Part 14

But lost the freedom of his throat, And dulled his prairie wit, Oh, modern singers, ye who vote Our times for song unfit,

If kin, fame, critics, age, you quote As fain to thwart and twit, Just try to feel your wings, and float Above the scornful kit:- Oh, modern singers, ye who vote Our times for song unfit!

EMILY PFEIFFER.

COME, LOVE, ACROSS THE SUNLIT LAND.

(Rondel.)

Come, Love, across the sunlit land, As blithe as dryad dancing free, While time slips by like silvery sand Within the glass of memory.

Ere Winter, in his reckless glee, Blights all the bloom with ruthless hand, Come, Love, across the sunlit land, As blithe as dryad dancing free.

And all the years of life shall be Like peaceful vales that wide expand To meet a bright, untroubled sea By radiant azure arches spanned; Come, Love, across the sunlit land As blithe as dryad dancing free.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

UPON THE STAIR I SEE MY LADY STAND.

(Rondel.)

Upon the stair I see my lady stand, Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn, And, like the laughing sunbeam on the lawn, The radiant smile by which her lips are spanned.

A chiselled marvel seems her slender hand What time she waves it ere my steps are gone; Upon the stair I see my lady stand, Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.

Through the green covert that the breeze has fanned She fleets as graceful as the flexile fawn; She is the star to which my soul is drawn When shadows drive the daylight from the land. Upon the stair I see my lady stand, Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

I HEARD A MAID WITH HER GUITAR.

(Rondel.)

I heard a maid with her guitar Who played, like Orpheus, to the wind, And sent forth rhythmic notes afar From out an arbor vine-entwined.

She knew the God of love was blind, And left her white heart-gates ajar-- I heard a maid with her guitar Who played, like Orpheus, to the wind.

But ah! Love's ears are keen as are The ears of shy, pool-haunting hind, And when she closed her bosom's bar She found the god was there enshrined; I heard a maid with her guitar Who played, like Orpheus, to the wind.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

VALENTINE.

Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door; The chilling breezes make him smart; His little feet are tired and sore.

Arise, and welcome him before Adown his cheeks the big tears start: Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door.

'Tis Cupid come with loving art To honour, worship, and implore; And lest, unwelcomed, he depart With all his wise mysterious lore, Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

LOVE'S CAPTIVE.

I hide her in my heart, my May, And keep my darling captive there! But not because she'd fly away To seek for liberty elsewhere, For love is ever free as air! And as with me her love will stay, I hide her in my heart, my May, And keep my darling captive there.

Our love is love that lives for aye Enchained in fetters strong and fair, So evermore, by night and day, That we our prisoned home may share, I hide her in my heart, my May, And keep my darling captive there.

C. H. WARING.

LOVE.

Looks that love not are silver-cold-- Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes! Hearts are wide as the boundless skies Full of loves--like the stars--untold!

Love by love should be bought and sold. Other payments are shams and lies! Looks that love not are silver-cold-- Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes!

Many loves will a great heart hold-- Foolish often, but often wise; _Some_ of silver, but _one_ of gold,-- Life's great treasure, and crowning prize. Looks that love not are silver-cold-- Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes--

C. H. WARING.

RONDEL.

The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string: The warblers now are on the wing. Across the pathless ocean-glooms, Through tender grass and violet blooms, I move along and gaily sing. The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string.

Nature with beauteous tints illumes The fields and groves of budding Spring, Loud voices from afar to bring; And my glad Muse its song resumes-- The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string.

RICHARD WILTON.

BENEDICITE.

O all ye Green Things on the Earth, Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade; To whisper praises ye were made, Or wave to Him in solemn mirth. For this the towering pine had birth, For this sprang forth each grassy blade; O all ye Green Things on the Earth, Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade.

Ye wayside weeds of little worth, Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade, Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade, Ye steadfast yews of mighty girth: O all ye Green Things on the Earth, Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade!

RICHARD WILTON.

RONDELETS.

"Which way he went?" I know not--how should I go spy Which way he went? I only know him gone. "Relent?" He never will--unless I die! And then, what will it signify Which way he went?

Say what you please, But know, I shall not change my mind! Say what you please, Even, if you wish it, on your knees-- And, when you hear me next defined As something lighter than the wind, Say what you please!

MAY PROBYN.

MIGHT LOVE BE BOUGHT.

Might Love be bought, I were full fain My all to give thy love to gain. Yet would such getting profit naught; Possession with keen fears were fraught, Would make even love's blisses vain.

For who could tell what god might deign His golden treasures round thee rain, Till ruin on my hopes were brought, Might Love be bought.

