Part 12

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands hold Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue: Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled, And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue: But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright, The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight. Thou are not only fair and sweet as spring; Terror and beauty, fear and wondering Meet on thy brow, amazing all that see: All men do praise thee, ay, and everything; Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

V.

I fear thee, though I love. Who can behold The sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue, What while the noontide over hill and wold Flames like a fire, except his mazèd view Wither and tremble? So thy splendid sight Fills me with mingled gladness and affright. Thy visage haunts me in the wavering Of dreams, and in the dawn awakening, I feel thy radiance streaming full on me. Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring; Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

_Envoy._

God above Gods, High and Eternal King, To whom the spheral symphonies do sing, I find no whither from thy power to flee, Save in thy pinions vast o'ershadowing. Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE CHANT OF THE CHILDREN OF THE MIST.

(Chant Royal.)

I waited on a mountain's midmost side, The lifting of a cloud, and standing there, Keeping my soul in patience far and wide Beheld faint shadows wandering, felt the air Stirred as with voices which in passing by Still dulled its weary weight with many a sigh. No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they-- These children of the mist--who took their way, Each one aloof, perplexed and pondering With steps untimed to music grave or gay;-- This was a people that had lost its king.

In happier days of old it was their pride To serve him on their knee and some were 'ware E'en of his voice or presence as they plied Their daily task, or ate their simple fare. Now in new glory shrouded, far and nigh He had withdrawn himself from ear and eye; Scorning such service as they knew to pay, His ministers were as the golden ray Shot from the sun when he would wake the spring,-- Swift to perform and pliant to obey-- This was a people that had lost its king.

Single as beasts, or if allied, allied But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair To hound for common need, which scarce supplied, He lone returns with his disputed share,-- Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy, Each man of these pursued his way on high, Still high and higher, seeking through the grey Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday. Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowing Shadows continuing never in one stay;-- This was a people that had lost its king.

Then as the day wore on, and none descried The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare, As strength declined, and hope within them died A sad new birth,--the fruit of their despair,-- Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play Broke up the hard cold barriers of their clay, Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to cling In fealty that was only joined to pray; This was a people that had lost its king.

So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed, With gathering power and ever lessening care, The veiled beguilements of the way defied They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair; Till lo upon its crown at last they vie In songs of rapture as they hail the sky, And trace their lost one through the vast array Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay Their questing love, but help to waft and wing; And over all a voice which seems to say, This is a people that has found its king!

_Envoy._

Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that day When at thy feet a scattered host we lay. Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring, Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway. This was the people that had lost its king!

EMILY PFEIFFER.

KING BOREAS.

(Chant Royal.)

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar, Beyond the level land of endless snow, For months I see the brilliant polar star Shine on a shore, the lonelier none may know. Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,-- My realms are boundless as the realms of Night. Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obey My many minions from the isles of Day; And when my heralds sound aloud, behold My slaves appear with suppliant heads alway! I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am the god of the winds that are! I blow where'er I list,--I come, I go. Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped car I rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro. The dreary woodlands shudder in affright To hear my clarion on the mountain height. The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray, "Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?" I am as aged as the earth is old, Yet strong am I although my locks are grey; I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I loose my chains, and then with awful jar And presage of disaster and dire woe, Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war 'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow. I bid them haste; they bound in eager flight Toward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm light Makes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray, They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay. They turn green meadows to a desert wold, And naught for rulers of the earth care they;-- I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

When in the sky, a lambent scimitar, In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow, When night is perfect, and no cloud doth mar The peace of nature, when the rivers flow Is soft and musical, and when the sprite Whispers to lovers on each breeze bedight With fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may, And seize upon whate'er I will for prey. I see the billows high as hilltops rolled, And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray! I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am in league with Death. When I unbar My triple-guarded doors, and there bestow Upon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scar The brightest dales with summer blooms a-row, They breathe on every bower a deadly blight, And all is sere and withered in their sight. Unheeded now, Apollo's warming ray Wakes not the flower, for my chill breezes play Where once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold, And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,-- I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

_Envoy._

O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say!-- "Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye; His might hath empire only of the mold," Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay! I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

THE NEW EPIPHANY.

