
 A History of the Administration of the Royal 
 Navy, and of Merchant Shipping in the relation 
 to the Navy from MDIX. to MUCLX , with an 
 Introduction treating of tlie earlier period. Plates. 
 Demy 8vo. $7.50. 
 
 MILMAN (HELEN). 
 
 In the Garden of Peace. With Illustrations by 
 Edmund H. New. (Arcady Library.) Crown 
 8vo. $ 1 . 50. [/« preparation. 
 
 ROBERTSON (JOHN M.). 
 
 Essays towards a Critical Method. (New 
 Series.) Crown 8 vo. $1.50. \_Iit preparation. 
 
 ST. CYRES (LORD). 
 
 The Little Flowers of St. Francis. A new 
 rendering into English of the Fioretti di San Fran- 
 cesco. Crown 8vo. $1.50. \In preparation. 
 
 SEAMAN (OWEN). 
 
 The Battle of the Bays. With Titlepage and 
 Cover Design by Patten Wilson. Fcap. 8vo. 
 
 $1.25. 
 
 SETOUN (GABRIEL). 
 
 The Child World : Poems. Illustrated by Charles 
 Robinson. Crown 8vo, gilt top. $1.50. 
 
 SHARP (EVELYN). 
 
 Wymps: Fairy Tales. With 8 Coloured Illustrations 
 and Decorative Cover by Mabel Dearmer. 
 4to. $1.75. 
 SHARP (LOUISA). 
 
 Poems. With a Memoir by Frederick Harrison. 
 Fcap. 8vo. $1.50. \_In preparation, 
 
 STEVENSON (ROBERT LOUIS). 
 
 Prince Otto. A Rendering in French by Egerton 
 Castle. Crown 8vo. With Frontispiece, Title- 
 page, and Cover Design by D. Y. Cameron. $2.50. 
 
 Also 50 copies on large paper, uniform in size with the 
 Edinburgh Edition of the works. $7.50. 
 Mr. Egeiton Castle's excellent translation of Stevenson's " Prince
 
 lO BOOKS IN BELLES LETTRES 
 
 STEVENSON (ROBERT I.OV IS), co,ai;med. 
 
 Otto" will undoubtedly bring many new readers to the book. Is 
 beautifully printed. — Morning Post {London). 
 
 To say that the French is worthy of the English is to pay it a 
 compliment which is fully deserved. — Yorkshire Herald. 
 
 Mr. Castle's French is perfect, and he preserves in his translation 
 all the virility of the author. — Pall Mall Gazette (Lo?ido7i). 
 
 STREET (G. S.) 
 
 The Wise and the Wayward. A Novel. Crown 
 8vo. $1.50. 
 TENNYSON (FREDERICK). 
 
 Poems of the Day and Year. With a Titlepage 
 designed by Patten Wilson. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 His soul is satisfied with the contemplation of beautiful things, 
 and the utterance in flowing imagery of the emotions they excite 
 in him. Lovers of pure poetry will find much to satisfy them. — 
 Daily Chronicle {London). 
 
 He has no small share of the Tennysonian music, and in two 
 points at least he falls short of no writer of his generation, —in his 
 love of nature and in his belief in the dignity of the poet's function. 
 — Times {London). 
 
 THIMM (CARL A.). 
 
 A Complete Bibliography of Fencing and Duel- 
 ling, as Practiced by all European Nations from 
 the Middle Ages to the Present Day. With a 
 Classified Index, arranged Chronologically accord- 
 ing to Languages. Illustrated with numerous 
 Portraits of Ancient and Modern Masters of the 
 Art. Titlepages and Frontispieces of some of 
 the earliest works. Portrait of the Author by 
 Wilson Steer, and Titlepage designed by 
 Patten Wilson. 4to. $7.50. 
 
 THOMPSON (FRANCIS). 
 
 Poems. With Frontispiece, Titlepage, and Cover 
 
 Design by Laurence Housman. Post 4to. 
 
 $1.50. [Fourth edition. 
 
 I can hardly doubt that at least that minority who can recognise 
 
 the essentials under the accidents of poetry, and wlio feel that it is 
 
 to poetic Form only, and not to forms, that eternity belongs, will 
 
 agree that, alike in wealth and dignity of imagination, in depth 
 
 and subtlety of thought, and in magic and mastery of language, 
 
 a new poet of the first rank is to be welcomed in the author of this 
 
 volume. — Mr. H. D. Traill, itt Nineteenth Century. 
 
 Profound thought and far-fetched splendour of imagery, and 
 nimble-witted discernment of those analogies which are the roots 
 
 of the poet's language, abound Qualities which ought to 
 
 place him, even should he do no more than he has done, in the 
 prominent ranks of fame, with Cowley and Crawshaw. — Mr. 
 Coventry Patmore, in Fortnightly Review-
 
 PUBLISHED BY JOHN LANE II 
 
 THOMPSON (FRANCIS), continued. 
 
 Sister Songs. An Offering to Two Sisters. With 
 Frontispiece, Titlepage, and Cover Design by 
 Laurence HousMAN. Post4to. Buckram. $1.50. 
 
 Mr. Thompson is the only one of the young: poets of the day 
 wlio peristently tempts one, page after page, to waive one's critic 
 right, and contentedly to stand and admire. — Academy (London). 
 
 If any were uncertain, after the publication of Mr. Thompson's 
 "Poems," that a new star was added to the galaxy, the splendid 
 succession of which has never failed in the English poetic firma- 
 ment, let them read "Sister Songs "and be assured. — Speaker 
 (London). 
 