Better a pensioner remain On thy dear grace, since to attain To worthiness in vain I sought. Thy kindness hath assurance wrought Could never be between us twain Might Love be bought.

ARLO BATES.

IN THY CLEAR EYES.

In thy clear eyes, fairest, I see Sometimes of love a transient glow; But ere my heart assured may be, With cold disdain thou mockest me: Hope fades as songs to silence flow.

Ah! most bewitching, mocking she, Fairer than poet's dream may show, The glance of scorn how can I dree In thy clear eyes?

Life is so brief, and to and fro, Like thistledown above the lea, Fly on poor days; why then so slow To bend from pride? Let us bliss know Ere age the light dims ruthlessly In thy clear eyes.

ARLO BATES.

THE SWEET, SAD YEARS.

The sweet sad years; the sun, the rain, Alas! too quickly did they wane, For each some boon, some blessing bore; Of smiles and tears each had its store, Its chequered lot of bliss and pain.

Although it idle be and vain, Yet cannot I the wish restrain That I had held them evermore, The sweet sad years!

Like echo of an old refrain That long within the mind has lain, I keep repeating o'er and o'er, "Nothing can e'er the past restore, Nothing bring back the years again, The sweet sad years!"

REV. CHARLES D. BELL, D.D.

A WISH.

Fain would I pass from all the pain, The aching heart and weary brain, From gnawing grief and withering care, And passion rising to despair, From love dissatisfied and vain.

From tears that burn the cheeks they stain, And hopes that droop like flowers in rain, From sorrows that turn grey the hair, Fain would I pass!

Beyond the silent, soundless main, Where the long lost are found again, Where summer smiles for ever fair, Where skies are pure, divine the air, Where love and joy eternal reign, Fain would I pass!

REV. CHARLES D. BELL, D.D.

TO A DOLEFUL POET.

Why are you sad when the sky is blue? Why, when the sun shines bright for you, And the birds are singing, and all the air So sweet with the flowers everywhere? If life hath thorns, it has roses too.

Be wise and be merry. 'Tis half untrue Your doleful song. You have work to do. If the work be good, and the world so fair, Why are you sad?

Life's sorrows are many, its joys so few! Ah! sing of the joys! Let the dismal crew Of black thoughts bide in their doleful lair, Give us glad songs; sing us free from care. Gladness maketh the world anew, Why are you sad?

_An Answer._

Why am I sad when the sky is blue, You ask, O friend, and I answer you-- I love the sun and balmy air, The flowers and glad things everywhere. But if life is merry, 'tis earnest too.

And the earnest hour, if hope be true, Must be solemn or sad; for the work we do Is little and weak. Ask the world so fair Why I am sad.

For me glad hours are nowise few, But life is so serious-ship and crew Bound such a voyage to death's dark lair. My work is my happy song: but care Still steals on the quiet hour anew And makes it sad.

H. COURTHOPE BOWEN.

"HIS POISONED SHAFTS."

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips In juice of plants that no bee sips, He takes, and with his bow renown'd Goes out upon his hunting ground, Hanging his quiver at his hips.

He draws them one by one, and clips Their heads between his finger tips, And looses with a twanging sound His poisoned shafts.

But if a maiden with her lips Suck from his wound the blood that drips, And drink the poison from the wound, The simple remedy is found That of their deadly terror strips His poisoned shafts.

ROBERT BRIDGES.

TO HOMER.

All down the years thy tale has rolled-- A brilliant streak of burnished gold Old Homer, near we seem to thee, As roving over vale and sea Thou tellest of thy hero bold!

For we too wonder, as of old Thy hero did. The fates are doled To us the same, both serf and free, All down the years.

None other yet has ever told So sweet a tale; as we unfold Thy mystic page we find the key Of human sorrow, guilt and glee, Which ever comes our souls to mould All down the years.

JOHN MALCOLM BULLOCH.

SEPTEMBER.

The Summer's gone--how did it go? And where has gone the dogwood's show? The air is sharp upon the hill, And with a tinkle sharp and chill The icy little brooklets flow.

What is it in the season, though, Brings back the days of old, and so Sets memory recalling still The Summer's gone?

Why are my days so dark? for lo! The maples with fresh glory glow, Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill, The keen air sets the blood a-thrill- Ah! now that _you_ are gone, I know The Summer's gone.

H. C. BUNNER.

LES MORTS VONT VITE.

_Les morts vont vite!_ Ay for a little space We miss and mourn them, fallen from their place; To take our portion in their rest are fain; But by-and-by, having wept, press on again, Perchance to win their laurels in the race.

