Part 2

The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen. Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore. Come, though the sea be vex’d, and breakers roar, Come, for the air of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; “It may be we shall touch the happy isle.”

Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile; Love’s panthers sleep ’mid roses, as of yore: “It may be we shall touch the happy isle!”

ENVOY.

Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore. Ah, singing birds your happy music pour! Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; Flit to these ancient gods we still adore: “It may be we shall touch the happy isle!”

BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM.

(_Being a Petition_, _in the form of a Ballade_, _praying the University Commissioners to spare the Summer Term_.)

When Lent and Responsions are ended, When May with fritillaries waits, When the flower of the chestnut is splendid, When drags are at all of the gates (Those drags the philosopher “slates” With a scorn that is truly sublime), {35} Life wins from the grasp of the Fates Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

When wickets are bowl’d and defended, When Isis is glad with “the Eights,” When music and sunset are blended, When Youth and the summer are mates, When Freshmen are heedless of “Greats,” And when note-books are cover’d with rhyme, Ah, these are the hours that one rates— Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

When the brow of the Dean is unbended At luncheons and mild tête-à-têtes, When the Tutor’s in love, nor offended By blunders in tenses or dates; When bouquets are purchased of Bates, When the bells in their melody chime, When unheeded the Lecturer prates— Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

ENVOY.

Reformers of Schools and of States, Is mirth so tremendous a crime? Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates— Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

BALLADE OF THE MUSE.

_Quem tu_, _Melpomene_, _semel_.

The man whom once, Melpomene, Thou look’st on with benignant sight, Shall never at the Isthmus be A boxer eminent in fight, Nor fares he foremost in the flight Of Grecian cars to victory, Nor goes with Delian laurels dight, The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!

Not him the Capitol shall see, As who hath crush’d the threats and might Of monarchs, march triumphantly; But Fame shall crown him, in his right Of all the Roman lyre that smite The first; so woods of Tivoli Proclaim him, so her waters bright, The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!

The sons of queenly Rome count _me_, Me too, with them whose chants delight,— The poets’ kindly company; Now broken is the tooth of spite, But thou, that temperest aright The golden lyre, all, all to thee He owes—life, fame, and fortune’s height— The man thou lov’st, Melpomene!

ENVOY.

Queen, that to mute lips could’st unite The wild swan’s dying melody! Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite— The man thou lov’st, Melpomene?

BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS.

AFTER LA FONTAINE.

Rome does right well to censure all the vain Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach That earthly joys are damnable! ’Tis plain We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach; No, amble on! We’ll gain it, one and all; The narrow path’s a dream fantastical, And Arnauld’s quite superfluously driven Mirth from the world. We’ll scale the heavenly wall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

He does not hold a man may well be slain Who vexes with unseasonable speech, You _may_ do murder for five ducats gain, _Not_ for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach; He ventures (most consistently) to teach That there are certain cases that befall When perjury need no good man appal, And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven. Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl, “Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!”

“For God’s sake read me somewhat in the strain Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!” Why should I name them all? a mighty train— So many, none may know the name of each. Make these your compass to the heavenly beach, These only in your library instal: Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small, Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven; I tell you, and the common voice doth call, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

ENVOY.

_Satan_, that pride did hurry to thy fall, Thou porter of the grim infernal hall— Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven! To shun thy shafts, to ‘scape thy hellish thrall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES.

TO E. W. GOSSE.

The dust of Carthage and the dust Of Babel on the desert wold, The loves of Corinth, and the lust, Orchomenos increased with gold; The town of Jason, over-bold, And Cherson, smitten in her prime— What are they but a dream half-told? Where are the cities of old time?

In towns that were a kingdom’s trust, In dim Atlantic forests’ fold, The marble wasteth to a crust, The granite crumbles into mould; O’er these—left nameless from of old— As over Shinar’s brick and slime, One vast forgetfulness is roll’d— Where are the cities of old time?

