Part 11

Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover Sweet voices come down through the binding lead; O queens that every age must discover For men, that Man's delight may be fed; Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed For the space of a year, a month, a day, No thirst but mine could your thirst allay; And oh, for an hour of life, my dears, To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay,-- My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

_Envoi._

Prince was I ever of festival gay, And time never silvered my locks with grey; The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs, So think of me sometimes dear ladies I pray, My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.

GEORGE MOORE.

BALLAD.

I.

What do we here who, with reverted eyes, Turn back our longing from the modern air To the dim gold of long-evanished skies, When other songs in other mouths were fair? Why do we stay the load of life to bear, To measure still the weary, worldly ways, Waiting upon the still-recurring sun, That ushers in another waste of days, Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays? Why, but because our task is yet undone?

II.

Were it not thus, could but our high emprise Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear To seek that haven where contentment lies? Who would not doff at once life's load of care, To be at peace amid the silence there? Ah, who alas?--Across the heat and haze Death beckons to us in the shadow dun-- Favouring and fair--"My rest is sweet," he says; But we reluctantly avert our gaze: Why, but because our task is yet undone?

III.

Songs have we sung, and many melodies Have from our lips had issue rich and rare; But never yet the conquering chant did rise, That should ascend the very heaven's stair, To rescue life from anguish and despair. Often and again, drunk with delight of lays, "Lo!" have we cried, "this is the golden one That shall deliver us!"--Alas! Hope's rays Die in the distance, and Life's sadness stays. Why, but because our task is yet undone?

_Envoy._

Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise, Grant that the aim of rest for us be won; Let the light shine upon our life that strays Disconsolate within the desert maze; Why, but because our task is yet undone?

JOHN PAYNE.

DOUBLE BALLAD. OF THE SINGERS OF THE TIME.

I.

Why are our songs like the moan of the main, When the wild winds buffet it to and fro, (Our brothers ask us again and again), A weary burden of hope laid low? Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow? Is life cast down from its fair estate? This I answer them, nothing mo', _Songs and singers are out of date._

II.

What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain, Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow. Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gain For shameful honour, for wealth and woe, Hunger and luxury--weeds that throw Up from one seeding their flowers of hate? Can we tune our lute to these themes? ah no! _Songs and singers are out of date._

III.

Our songs should be of faith without stain, Of haughty honour and deaths that sow The seeds of life on the battle-plain, Of loves unsullied and eyes that show The fair white soul in the deeps below. Where are they, these that our songs await, To wake to joyance? Doth any know? _Songs and singers are out of date._

IV.

What have we done with meadow and lane? Where are the flowers and the hawthorn snow? Acres of brick in the pitiless rain,---- These are our gardens for thorpe and stow! Summer has left us long ago, Gone to the lands where the turtles mate And the crickets chirp in the wild rose row; _Songs and singers are out of date._

V.

We sit and sing to a world in pain, Our heartstrings quiver sadly and slow; But, aye and anon, the murmurous strain Swells up to a clangour of strife and throe, And the folks that hearken, or friend or foe, Are ware that the stress of the time is great And say to themselves, as they come and go, _Songs and singers are out of date._

VI.

Winter holds us, body and brain: Ice is over our being's flow; Song is a flower that will droop and wane, If it have no heaven toward which to grow. Faith and beauty are dead, I trow Nothing is left but fear and fate: Men are weary of hope; and so _Songs and singers are out of date._

JOHN PAYNE.

A BALLAD OF LOST LOVERS.

Beyond the end of Paradise Where never mortal may repair, A phantom-haunted forest lies With twisted branches always bare, And here unhappy lovers fare And ever more complain their lot, Ah! pity them that wander there, _Half-remembered and half-forgot._

There Orpheus leaves his lute and cries No more on Eurydice the fair, There silent Sappho sits and sighs, Sad as the violets in her hair, And pale Francesca's heart-strings stir (She knows not why) if Launcelot Look round, and dead days call to her _Half-remembered and half-forgot._

There Jason walks with coward eyes Bent down yet seeing everywhere How fiery vested Glaucé dies, And white Medea's wild despair, Fair Rosamond and French Heaulmière, And he who sang the queenly Scot, Meet many another wanderer, _Half-remembered and half-forgot._

Alas! they never shall arise Nor leave this lonely limbo where They share not in our common skies, And know not of our sunlit air; They had their time for work and prayer, For hope and help, but used them not, Or if they dreamed that such things were, _Half-remembered and half-forgot._

_Envoy._

Lovers, I pray ye mind whene'er Your youth is proud and passion-hot, How Love itself may turn a care _Half-remembered and half-forgot._

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

A BALLAD OF HEROES.