(Chant Royal.)

Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep! Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night, From chaos and thick darkness, from the deep Of formless being, comes a gracious light, Gilding the crystal seas, and casting round A golden glory on the enchanted ground;-- Awake, O souls of harmony, and ye That greet the dayspring with your jubilee Of lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bring Your well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee, Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheep Espied their shepherd, and with eager flight Gone forth to meet him on the craggy steep; Hasting the while his summoning notes invite Where riper grasses and green herbs abound:-- But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound! He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he! Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly flee To him who makes once more new growths upspring; Oh, quit your ancient glebes,--oh, joyfully Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Too long ye till exhausted lands and reap Thin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite: Too long your laggard oxen labouring creep Up the wide furrows, and full idly smite The weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound: Will ye not quit these fields now barren found? Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to be Brave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary;-- Then each, let each his robe around him fling, And with his little one, his child, set free, Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweep Their creamy ripples up the sandy bight, Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap, The faery infant of the infinite! Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crowned He'll turn to thee to fathom and expound; Asking, enquiring, looking unto thee To solve the universe, its destiny;-- And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling, Asking, enquiring,--whispering, may not we Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weep O'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite; Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keep Watch on this guiding star that beams so bright Around your brows be this phylacter bound,-- _Let Truth be king and let his praise resound!_ Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea, To sound his praises let all hearts agree; Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring, Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancy Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

_Envoy._

Thou art the king, O Truth! we bend the knee To thee; we own thy wondrous sovranty; And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing, Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsy Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

THE GLORY OF THE YEAR.

When Spring came softly breathing o'er the land, With warmer sunshine and sweet April shower; Bidding the silken willow leaves expand; Calling to hill and meadow, bee and flower, Bright with new life and beauty; on light wing Bringing the birds again to love and sing; And waking in the heart its joy amain, With old fond hopes and memories in its train; Childishly glad mid universal cheer, How oft we sang the half-forgotten strain: "_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned, With footstep free and proud in restless power, With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned, In blooming loveliness came to her bower, Her golden tresses loosely wandering In wild luxuriance,--then pretty Spring Seemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain. How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign! How day by day our empress grew more dear! "Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain? _Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous hand Poured round our feet the riches of her dower: The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland, The largess free to gleaner and to plower, And all the Summer sought in vain to bring; When stood the hills in glorious garmenting; Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain, No more could our ennobled thoughts sustain Regretful memory of Summer sere,-- "What of the past!" we cried in quick disdain; "_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

Then before mighty Winter, stern and grand, We saw defenceless Autumn shivering, cower, Changed to Duessa by his potent wand, Shorn of her loveliness, in Fortune's lower Naked for Winter's scourge to smite and sting. How godlike came the world's new sceptered King! He fettered fast her torrents with his chain, Bound with his manacles the moaning main, Yea, wrought his will with all things far and near. "At last," we said, "what more can Time attain? _Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

Neglected Spring, despised, insulted, banned! Poor weakling! came again one April hour, The tyrant struck his tent at her command; She laughed,--down tumbling fell his frosty tower; At one light finger-touch his captives fling Their shackles off and make the valleys ring With praises to the conqueror of pain. All the lost lives that languishing have lain, Leaves, grasses, buds, and birds again appear, "O now!" we cried again and yet again, "_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

Prince, while Spring sports with sunbeam, flower, and rain,-- While wanton Summer riots on the plain,-- 'Neath Autumn's calm, or Winter's frown severe, Change only clearer chants the old refrain, "_Now_ we behold the glory of the year!"

ERNEST WHITNEY.

#The Kyrielle, Pantoum, and Rondeau Redouble.#

_Qui voudra sçavoir la pratique_ _De cette rime juridique,_ _Je dis que bien mise en effet_ _La Kyrielle ainsi se fait._ _De plante de sillabes huit_ _Usez en donc si bien vous duit;_ _Pour faire le couplet parfait_ _La Kirielle ainsi si fait._

--THEODORE DE BANVILLE.

