Part 13

Watching the clouds darkly lowering,-- Track here is high on a bank-- Fields about here need a showering, Boy with the books needs a spank.

Track here is high on a bank, Just by a wretched old hovel: Boy with the books needs a spank-- "No! I don't want a new novel!"

Just by a wretched old hovel, Small speck of dust in my eye. "No! I don't want a new novel!" --Babies beginning to cry.--

Small speck of dust in my eye, "I will not buy papers or candy!" --Babies beginning to cry--. Oh, for a tomahawk handy!

"I will not buy papers or candy!" Train boys deserve to be slain; Oh, for a tomahawk handy! Oh, for the cool of the rain!

Train boys deserve to be slain, Heat and the dust--they are choking Oh, for the cool of the rain! --"Gent" just behind me is joking.

Heat and the dust, they are choking, Clogging and filling my pores; --"Gent" just behind me is joking, "Gent" just in front of me snores.

Clogging and filling my pores, Ears are on edge at the rattle; "Gent" just in front of me snores, Sounds like the noise of a battle.

Ears are on edge at the rattle, Man tho' I am, I am pale, Sounds like the noise of a battle, Here we are riding the rail.

BRANDER MATTHEWS.

IN THE SULTAN'S GARDEN.

(Pantoum.)

She oped the portal of the palace, She stole into the garden's gloom; From every spotless snowy chalice The lilies breathed a sweet perfume.

She stole into the garden's gloom, She thought that no one would discover; The lilies breathed a sweet perfume, She swiftly ran to meet her lover.

She thought that no one would discover, But footsteps followed ever near; She swiftly ran to meet her lover Beside the fountain crystal clear.

But footsteps followed ever near; Ah, who is that she sees before her Beside the fountain crystal clear? 'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer.

Ah, who is that she sees before her, His hand upon his scimitar? 'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer, It is her lord of Candahar!

His hand upon his scimitar-- Alas, what brought such dread disaster! It is her lord of Candahar, The fierce Sultan, her lord and master.

Alas, what brought such dread disaster! "Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries-- The fierce Sultan, her lord and master-- "'Neath yonder tree his body lies."

"Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries-- (A sudden, ringing voice behind him); "'Neath yonder tree his body lies--" "Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!"

A sudden, ringing voice behind him, A deadly blow, a moan of hate, "Die, lying dog! go thou and find him! Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!"

A deadly blow, a moan of hate, His blood ran red as wine in chalice; "Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!" She oped the portal of the palace.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

My soul is sick of nightingale and rose, The perfume and the darkness of the grove; I weary of the fevers and the throes, And all the enervating dreams of love.

At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove The meadows, where the simple daisy shows Her guiltless bosom to the skies above-- My soul is sick of nightingale and rose.

The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, The perfume and the darkness of the grove.

I love to hear at eve the gentle dove Contented coo the day's delightful close. She sings of love and all the calm thereof,-- I weary of the fevers and the throes.

I love the night, who like a mother throws Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove, As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes And all the enervating dreams of love.

Because my soul is sick of fancies wove Of fervid ecstasies and crimson glows; Because the taste of cinnamon and clove Palls on my palate--let no man suppose My soul is sick.

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

My day and night are in my lady's hand; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favour glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.

Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand.

All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight.

Her silver speech is like the singing flight Of runnels rippling o'er the jewelled sand; Her kiss a dream of delicate delight; For me her favour glorifies the land.

What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light.

Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand My day and night.

JOHN PAYNE.

THE PRAYER OF DRYOPE.

(Rondeau Redoublé.)

O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer. Come with thy doves across the briny sea, Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare, From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!

Ah how my heart would joy again to be Like chirming bird that cleaves the sunny air, Like wildwood roe that bounds in ecstasy; O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer!

That I am innocent hast thou no care Of crime against celestial deity? Must I the fate of lovely Lotis share?-- Come with thy doves across the briny sea!

I hear no waters' silvern melody, And yet the rippling water once was there, And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee;-- Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare!

Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair, Could I but kiss my sister Iole, Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair, From cruel bondage set thy vot'ress free!

I, who was once the blithesome Dryope, Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare; Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony, Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair, O goddess sweet.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ.