The lapse of ages, and the rust, The fire, the frost, the waters cold, Efface the evil and the just; From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To drown’d Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll’d Beneath the wave a dreamy chime That echo’d from the mountain-hold,— “Where are the cities of old time?”

ENVOY.

Prince, all thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till all their crime, And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust Where are the cities of old time.

BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.

(EAST FIFESHIRE.)

There are laddies will drive ye a ba’ To the burn frae the farthermost tee, But ye mauna think driving is a’, Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, Ye may land in the sand or the sea; And ye’re dune, sir, ye’re no worth a preen, Tak’ the word that an auld man ’ll gie, Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!

The auld folk are crouse, and they craw That their putting is pawky and slee; In a bunker they’re nae gude ava’, But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. And a lassie can putt—ony she,— Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, But a cleek-shot’s the billy for me, Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!

I hae play’d in the frost and the thaw, I hae play’d since the year thirty-three, I hae play’d in the rain and the snaw, And I trust I may play till I dee; And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, For I speak o’ the thing I hae seen— Tom Morris, I ken, will agree— Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!

ENVOY.

Prince, faith you’re improving a wee, And, Lord, man, they tell me you’re keen; Tak’ the best o’ advice that can be, Tak’ aye tent to be up on the green!

DOUBLE BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

TO J. A. FARRER.

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees, An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose,— ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

He worshipp’d the rain and the breeze, He worshipp’d the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked-up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose,— ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man.

His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke, it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

On the coasts that incessantly freeze, With his stones, and his bones, and his bows; On luxuriant tropical leas, Where the summer eternally glows, He is found, and his habits disclose (Let theology say what she can) That he lived in the long, long agos, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

From a status like that of the Crees, Our society’s fabric arose,— Develop’d, evolved, if you please, But deluded chronologists chose, In a fancied accordance with Mos es, 4000 B.C. for the span When he rushed on the world and its woes,— ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

But the mild anthropologist,—_he’s_ Not _recent_ inclined to suppose Flints Palæolithic like these, Quaternary bones such as those! In Rhinoceros, Mammoth and Co.’s, First epoch, the Human began, Theologians all to expose,— ’Tis the _mission_ of Primitive Man.

ENVOY.

MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, ’Twas the manner of Primitive Man! {46}

BALLADE OF AUTUMN.

We built a castle in the air, In summer weather, you and I, The wind and sun were in your hair,— Gold hair against a sapphire sky: When Autumn came, with leaves that fly Before the storm, across the plain, You fled from me, with scarce a sigh— My Love returns no more again!

The windy lights of Autumn flare: I watch the moonlit sails go by; I marvel how men toil and fare, The weary business that they ply! Their voyaging is vanity, And fairy gold is all their gain, And all the winds of winter cry, “My Love returns no more again!”

Here, in my castle of Despair, I sit alone with memory; The wind-fed wolf has left his lair, To keep the outcast company. The brooding owl he hoots hard by, _The hare shall kindle on thy hearth-stane_, The Rhymer’s soothest prophecy,—{48} My Love returns no more again!

ENVOY.

Lady, my home until I die Is here, where youth and hope were slain; They flit, the ghosts of our July, My Love returns no more again!

BALLADE OF TRUE WISDOM.

While others are asking for beauty or fame, Or praying to know that for which they should pray, Or courting Queen Venus, that affable dame, Or chasing the Muses the weary and grey, The sage has found out a more excellent way— To Pan and to Pallas his incense he showers, And his humble petition puts up day by day, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Inventors may bow to the God that is lame, And crave from the fire on his stithy a ray; Philosophers kneel to the God without name, Like the people of Athens, agnostics are they; The hunter a fawn to Diana will slay, The maiden wild roses will wreathe for the Hours; But the wise man will ask, ere libation he pay, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

Oh! grant me a life without pleasure or blame (As mortals count pleasure who rush through their day With a speed to which that of the tempest is tame)! O grant me a house by the beach of a bay, Where the waves can be surly in winter, and play With the sea-weed in summer, ye bountiful powers! And I’d leave all the hurry, the noise, and the fray, For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

ENVOY.

