Part 10

Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore, Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain? Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore The spears toward Zion's gate again? And can so little space contain, Quiet from all his wanderings, The world-demanding Tamburlaine? Dust in dust are the bones of kings!

_Envoy._

O Kings, bethink ye then how vain The pride and pomp of earthly things: A little pain, a little gain, Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

BALLADE OF ACHERON.

Between the Midnight and the Morn, The under-world my soul espied; I saw the shades of men out-worn, The Heroes fallen in their pride; I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide, And many a ghost that strayed thereon; "Still must I roam," a maiden sighed, "The sunless marsh of Acheron."

"And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn?" "Yea, even so," the shade replied, "For one I wronged in life hath sworn In hatred ever to abide: The lover seeketh not the bride, But aye, with me, his heart dreams on, Asleep in these cold mists that hide The sunless marsh of Acheron.

"And still for me will Lacon mourn, And still my pardon be denied: Ah, never shall I cross the bourne That Dead from Living doth divide; Yet I repent me not!" she cried, "Nay--only that mine hour is gone; One memory hath glorified The sunless marsh of Acheron."

_Envoy._

Ah, Princess! when _thy_ ghost shall glide Where never star nor sunlight shone, See thou she tarry not beside The sunless marsh of Acheron.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF ASPHODEL.

~Kat' asphodelon leimôna.~

Now who will thread the winding way, Afar from fervid summer heat, Beyond the sunshafts of the day, Beyond the blast of winter sleet? In the green twilight, dimly sweet, Of poplar shades, the shadows dwell, Who found erewhile a fair retreat Along the mead of Asphodel.

There death and birth are one, they say; Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat; No sound doth rise of mortal fray, Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat: Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat; Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell; But lovers one another greet Along the mead of Asphodel.

I would that there my soul might stray; I would my phantom, fair and fleet, Might cleave the burden of the clay, Might leave the murmur of the street, Nor with half-hearted prayer entreat The half-believed-in Gods; too wel I know the name I shall repeat Along the mead of Asphodel.

_Envoy._

Queen Proserpine, at whose white feet In life my love I may not tell, Wilt give me welcome when we meet Along the mead of Asphodel?

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF THE BOURNE.

What goal remains for pilgrim feet Now all our gods are banishèd? Afar, where sea and sunrise meet, Tall portals bathed in gold and red, From either door a carven head Smiles down on men full drowsilie 'Mid mystic forms of wings outspread Between the Gates of Ivorie.

Now if beyond lie town or street I know not nor hath any said, Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet; Some say that there men meet the dead, Or filmy phantoms in their stead, And some "it leads to Arcadie," In sooth I know not, yet would tread Between the Gates of Ivorie.

For surely there sounds music sweet With fair delights and perfumes shed, And all things broken made complete, And found again things forfeited; All this for him who scorning dread Shall read the wreathen fantasie, And pass, where no base soul had sped Between the Gates of Ivorie.

_Envoy._

Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread, Rise up and follow fearlesslie, By high desire and longing led Between the Gates of Ivorie.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF FAIRY GOLD.

A goblin trapped in netted skein, Did bruise his wings with vain essay; "Now who will rend this hempen chain? Let that man ask me what he may, I shall not, surely, say him nay: The shadows wane, the day grows old, Meseems this mesh will keep for aye The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!"

These echoes of the creature's pain, As in the fowler's net he lay, Drew soon anigh a surly swain Who cut the cords and freed the fay: "Now what fair gift shall well repay Thy service done?--for words are cold-- Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?" "The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold."

"Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain, Lo! here is treasure good and gay:" The goat-herd grasped his golden gain And bore the shining store away; He oped his chest, at break of day, To find--no talents, bright and cold, But soft, dead cowslips--nowhere lay The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!

_Envoy._

Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray, We twain, where nought is bought or sold, And find in every woodland way, The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF MIGHT-BE.

Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing, Full fast he flies for woe or weal, And some do bear his grievous sting Too deep for any leech to heal; I scorn to swell their sad appeal, False phantom, fled from our embrace! And yet--I doubt me I might kneel Should you but chance to turn your face.

Of days long done our praises ring Right loud and full, a valorous peal, For life was then a lusty thing: Ah! then were mighty blows to deal. Brave days, my masters!--still, I feel In sooth I could not deem him base Who'd shun your stare, O age of steel! Should you but chance to turn your face.

"Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing, "That sorrow sets unbroken seal On saint and sinner, clown and king." They beg death's boon with busy zeal. They'll do you homage warm and leal, Death! while you pass their dwelling-place But lips would gape and senses reel, Should you but chance to turn your face.

_Envoy._

Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel, We bow to find you full of grace, We would not turn on sullen heel Should _you_ but chance to turn your face.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST.

Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day, This round world's but a bitter pill." Poor porcupines of fretful quill! Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: We, too, are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not.

What though we wish the cats at play Would some one else's garden till; Though Sophonisba drop the tray And all our worshipped Worcester spill, Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill, Though May be cold and June be hot, Though April freeze and August grill, We'd rather be alive than not.

And, sometimes, on a summer's day To self and every mortal ill We give the slip, we steal away, To lie beside some sedgy rill; The darkening years, the cares that kill, A little while are well forgot; Deep in the broom upon the hill We'd rather be alive than not.

Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil The task thy braggart tongue begot. We eat our leek with better will, We'd rather be alive than not.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF OLD INSTRUMENTS.

So quaintly sadly mute they hang, We ask in vain what fingers played, What hearts were stirred, what voices sang, What songs in life's brief masquerade,-- What old-world catch or serenade, What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs Found voice when maid or ruffling blade Sang long-forgot familiar airs.

We only know that once they rang In oaken room and forest glade, Where yule logs glowed or branches swang; When earth and heaven itself were made For roistering off a Spanish raid, To drown in such life's shallower cares, Or trip in ruffs and old brocade, To long-forgot familiar airs.

Dead all--a pun for every pang (So Shakespeare then the race portrayed That fought and revelled, danced and sprang Half-way to meet death undismayed); About them gather mist and shade, Yet Time ironically spares These strings on which their fingers strayed To long-forgot familiar airs.

_Envoy._

Ah! child, so soon the colours fade From Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs, You yet may seek in notes decayed _Our_ long-forgot familiar airs.

MORTIMER WHEELER.

BALLADE OF SEA-MUSIC.

Sink, sun, in crimson far away, Float out, pale moon, above the roar, While brown and silver, flame and grey, Round rock and sand, the waters pour; For night hath clue to all the store, Of wild wave-harmony that rings, And earth hath not in all her lore, The legends that sea-music brings.

Here singing silver shallows fray The ruby-tufted golden floor, Here wondrous twilight forests sway Round coral porch and corridor Where lurk----but ah; why yet implore The splendid dream that round them clings?... Where lie the dead who heard of yore The legends that sea-music brings.

This is the sea that could not stay, The tides of men that evermore Rolled westward still and cleft its spray, With hollowed trunk, and dauntless oar. Here Grecian trireme reeled before, Rome's purple galley; here sea kings, Left red on wave and blackened shore The legends that sea-music brings.

_Envoy._

Earth keeps not now the face she wore The smoke-trails dusk the wide white wings; No longer as of old shall soar, The legends that sea-music brings.

MORTIMER WHEELER.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE LARK.

When the fairies are all for their dances drest, When day's discords in the distance fail, When the robin and wren are asleep in the nest, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale, When star-fires are fading spark by spark, And the little birds all the dawning hail, O hark to the song of the merry lark!

When over the hills the silver crest Is pouring enchantment on mere and vale, And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But when the bright sun dight in golden mail Flames over the tree-tops in the park, And the world goes again on its busy trail, O hark to the song of the merry lark!

When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast, And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale, As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale, And Phillis is met where no one may mark, And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale, O hark to the song of the merry lark!