I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love; All bramble-laced, and moss-grown is the way, There is no sun, nor broad, red moon above, The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.

The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay, That which seemed sweet doth passing bitter prove; So sweet _she_ was, she will not say me nay-- I will go hence and seek her, my old Love.

Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove, Where buds unblossomed on the mosses lay; His upraised hands the dusky tangle clove, "All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!"

With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway, Strange, flitting shapes, wreathed round him as he strove Their spectral arms, and filmy green array; There was no sun, nor broad red moon above.

Here lies her lute--and here her slender glove; (Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day); But her he saw not, vanished was his Love, The year is old, he said, and skies are grey.

The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove (He flung him down upon the weeping clay), And now I find her flown--ah wellaway! The house is desolate that held my Love, I will go hence.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

THE SICILIAN OCTAVE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED.

To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite, Italian harps their native measures lend; Yet, wooing sweet diversity, not quite Thy octaves with Italia's octaves blend. Six streaming lines amass the arrowy might In hers, one cataract couplet doth expend; Thine lake-wise widens, level in the light, And like to its beginning is its end.

* * * * *

To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have brought Home precious ware from China or Japan; And thine, when keen and long pursuit hath caught Strange bird, or Psyche gay with veinèd fan-- And thine, to spell some sentence wisdom-fraught In palimpest or Arab alcoran; And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thought And cage it in my verse Sicilian.

RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D.

Although this shape is not actually akin to the group of forms in this book, yet for examples of another variety of strict verse, the author has kindly allowed two specimens to be quoted.

#The Rondel, Rondeau, and Roundel.#

_RONDEL._

_Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_ _Soussy, soing et merencolie:_ _Me cuidez-vous toute ma vie_ _Gouverner, comme fait avez?_ _Je vous promets que non ferez_ _Rayson aura sur vous maistrie_ _Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_ _Soussy, soing et merencolie._

_Si jamais plus vous retournez_ _Avecques vostre compaignie_ _Je prye à Dieu qu' il vous mauldie_ _Et le jour que vous reviendrez:_ _Allez-vous en, allez, allez,_ _Soussy, soing et merencolie._

--CHARLES D'ORLÉANS.

_RONDEAU._

_Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car Isabeau_ _M'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau._ _Cela me met en peine extrême_ _Quoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en eme!_ _Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau._

_En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau._ _Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau,_ _Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème:_ _Ma foi, c'est fait._

_Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau_ _Tirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau;_ _Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième:_ _Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième;_ _En voilà treize ajustés au niveau._ _Ma foi, c'est fait._

--VOITURE.

O HONEY OF HYMETTUS HILL.

O honey of Hymettus Hill, Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste, Wert here for the soft amorous bill Of Aphrodite's courser placed?

Thy musky scent what virginal chaste Blossom was ravished to distil, O honey of Hymettus Hill, Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

What upturned calyx drank its fill When ran the draught divine to waste, That her white hands were doomed to spill-- Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced-- O honey of Hymettus Hill, Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

H. C. BUNNER.

READY FOR THE RIDE--1795.

Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, As in the old days when he rode with her, With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride, One year ago had made her pulses stir.

Now shall no wish with any day recur (For Love and Death part year and year full wide), Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, As in the old days when he rode with her.

No ghost there lingers of the smile that died On the sweet pale lip where his kisses were-- ... Yet still she turns her delicate head aside, If she may hear him come with jingling spur-- Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, As in the old days when he rode with her.

H. C. BUNNER.

RONDEL.

This book of hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold; Each page with art and thought, And colours manifold.

His calendar he taught To youths and virgins cold; This book of hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold.

This priceless book is bought With sighs and tears untold, Of votaries who sought His countenance of old-- This book of hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold.

WALTER CRANE.

RONDEL.

When time upon the wing A swallow heedless flies, Love-birds forget to sing Beneath the lucent skies.

For now belated spring With her last blossom hies, When time upon the wing A swallow heedless flies.

What summer hope shall bring To wistful dreaming eyes? What fateful forecast fling Before life's last surprise? When time upon the wing A swallow heedless flies.

WALTER CRANE.

THE WANDERER.

(Rondel.)

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,-- The old, old Love that we knew of yore! We see him stand by the open door With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling.