O conquerors and heroes, say- Great Kings and Captains tell me this, Now that you rest beneath the clay What profit lies in victories? Do softer flower-roots twine and kiss The whiter bones of Charlemain? Our crownless heads sleep sweet as his, _Now all your victories are in vain._

All ye who fell that summer's day When Athens lost Amphipolis, Who blinded by the briny spray Fell dead i' the sea at Salamis, You captors of Thyreatis, Who bear yourselves a heavier chain, With your young brother, Bozzaris, _Now all your victories are in vain._

And never Roman armies may Rouse Hannibal where now he is, When Cæsar makes no king obey, And fast asleep lies Lascaris; Who fears the Goths or Khan-Yenghiz? Not one of all the paynim train Can taunt us with Nicopolis, _Now all your victories are in vain._

What reck you Spartan heroes, pray, Of Arcady or Argolis? When one barbarian boy to-day Would fain be king of all of Greece. Brave knights, you would not stir I wis, Altho' the very Cross were ta'en; Not Rome itself doth Cæsar miss, _Now all your victories are in vain._

_Envoy._

O kings, bethink how little is The good of battles or the gain-- Death conquers all things with his peace _Now all your victories are in vain._

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

A BALLAD OF FRANÇOIS VILLON,

PRINCE OF ALL BALLAD-MAKERS.

Bird of the bitter bright grey golden morn Scarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years, First of us all and sweetest singer born Whose far shrill note the world of new men hears Cleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears; When song new-born put off the old world's attire And felt its tune on her changed lips expire, Writ foremost on the roll of them that came Fresh girt for service of the latter lyre, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn, That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears, And gave thee stones for bread and tares for corn And plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peers Till death clipt close their flight with shameful shears; Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire, When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wire Could buy thee bread or kisses; when light fame Spurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!

Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn! Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears! Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn, That rings athwart the sea whence no man steers Like joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears! What far delight has cooled the fierce desire That like some ravenous bird was strong to tire On that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame, But left more sweet than roses to respire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?

_Envoi._

Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire, A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire; Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame. But from thy feet now death has washed the mire, Love reads out first at head of all our quire, Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD

Which Villon made for himself and his comrades, expecting to be hanged along with them.

Men, brother men, that after us yet live, Let not your hearts too hard against us be; For if some pity of us poor men ye give, The sooner God shall take of you pity. Here are we five or six strung up, you see, And here the flesh that all too well we fed Bit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred, And we the bones grow dust and ash withal; Let no man laugh at us discomforted, But pray to God that he forgive us all.

If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we Were slain by law; ye know that all alive Have not wit alway to walk righteously; Make therefore intercession heartily With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, That his grace be not as a dry well-head For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead, But pray to God that he forgive us all.

The rain has washed and laundered us all five, And the sun dried and blackened; yea, per die, Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive, Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for fee Our beards and eyebrows; never are we free, Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped, Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led, More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall. Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said, But pray to God that he forgive us all.

Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed; We have nought to do in such a master's hall. Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, But pray to God that he forgive us all.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A BALLAD OF BATH.

Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep, Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours, Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creep Soft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep, Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers. Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers, Touch thee not, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears, Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace, Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres: Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap, Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers; Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steep Whence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs leap, Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian powers. Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres, All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears; Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace, Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears, Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep: Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers, Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep, Here than memory whispers of days our memories keep Fast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours. Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endears Still the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears, Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we trace Still the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers: Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years, Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers; Only love and lovely remembrance here have place. Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears; Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A BALLAD OF SARK.