_Envoi._

If Il Penseroso's mood prevail, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But whenever L'Allegro woos, then hark, O hark to the song of the merry lark!

ERNEST WHITNEY.

MY GRANDCHILDREN AT CHURCH.

Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue, And serious Dickie, brave as fair, Crossing to Church you oft may view When no one but myself is there: First to the belfry they repair, And while to the large ropes they cling, And make believe to call to prayer, For angels' ears the bells they ring!

Next seated gravely in a pew, A pulpit homily they share, Meet for my little flock of two, Pointed and plain as they can bear: Then venture up the pulpit's stair, Pray at the desk or gaily sing: O sweet Child-life without a care- For angels' ears the bells they ring!

Dear little ones, the early dew Of holy infancy they wear, And lift to Heaven a face as true As flowers that breathe the morning air: Whate'er they do, where'er they fare, They can command an angel's wing Their voices have a music rare, For angels' ears the bells they ring!

O parents, of your charge beware: Their angels stand before the King: In work, play, sleep, and everywhere For angels' ears the bells they ring!

RICHARD WILTON.

BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER.

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Grass that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet's ferneries; A green sky's minor thirds- To live, I think of these!

Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow, at will From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon's dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds- To live, I think of these!

Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one's naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds- To live, I think of these!

_Envoy._

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words-- To live, I think of these!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF ASPIRATION.

O to be somewhere by the sea, Far from the city's dust and shine, From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's shrine, From the stony street, and the grim decree That over an inkstand crooks my spine, From the books that are and the books to be, And the need that makes of the sacred Nine A school of harridans!--sweetheart mine, O to be somewhere by the sea!

Under a desk I bend my knee, Whether the morn be foul or fine. I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine, Or footing it over the sunlit lea. But I struggle and write and make no sign, For a labouring ox must earn his fee, And even a journalist has to dine; But O for a breath of the eglantine! O to be somewhere by the sea!

Out on the links, where the wind blows free, And the surges gush, and the rounding brine Wanders and sparkles, an air like wine Fills the senses with pride and glee. In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine, A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee: Life, love, and laziness are a trine Worshipful, wonderful, dear, divine.... O to be somewhere by the sea!

_Envoy._

Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne, When I was rich in a certain key-- The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine, Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline, O to be somewhere by the Sea!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF TRUISMS.

Gold or silver every day, Dies to grey. There are knots in every skein. Hours of work and hours of play Fade away Into one immense Inane. Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, Are as vain As the foam or as the spray. Life goes crooning, faint and fain, One refrain-- "If it could be always May!"

Though the earth be green and gay, Though, they say, Man the cup of heaven may drain; Though his little world to sway. He display Hoard on hoard of pith and brain, Autumn brings a mist and rain That constrain Him and his to know decay, Where undimmed the lights that wane Would remain, If it could be always May.

_Yea_, alas, must turn to _Nay_, Flesh to clay. Chance and Time are ever twain. Men may scoff and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain. Life may soar and Fortune deign To explain Where her prizes hide and stay; But we lack the lusty train We should gain If it could be always May.

_Envoy._

Time the pedagogue his cane Might retain, But his charges all would stray Truanting in every lane-- Jack with Jane!-- If it could be always May.

W. E. HENLEY.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE.

Fools may pine, and sots may swill, Cynics jibe and prophets rail, Moralists may scourge and drill, Preachers prose, and faint hearts quail. Let them whine, or threat, or wail! 'Till the touch of Circumstance Down to darkness sink the scale-- Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

What if skies be wan and chill? What if winds be harsh and stale? Presently the East will thrill, And the sad and shrunken sail, Bellying with a kindly gale, Bear you sunwards, while your chance Sends you back the hopeful hail-- "Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance."