Gods, grant or withhold it; your “yea” and your “nay” Are immutable, heedless of outcry of ours: But life _is_ worth living, and here we would stay For a house full of books, and a garden of flowers.

BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH.

(OLD FRENCH.)

Money taketh town and wall, Fort and ramp without a blow; Money moves the merchants all, While the tides shall ebb and flow; Money maketh Evil show Like the Good, and Truth like lies: These alone can ne’er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.

Money maketh festival, Wine she buys, and beds can strow; Round the necks of captains tall, Money wins them chains to throw, Marches soldiers to and fro, Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes: These alone can ne’er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.

Money wins the priest his stall; Money mitres buys, I trow, Red hats for the Cardinal, Abbeys for the novice low; Money maketh sin as snow, Place of penitence supplies: These alone can ne’er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.

BALLADE OF LIFE.

“‘Dead and gone,’—a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life.”

_Death’s Jest Book_.

Say, fair maids, maying In gardens green, In deep dells straying, What end hath been Two Mays between Of the flowers that shone And your own sweet queen— “They are dead and gone!”

Say, grave priests, praying In dule and teen, From cells decaying What have ye seen Of the proud and mean, Of Judas and John, Of the foul and clean?— “They are dead and gone!”

Say, kings, arraying Loud wars to win, Of your manslaying What gain ye glean? “They are fierce and keen, But they fall anon, On the sword that lean,— They are dead and gone!”

ENVOY.

Through the mad world’s scene, We are drifting on, To this tune, I ween, “They are dead and gone!”

BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA.

There’s a joy without canker or cark, There’s a pleasure eternally new, ’Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that’s ancient and blue; Unchipp’d all the centuries through It has pass’d, since the chime of it rang, And they fashion’d it, figure and hue, In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

These dragons (their tails, you remark, Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),— When Noah came out of the ark, Did these lie in wait for his crew? They snorted, they snapp’d, and they slew, They were mighty of fin and of fang, And their portraits Celestials drew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

Here’s a pot with a cot in a park, In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, Where the lovers eloped in the dark, Lived, died, and were changed into two Bright birds that eternally flew Through the boughs of the may, as they sang: ’Tis a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

ENVOY.

Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, Kind critic, your “tongue has a tang” But—a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.

(AFTER VILLON.)

Nay, tell me now in what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day. Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has passed away? Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,—around, below? Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where is wise Héloïse, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders grey; And where’s the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,—a perilous way— Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

Where’s that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren’s lay? Where’s Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?

ENVOY.

Prince, all this week thou need’st not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know. One burden answers, ever and aye, “Nay, but where is the last year’s snow?”

VILLON’S BALLADE OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE.

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You’ll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry. All evil folks that love a lie! And where goes gain that greed amasses, By wile, and trick, and thievery? ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With _myst’ry_ and _morality_; Win gold at _gleek_,—and that will fly, Where all you gain at _passage_ passes,— And that’s? You know as well as I, ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you’ve no clerkly skill to ply; You’ll gain enough, with husbandry, But—sow hempseed and such wild grasses, And where goes all you take thereby?— ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

ENVOY.

Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpasses, Or ere they’re worn, off, off they fly, ’Tis all to taverns and to lasses!

BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM.

Far in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with books upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more! The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! The Books I loved, I love them still!

One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) The Love of Books, the Golden Key That opens the Enchanted Door; Behind it BLUEBEARD lurks, and o’er And o’er doth JACK his Giants kill, And there is all ALADDIN’S store,— The Books I loved, I love them still!

Take all, but leave my Books to me! These heavy creels of old we bore We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muses’ hill; Though something’s gone from stream and shore, The Books I loved, I love them still!

ENVOY.

Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved—to love them still.

VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.

The soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like streams that flow, The ocean dark as wine, To my true love to whisper low, To be your Valentine.