High beyond the granite portal arched across, Like the gateway of some godlike giant's hold Sweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and moss East and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold. Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold. Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the lark Fill with joy the rapturous island, as an ark Full of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree, None would dream that grief even here may disembark On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal boss Take the sun with all their blossom broad and bold. None would dream that all this moorland's glow and gloss Could be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold, Even in eyes that opened here, and here behold Now no sun relume from hope's belated spark, Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners hark Though the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee, While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded bark On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs toss On the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled. Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter loss Raise the bride-song through the graveyard on the wold Where the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould, Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk, Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark, Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie, Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of Sark On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark, Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark, Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee. Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark, On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

(_Chant Royal, after Holbein._)

"_Contra vim_ MORTIS _Non est medicamen in hortis._"

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide, Later or soon, the message of his might; Princes and potentates their heads must hide, Touched by the awful sigil of his right; Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait And pours a potion in his cup of state; The stately Queen his bidding must obey; No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray; And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith-- "Let be, Sweetheart, to junket and to play...." There is no king more terrible than Death.

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride, He draweth down; before the armèd Knight With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride; He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight; He beckons the grave Elder from debate, He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate, Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay; No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay; E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth, Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay.... There is no king more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betide The Wine-bibber,--the Roisterer by night; Him the feast-master, many bouts defied, Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite; Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate; Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay; Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey With creeping tread the traveller hurryeth:-- These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay.... There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity,--nor will be denied. When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright, Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide, And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight; He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:-- He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate, Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may; Nay, the tired Ploughman,--at the sinking ray,-- In the last furrow,--feels an icy breath, And knows a hand hath turned the team astray.... There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, Blithe with the promise of her life's delight, That wanders gladly by her Husband's side, He with the clatter of his drum doth fright; He scares the Virgin at the convent grate; The maid half-won, the Lover passionate; He hath no grace for weakness or decay: The tender Wife, the Widow bent and grey,-- The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,-- All these he leadeth by the lonely way.... There is no king more terrible than Death.

_Envoy._

YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late, I sang of Prodigals and lost estate, Have thou thy joy of living and be gay; But know not less that there must come a day,-- Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,-- When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,-- There is no king more terrible than Death.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS.

(Chant Royal.)

Behold, above the mountains there is light, A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire, And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher The lurid mists that, of the night aware, Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare; Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose, And down the vales a lyric people flows, Who dance to music, and in dancing fling Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir; Tossing on high the symbol of their rite, The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire; Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair, With ivy circling their abundant hair, Onward, with even pace, in stately rows, With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose, And deathless praises to their vine-god sing.

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white, And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, Bathed in an air of infinite delight, Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare, Leading the van to conquest, on they fare; Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes, These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring, And forests grim forget their ancient woes, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire, Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight, And wandered forth through many a scourging briar, And waited shivering in the icy air, And wrapped their leopard-skins about them there, Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze, The time must come, that every poet knows, When he shall rise and feel himself a king, And follow, follow where the ivy grows, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. But oh! within the heart of this great flight, What ivory arms held up the golden lyre? What form is this of more than mortal height What matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire? The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, And harmonise their steps with stately care; Bent to the morning like a living rose, The immortal splendour of his face he shows, And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

_Envoi._

Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling; And with no frigid lips our songs compose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

EDMUND GOSSE.

THE GOD OF LOVE.

(Chant Royal.)

I.

O most fair God, O Love both new and old, That wast before the flowers of morning blew, Before the glad sun in his mail of gold Leapt into light across the first day's dew; That art the first and last of our delight, That in the blue day and the purple night Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing, That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key And Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

II.

What thing rejects thy mastery? who so bold But at thine altars in the dusk they sue? Even the strait pale goddess, silver-stoled, That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new, To thee did homage in her own despite, When in the shadow of her wings of white She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering, And in that kiss put off cold chastity. Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string, "Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?"

III.

Master of men and gods, in every fold Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew The labouring earth, tranced with the winter's cold, Lie hid--the quintessential charms that woo The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling; Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling Their spells of healing over land and sea, One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, "Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!"

IV.