KYRIELLE.

A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine, A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine, A fly in the sunshine,--such is man. All things must end, as all began.

A little pain, a little pleasure, A little heaping up of treasure; Then no more gazing upon the sun. All things must end that have begun.

Where is the time for hope or doubt? A puff of the wind, and life is out; A turn of the wheel, and rest is won. All things must end that have begun.

Golden morning and purple night, Life that fails with the failing light; Death is the only deathless one. All things must end that have begun.

Ending waits on the brief beginning; Is the prize worth the stress of winning? E'en in the dawning the day is done. All things must end that have begun.

Weary waiting and weary striving, Glad outsetting and sad arriving; What is it worth when the goal is won? All things must end that have begun.

Speedily fades the morning glitter; Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter. Two are parted from what was one. All things must end that have begun.

Toil and pain and the evening rest; Joy is weary and sleep is best; Fair and softly the day is done. All things must end that have begun.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE PAVILION.

In the tent the lamps were bright; Out beyond the summer night Thrilled and quivered like a star: _We beneath were left so far._

From the depths of blue profound Never any sight or sound Came our loneliness to mar: _We beneath were left so far._

But against the summer sky Only you stood out and I; From all other things that are _We beneath were left so far._

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

KYRIELLE.

In spring Love came, a welcome guest, And tarried long at my behest; Now autumn wanes, the skies are grey But loyal Love flees not away.

I charmed him with melodious lays Through long rose-scented summer days; My songs no more are clear and gay But loyal Love flees not away.

We plucked and twined the myrtle flowers, Made joyance in the sylvan bowers; The blooms have died, wild winds hold sway, But loyal Love flees not away.

Gone are the fifing crickets, gone The feathered harbingers of dawn, And gone the woodland's bright display, But loyal Love flees not away.

With intermingled light and shade The shifting seasons come and fade; Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray, But loyal Love flees not away!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

IN TOWN.

"The blue fly sung in the pane."--_Tennyson._

Toiling in Town now is "horrid" (There is that woman again!)-- June in the zenith is torrid, Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again: "Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" Thought gets dry in the brain; Ink gets dry in the bottle.

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!" Oh for the green of a lane!-- Ink gets dry in the bottle; "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane, Where one might lie and be lazy! "Buzz" goes a fly in the pane; Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy, Careless of Town and all in it!-- Bluebottles drive me crazy: I shall go mad in a minute!

Careless of Town and all in it, With some one to soothe and to still you; I shall go mad in a minute, Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still you, As only one's feminine kin do,-- Bluebottle, then I shall kill you: There now! I've broken the window!

As only one's feminine kin do,-- Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!-- There now! I've broken the window! Bluebottle's off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May, To dash one with eau de Cologne;-- Bluebottle's off and away, And why should I stay here alone?

To dash one with eau de Cologne, All over one's eminent forehead; And why should I stay here alone? Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

AUSTIN DOBSON.

MONOLOGUE D'OUTRE TOMBE.

(Pantoum.)

Morn and noon and night, Here I lie in the ground; No faintest glimmer of light, No lightest whisper of sound.

Here I lie in the ground; The worms glide out and in; No lightest whisper of sound, After a life-long din.

The worms glide out and in; They are fruitful and multiply; After a life-long din, I watch them quietly.

They are fruitful and multiply, My body dwindles the while; I watch them quietly; I can scarce forbear a smile.

My body dwindles the while, I shall soon be a skeleton; I can scarce forbear a smile They have had such glorious fun.

I shall soon be a skeleton, The worms are wriggling away; They have had such glorious fun, They will fertilise my clay.

The worms are wriggling away, They are what I have been, They will fertilise my clay. The grass will grow more green.

They are what I have been. I shall change, but what of that? The grass will grow more green, The parson's sheep grow fat.

I shall change, but what of that? All flesh is grass, one says, The parson's sheep grow fat, The parson grows in grace.