Idle shot or coming bill, Hapless love or broken bail, Gulp it (never chew your pill!) And if Burgundy should fail, Try a humble pot of ale! Over all is heaven's expanse. Gold exists among the shale. Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill, Hard Sir Æger dints his mail; And the while, by hill and dale, Tristram's braveries gleam and glance, And his blithe horn tells its tale.... Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

Araminta's grand and shrill, Delia's passionate and frail, Doris drives an earnest quill, Athanasia takes the veil; Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail, At the heart of all romance Reading, sings to Strephon's flail-- Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

Every Jack must have his Jill, (Even Johnson had his Thrale!) Forward, couples--with a will! This, the world, is not a jail. Hear the music, sprat and whale! Hands across, retire, advance! Though the doomsman's on your trail, Fate's a Fiddler, Life's a dance.

_Envoy._

Boys and girls, at slug and snail And their compeers look askance. Pay your footing on the nail: Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

W. E. HENLEY.

DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS.

The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral That covers praise and blame, The isms and the anities, Magnificence and shame, "O Vanity of Vanities!"

The Fates are subtile girls! They give us chaff for grain; And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, Like bolted death, disdain At all that heart and brain Conceive, or great or small, Upon this earthly ball. Would you be knight and dame? Or woo the sweet humanities? Or illustrate a name? O Vanity of Vanities!

We sound the sea for pearls, Or lose them in the drain; We flute it with the merles, Or tug and sweat and strain; We grovel, or we reign; We saunter, or we brawl; We answer, or we call; We search the stars for Fame, Or sink her subterranities; The legend's still the same:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!"

Here at the wine one birls, There someone clanks a chain. The flag that this man furls That man to float is fain. Pleasure gives place to pain:-- These in the kennel crawl, While others take the wall. _She_ has a glorious aim, _He_ lives for the inanities. What comes of every claim? O Vanity of Vanities!

Alike are clods and earls. For sot, and seer, and swain, For emperors and for churls, For antidote and bane, There is but one refrain: But one for king and thrall, For David and for Saul, For fleet of foot and lame, For pieties and profanities, The picture and the frame-- "O Vanity of Vanities!"

Life is a smoke that curls-- Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls, A figment thin and vain, Into the vast Inane. One end for hut and hall! One end for cell and stall! Burned in one common flame Are wisdoms and insanities. For this alone we came:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!"

_Envoi._

Prince, pride must have a fall. What is the worth of all Your state's supreme urbanities? Bad at the best's the game. Well might the sage exclaim:-- "O Vanity of Vanities!"

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF SLEEP.

The hours are passing slow, I hear their weary tread Clang from the tower, and go Back to their kinsfolk dead. Sleep! death's twin brother dread! Why dost thou scorn me so? The wind's voice overhead Long wakeful here I know, And music from the steep, Where waters fall and flow. Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

All sounds that might bestow Rest on the fever'd bed, All slumb'rous sounds and low Are mingled here and wed, And bring no drowsihed. Shy dreams flit to and fro With shadowy hair dispread; With wistful eyes that glow, And silent robes that sweep. Thou wilt not hear me; no? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

What cause hast thou to show Of sacrifice unsped? Of all thy slaves below I most have labourèd With service sung and said; Have cull'd such buds as blow, Soft poppies white and red Where thy still gardens grow And Lethe's waters weep, Why, then, art thou my foe? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

_Envoi._

Prince, ere the dark be sped By golden shafts, ere low And long the shadows creep: Lord of the wand of lead, Soft-footed as the snow, Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

ANDREW LANG.

THE BALLADE OF LOVELACE.

My days for singing and loving are over And stark I lie in my narrow bed, I care not at all if roses cover Or if above me the snow is spread; I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead-- Vera and Lily and Annie and May, And my soul is set on the present fray, Its piercing kisses and subtle snares: So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway, My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

O happy moths that now flit and hover From the blossom of white to the blossom of red, Take heed, for I was a lordly lover Till the little day of my life had sped; As straight as a pine tree, a golden head, And eyes as blue as an austral bay. Ladies when loosing your satin array, Reflect, in my years had you lived my prayers Might have won you from weakly lovers away. My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.