He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before;-- Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,-- The old, old Love that we knew of yore!

Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling, That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore! E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

RONDEL.

When love is in her eyes What need of Spring for me? A brighter emerald lies On hill and vale and lea.

The azure of the skies Holds nought so sweet to me; When love is in her eyes What need of spring for me?

Her bloom the rose outvies, The lily dares no plea, The violet's glory dies, No flower so sweet can be; When love is in her eyes What need of spring for me?

ANNA MARIA FAY.

RONDEL.

[After Anyte of Tegea.]

Underneath this tablet rest, Grasshopper by autumn slain, Since thine airy summer nest Shivers under storm and rain.

Freely let it be confessed Death and slumber bring thee gain Spared from winter's fret and pain, Underneath this tablet rest.

Myro found thee on the plain, Bore thee in her lawny breast, Reared this marble tomb amain To receive so small a guest! Underneath this tablet rest, Grasshopper by autumn slain.

EDMUND GOSSE.

RONDEL.

How is it you and I Are always meeting so? I see you passing by Whichever way I go.

I cannot say I know The spell that draws us nigh. How is it you and I Are always meeting so?

Still thoughts to thoughts reply, And whispers ebb and flow; I say it with a sigh But half confessed and low, How is it you and I Are always meeting so?

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

VARIATIONS.

I.

"Alons au bois le may cueillir."--CHARLES D'ORLÉANS.

We'll to the woods and gather may Fresh from the footprints of the rain; We'll to the woods, at every vein To drink the spirit of the day.

The winds of spring are out at play, The needs of spring in heart and brain. We'll to the woods and gather may Fresh from the footprints of the rain.

The world's too near her end, you say?-- Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain! It waits for her, the vast Inane?-- Then, girls, to help her on the way We'll to the woods and gather may.

W. E. HENLEY.

II.

"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse, Fera ternir votre beauté."--RONSARD.

And lightly, like the flowers, Your beauties Age will dim, Who makes the song a hymn, And turns the sweets to sours!

Alas! the chubby Hours Grow lank and grey and grim, And lightly, like the flowers, Your beauties Age will dim.

Still rosy are the bowers, The walks yet green and trim. Among them let your whim Pass sweetly, like the showers, And lightly, like the flowers.

W. E. HENLEY.

III.

"Hic habitat Felicitas."

"Felicity. Enquire within. The genial goddess is at home!" So read and thought the rakes of Rome, Some frail one's lintel fain to win.

And now it blares thro' bronze and tin, Thro' clarion, organ, catcall, comb:-- "Felicity. Enquire within. The genial goddess is at home!"

For, tent or studio, bank or bin, Platonic porch, Petræan dome, Where'er our hobbies champ and foam, Thero'er the brave old sign we pin-- "Felicity. Enquire within."

W. E. HENLEY.

IV.

"And sweet girl graduates in their golden hair."--TENNYSON.

Sweet girl graduates, golden-haired, You for whom has been prepared Love's fair university, Dons and double-firsts to be- Why are you so quickly scared?

When the prudes their worst have glared, When the dowagers have stared, What has passed they might not see, Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired, You for whom has been prepared Love's fair university?

Most is won when most is dared. Let your dainty lore be aired. Love and thought and fun are free. All must flirt in their degree. Books alone have never reared Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired.

W. E. HENLEY.

RONDEL.

The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. From camp and church, the fireside and the street, She signs to come, and strife and song have been.

A summer night descending, cool and green And dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat, The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet

O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien And hopeful faces look upon and greet This last of all your lovers, and to meet Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean.... The ways of Death are soothing and serene.

W. E. HENLEY.

RONDEL.

I love you dearly, O my sweet! Although you pass me lightly by, Although you weave my life awry, And tread my heart beneath your feet.

I tremble at your touch; I sigh To see you passing down the street; I love you dearly, O my sweet! Although you pass me lightly by.

You say in scorn that love's a cheat, Passion a blunder, youth a lie. I know not. Only when we meet I long to kiss your hand and cry, "I love you dearly, O my sweet, Although you pass me lightly by."

JUSTIN HUNTLY MCCARTHY.

TWO RONDELS.