The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, “I’ll send an April day,” she said, “To lands of wintry woe.” He came,—the winter’s overthrow With showers that sing and shine, Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine.

Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, ’Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead, By the Nile’s overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost her foe, To be your Valentine.

ENVOY.

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, Their various voice combine; But that they crave on _me_ bestow, To be your Valentine.

BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS.

(_Les Œuvres de Monsieur Molière_. _A Paris_, _chez Louys Billaine_, _à la Palme_. M.D.C. LXVI.)

LA COUR.

When these Old Plays were new, the King, Beside the Cardinal’s chair, Applauded, ’mid the courtly ring, The verses of Molière; Point-lace was then the only wear, Old Corneille came to woo, And bright Du Parc was young and fair, When these Old Plays were new!

LA COMÉDIE.

How shrill the butcher’s cat-calls ring, How loud the lackeys swear! Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling, At Brécourt, fuming there! The Porter’s stabbed! a Mousquetaire Breaks in with noisy crew— ’Twas all a commonplace affair When these Old Plays were new!

LA VILLE.

When these Old Plays were new! They bring A host of phantoms rare: Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, Old faces peaked with care: Ménage’s smirk, de Visé’s stare, The thefts of Jean Ribou,—{66} Ah, publishers were hard to bear When these Old Plays were new.

ENVOY.

Ghosts, at your Poet’s word ye dare To break Death’s dungeons through, And frisk, as in that golden air, When these Old Plays were new!

BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS.

Here stand my books, line upon line They reach the roof, and row by row, They speak of faded tastes of mine, And things I did, but do not, know: Old school books, useless long ago, Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in, Could scarcely answer “yes” or “no”— The many things I’ve tried and failed in!

Here’s Villon, in morocco fine, (The Poet starved, in mud and snow,) Glatigny does not crave to dine, And René’s tears forget to flow. And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe, With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in; Ah, all my ghosts have gone below— The many things I’ve tried and failed in!

He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine, The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow; And here the arms of D’Hoym shine, And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau: Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe” (The first edition, this, he wailed in); I once believed in him—but oh, The many things I’ve tried and failed in!

ENVOY.

Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine Quite other balances are scaled in; May you succeed, though I repine— “The many things I’ve tried and failed in!”

BALLADE OF THE DREAM.

Swift as sound of music fled When no more the organ sighs, Sped as all old days are sped, So your lips, love, and your eyes, So your gentle-voiced replies Mine one hour in sleep that seem, Rise and flit when slumber flies, _Following darkness like a dream_!

Like the scent from roses red, Like the dawn from golden skies, Like the semblance of the dead From the living love that hies, Like the shifting shade that lies On the moonlight-silvered stream, So you rise when dreams arise, _Following darkness like a dream_!

Could some spell, or sung or said, Could some kindly witch and wise, Lull for aye this dreaming head In a mist of memories, I would lie like him who lies Where the lights on Latmos gleam,— Wake not, find not Paradise _Following darkness like a dream_!

ENVOY.

Sleep, that giv’st what Life denies, Shadowy bounties and supreme, Bring the dearest face that flies _Following darkness like a dream_!

BALLADE OF THE SOUTHERN CROSS.

Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; _Our_ bolt is shot, our tale is told, Our ship of state in storms may toss, But ye are young if we are old, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

Ay, _we_ must dwindle and decrease, Such fates the ruthless years unfold; And yet we shall not wholly cease, We shall not perish unconsoled; Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold Within the sea’s inviolate fosse, And boast her sons of English mould, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

All empires tumble—Rome and Greece— Their swords are rust, their altars cold! For us, the Children of the Seas, Who ruled where’er the waves have rolled, For us, in Fortune’s books enscrolled, I read no runes of hopeless loss; Nor—while _ye_ last—our knell is tolled, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

ENVOY.

Britannia, when thy hearth’s a-cold, When o’er thy grave has grown the moss, Still _Rule Australia_ shall be trolled In Islands of the Southern Cross!

BALLADE OF AUCASSIN