All flesh is grass, one says, Grass becomes flesh, one knows, The parson grows in grace; I am the grace he grows.

Grass becomes flesh, one knows, He grows like a bull of Bashan. I am the grace he grows; I startle his congregation.

He grows like a bull of Bashan, One day he'll be Bishop or Dean, I startle his congregation: One day I shall preach to the Q--n.

One day he'll be Bishop or Dean, One of those science-haters; One day I shall preach to the Q--n. To think of my going in gaiters!

One of those science-haters, Blind as a mole or bat; To think of my going in gaiters, And wearing a shovel hat!

Blind as a mole or bat, No faintest glimmer of light, And wearing a shovel hat, Morning and noon and night.

"_Love in Idleness._"

PANTOUM.

(Song in the Malay manner.)

The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath. The sweet airs ripple up the lake: My soul, my soul is sick to death, My heart, my heart is like to break.

The sweet airs ripple up the lake, I hear the thin woods' fluttering: My heart, my heart is like to break; What part have I, alas! in spring?

I hear the thin woods' fluttering; The brake is brimmed with linnet-song: What part have I, alas! in spring? For me, heart's winter is life-long.

The brake is brimmed with linnet song; Clear carols flutter through the trees; For me heart's winter is life-long; I cast my sighs on every breeze.

Clear carols flutter through the trees; The new year hovers like a dove: I cast my sighs on every breeze; Spring is no spring, forlorn of love.

The new year hovers like a dove Above the breast of the green earth: Spring is no spring, forlorn of love; Alike to me are death and birth.

Above the breast of the green earth The soft sky flutters like a flower: Alike to me are death and birth; I dig Love's grave in every hour.

The soft sky flutters like a flower Along the glory of the hills: I dig Love's grave in every hour, I hear Love's dirge in all the rills.

Along the glory of the hills Flowers slope into a rim of gold: I hear Love's dirge in all the rills; Sad singings haunt me as of old.

Flowers slope into a rim of gold Along the marges of the sky: Sad singings haunt me as of old; Shall Love come back to me to die?

Along the marges of the sky The birds wing homeward from the East: Shall Love come back to me to die? Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd?

The birds wing homeward from the East; I smell spice-breaths upon the air: Shall Hope relive, once having ceas'd? It would lie black on my despair.

I smell spice-breaths upon the air; The golden Orient savours pass: Hope would lie black on my despair, Like a moon-shadow on the grass.

The golden Orient savours pass: The full spring throbs in all the shade: Like a moon-shadow on the grass, My hope into the dusk would fade.

The full spring throbs in all the shade; We shall have roses soon, I trow; My hope into the dusk would fade; Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow.

We shall have roses soon I trow; Soon will the rich red poppies burn: Bring lilies on Love's grave to strow: My hope is fled beyond return.

Soon will the rich red poppies burn; Soon will blue iris star the stream: My hope is fled beyond return; Have my eyes tears for my waste dream?

Soon will blue iris star the stream; Summer will turn the air to wine: Have my eyes tears for my waste dream? Can songs come from these lips of mine?

Summer will turn the air to wine, So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers: Can songs come from those lips of mine? My thoughts are grey as winter hours.

So full and sweet the mid-spring flowers. The wind brings up the hawthorn's breath; My thoughts are grey as winter hours; My soul, my soul is sick to death.

JOHN PAYNE.

EN ROUTE.

(Pantoum.)

Here we are riding the rail, Gliding from out of the station; Man though I am, I am pale, Certain of heat and vexation.

Gliding from out of the station, Out from the city we thrust; Certain of heat and vexation, Sure to be covered with dust.

Out from the city we thrust: Rattling we run o'er the bridges: Sure to be covered with dust, Stung by a thousand of midges.

Rattling we dash o'er the bridges, Rushing we dash o'er the plain; Stung by a thousand of midges, Certain precursors of rain.

Rushing we dash o'er the plain, Watching the clouds darkly lowering, Certain precursors of rain: Fields about here need a showering.