I.

When on the mid sea of the night, I waken at thy call, O Lord. The first that troop my bark aboard Are darksome imps that hate the light, Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight-- Of wraths and cares a pirate horde-- Though on the mid sea of the night It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight-- Catch up my shield and two-edged sword, The words of him who is thy word: Nor cease till they are put to flight:-- Then in the mid sea of the night I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II.

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid sea of the night! I lift my voice and cry with might: If thou keep silent, soon a horde Of imps again will swarm aboard, And I shall be in sorry plight If no voice come from thee, O Lord, Across the mid sea of the night.

There comes no voice; I hear no word! But in my soul dawns something bright:-- There is no sea, no foe to fight! Thy heart and mine beat one accord: I need no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid sea of the night.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

RONDELS.

I.

The lilacs are in bloom, All is that ever was, And Cupids peep and pass Through the curtains of the room.

Season of light perfume, Hide all beneath thy grass. The lilacs are in bloom, All is that ever was.

Dead hopes new shapes assume; Town belle and country lass Forget the word "Alas," For over every tomb The lilacs are in bloom.

II.

Summer has seen decay Of roses white and red, And Love with wings outspread Speeds after yesterday.

Blue skies have changed to grey, And joy has sorrow wed: Summer has seen decay Of roses white and red.

May's flowers outlast not May; And when the hour has fled, Around the roses dead The mournful echoes say-- Summer has seen decay.

GEORGE MOORE.

TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.

Paper, inviolate, white, Shall it be joy or pain? Shall I of fate complain, Or shall I laugh to-night?

Shall it be hopes that are bright? Shall it be hopes that are vain? Paper, inviolate, white, Shall it be joy or pain?

A dear little hand so light, A moment in mine hath lain; Kind was its pressure again-- Ah, but it was so slight!

Paper, inviolate, white, Shall it be joy or pain?

COSMO MONKHOUSE.

RONDEL.

Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here And Love is Lord of you and me. The blue-bells beckon each passing bee; The wild wood laughs to the flowered year: There is no bird in brake or brere, But to his little mate sings he, "Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here, And Love is Lord of you and me!"

The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear, The missel-thrush upon the tree Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free; And I go singing to my dear, "Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here, And Love is Lord of you and me."

JOHN PAYNE.

"BEFORE THE DAWN."

Before the dawn begins to glow, A ghostly company I keep; Across the silent room they creep, The buried forms of friend and foe. Amid the throng that come and go, There are two eyes that make me weep; Before the dawn begins to glow, A ghostly company I keep.

Two dear dead eyes. I love them so! They shine like starlight on the deep; And often when I am asleep They stoop and kiss me, bending low, Before the dawn begins to glow.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

RONDEL.

Oh, say not ye that summer's over When birds within the wood stop singing! While hands still touch in desperate clinging, Some ghost of hope in hearts must hover; Though died the dream of loved and lover, While yet the marriage bells were ringing. Oh, say not ye that summer's over When birds within the wood stop singing!

Their vanished hopes may none recover In some new day, new morrow bringing? And shall we see no buds fresh springing Upon the stalks of last year's clover? Oh, say not ye that summer's over When birds within the wood stop singing!

MAY PROBYN.

FROM THEODORE DE BANVILLE.

I.

NIGHT.

We bless the coming of the Night, Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free, Life's clamour and anxiety Her mantle covers out of sight. All eating cares have taken flight, The scented air is wine to me; We bless the coming of the Night, Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free. Rest now, O reader, worn and white, Driven by some divinity, Aloft, like sparkling hoar frost see, A starry ocean throb in light, We bless the coming of the Night.

II.

THE MOON.

The moon, with all her tricksy ways, Is like a careless young coquette, Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet, And flies or follows or delays. By night, along the sand-hills' maze, She leads and mocks you till you fret. The moon with all her tricksy ways, Is like a careless young coquette. As oft she veils herself in haze, A cloak before her splendour set; She is a silly charming pet, We needs must give her love and praise, The moon with all her tricksy ways.

ARTHUR REED ROPES.

RONDEL.

Oh, modern singers! ye who vote Our times for song unfit, Your Pegasus is smooth of coat, And patient of the bit;