 TRAILL (H. D.). 
 
 The Barbarous Britishers. A Tip-top NoveL 
 With Title and Cover Design by Aubrey 
 Beardsley. Crown 8vo, wrapper. 50 cents. 
 
 Nothing funnier has been written. — Daily Telegraph (London). 
 
 A cleverer or more genuinely mirth-provoking, and withal useful 
 parody, we have not read for many a long day. A very large cir- 
 culation may be predicted. — Si. Jameses Gazette (Londoti). 
 
 TYNAN (KATHARINE HINKSON). 
 
 Cuckoo Songs. With Titlepage by Laurence 
 Housman. Fcap. 8vo. $1.25. 
 
 Enciiantingly simple, innocent, and light, a book of aerial 
 music in delicate cadencies. — Illustrated London News. 
 
 WALTON AND COTTON. 
 
 The Compleat Angler, a new Edition of. Edited 
 by Richard Le Gallienne. Illustrated by 
 Edmund H. New. 4to. $6.00. 
 
 It would have been difficult to have selected an artist to 
 illustrate this work more in sympathy with it than Mr. New is 
 proving himself to be. This edition shows every promise of 
 being one of the most desirable to possess of this quaint and ad- 
 mirable work. — Studio (London). 
 
 Copiously illustrated and exquisitely printed, it promises to be " a 
 thing of beauty and a joy for ever " to book lovers who value alike 
 intrinsic 'excellence and a fair exterior. — Publishers' Circular 
 (Londo)i). 
 
 WATSON (H. B. MARRIOTT). 
 
 The Career of Delia Hastings. Crown 8vo. 
 $1.50. [/« preparation. 
 
 WATT (FRANCIS). 
 
 The Laws Lumber Room. Second series. Fcap. 
 Svo. $1.25. \In preparation.
 
 12 BOOKS IN BELLES LETTRES. 
 
 WHYTE (WALTER). 
 
 Leslie Warden. A Novel. Crown 8vo. $1.50. 
 
 [/« preparation. 
 
 THE YELLOW BOOK. 
 
 An Illustrated Quarterly. Small 4to. $1.50 
 each volume. 
 Vol. I., of which Four Editions were issued, is 
 
 now out of print. 
 Vol.11. Third Edition. \^A few copies remain. 
 
 The second volume is better than the first. — Daily Chronicle 
 {London). 
 
 A decided improvement on the first. — Daily Telegraph (Lotir 
 don). 
 
 Vol. III. Third Edition. 
 A considerable improvement on its predecessors. — Speaker 
 (Londoft). 
 
 Vol. IV. Second Edition. 
 On the whole, the new "Yellow Book" has more that is attractive 
 and less that is repellant than any of its predecessors. — Globe 
 (London). 
 
 Vol. V. Second Edition. 
 
 This "Yellow Book" has left its predecessors far behind in gen- 
 eral interest. — Daily Chronicle (London). 
 
 Vol. VI. Second Edition. 
 None of the other five volumes have reached the mark of excel- 
 lence attained by the sixth. From all points of view the " Yellow 
 Book " seems to improve quarterly. — Vanity Fair (London). 
 
 Vol. VII. Second Edition. 
 
 The new " Yellow Book " need not fear the rivalry of any of its 
 predecessors. — Daily Chronicle (London). 
 
 Vol. VIIL Second Edition. 
 The eighth number is far the best that has yet appeared. — St. 
 y anus's Gazette (Lojidon). 
 
 Vol. IX. Second Edition. 
 
 This number of the " Yellow Book " is likely to be one of the 
 most popular. — Globe (Londo7i). 
 
 Vol. X. Second Edition. 
 A particularly strong number. — Gentlewoman (London). 
 Vol. XL Small 4to. $1.50. \Just ready.
 
 Mr. Lane is the sole agent for the sale i7i America of the 
 books issued from the Vale Press, all of which are pri>ited 
 under the supervision of the well-known English artist 
 Charles Ricketts. The follozving books are now ready : 
 
 THE POEMS OF SIR JOHN SUCKLING. 
 
 Edited by John Gray. With Honeysuclde Border 
 and Initial Letters designed and cut on the wood 
 by Charles Ricketts. Demy 8vo. $7.50 net. 
 
 EPICURUS, LEONTION, AND TERNISSA. 
 
 By Walter Savage Landor. With a Border de- 
 signed and cut on the wood by Charles Ricketts. 
 Crown 8vo. $3.50 net. 
 
 THE EARLY POEMS OF JOHN MILTON. 
 
 Reprinted from the edition seen through the press by 
 the author. With a Frontispiece, Border, and 
 Initial Letters designed and cut on the wood by 
 Charles Ricketts. Crown 4to. $10.00 7iet. 
 
 SPIRITUAL POEMS. 
 
 By John Gray. With a Frontispiece, Border, and 
 Cover designed and cut on the wood by Charles 
 Ricketts. Crown octavo. $4.00 net. 
 
 These books are among the most beautiful produced this 
 century. Only a very few copies are printed for America. 
 Prospectuses on application.
 
 MAY 
 
 ^ 
 
 )rm L-9-10»i-2,'31 
 
 MAY 2 7 1986
 
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 3 1158 01108 2665 
 
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 UC SOUTHERN 
 
 REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILIT 
 
 AA 000 369 084 9 
 
 UNIVERSITY ' '"4T,lpOHNU 
 
 LliJRARY