What man would find the old in the new love's face? Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace, For withered roses newer blooms disdain? _Les morts vont vite!_

But when disease brings thee in piteous case, Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace To them for whom remembrance plead in vain. Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow Pain Clasp thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace: _Les morts vont vite!_

H. C. BUNNER.

"IN LOVE'S DISPORT."

In love's disport, gay bubbles blown On summer winds light-freighted flown: A child intent upon delight The painted spheres would keep in sight, Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown.

Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grown Fair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone, Clear globes where fate may read aright In love's disport.

O frail as fair! though in the white Of flameful heat with force to fight, Art thou by careless hands cast down Or killed, when frozen hearts disown The children born of love and light In love's disport.

WALTER CRANE.

"WHAT MAKES THE WORLD?"

What makes the world, Sweetheart, reply? A space of lawn, a strip of sky, The bread and wine of fellowship, The cup of life for love to sip, A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eye

So let the days and hours go by, Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny, With feathered heel shall fancy trip-- What makes the world?

The wealth that never in the grip Of blighting greed shall heedless slip,-- When bought and sold is liberty, With worth of life and love gone by-- What makes the world?

WALTER CRANE.

"O FONS BANDUSIÆ."

O babbling Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,-- Sure sign!--of loves and battles near.

Child of the race that butt and rear! Not less, alas! his life-blood dear Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, O babbling Spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,-- The wandering flock. This verse of mine Will rank thee one with founts divine; Men shall thy rock and tree revere, O babbling Spring!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"ON LONDON STONES."

On London stones I sometimes sigh For wider green and bluer sky;-- Too oft the trembling note is drowned In this huge city's varied sound;-- "Pure song is country-born,"--I cry.

Then comes the spring,--the months go by, The last stray swallows seaward fly; And I--I too!--no more am found On London stones!

In vain! the woods, the fields deny That clearer strain I fain would try; Mine is an urban Muse, and bound By some strange law to paven ground; Abroad she pouts;--she is not shy On London stones!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

A RONDEAU TO ETHEL.

"In teacup-times!" The style of dress Would suit your beauty, I confess; BELINDA-like, the patch you'd wear; I picture you with powdered hair,-- You'd make a charming Shepherdess!

And I--no doubt--could well express SIR PLUME'S complete conceitedness,-- Could poise a clouded cane with care "In teacup-times!"

The parts would fit precisely--yes: We should achieve a huge success! You should disdain and I despair, With quite the true Augustan air; But ... could I love you more, or less,-- "In teacup-times?"

AUSTIN DOBSON.

TO A JUNE ROSE.

O royal Rose! the Roman dress'd His feast with thee; thy petals press'd Augustan brows; thine odour fine, Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.

What marvel then, if host and guest By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd, Half-trembled on the half-divine, O royal Rose!

And yet--and yet--I love thee best In our old gardens of the West, Whether about my thatch thou twine, Or Her's, that brown-eyed maid of mine, Who lulls thee on her lawny breast, O royal Rose!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"WITH PIPE AND FLUTE."

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,-- The rolling river slowlier ran.

Ah! would,--ah! would, a little span, Some air of Arcady could fan This age of ours, too seldom stirred With pipe and flute!

But now for gold we plot and plan; And from Beersheba unto Dan, Apollo's self might pass unheard, Or find the night-jar's note preferred ... Not so it fared, when time began With pipe and flute!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"IN AFTER DAYS."

In after days, when grasses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honoured dust, I shall not question nor reply.

I shall not see the morning sky, I shall not hear the night-wind sigh, I shall be mute, as all men must In after days!

But yet, now living, fain were I That some one then should testify, Saying--_He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust._ Will none?... Then let my memory die In after days!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"IN VAIN TO-DAY."

In vain to-day I scrape and blot: The nimble words, the phrases neat, Decline to mingle and to meet; My skill is all forgone, forgot.

He will not canter, walk, or trot, My Pegasus; I spur, I beat In vain to-day.

And yet 'twere sure the saddest lot That I should fail to leave complete One poor ... the rhyme suggests "conceit!" Alas! 'tis all too clear I'm not In vein to-day.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

"WHEN BURBADGE PLAYED."

When Burbadge played, the stage was bare Of fount and temple, tower and stair; Two backswords eked a battle out; Two supers made a rabble rout; The Throne of Denmark was a chair!

And yet, no less, the audience there Thrilled through all changes of Despair, Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt, When Burbadge played!

This is the Actor's gift; to share All moods, all passions, nor to care One whit for scene, so he without Can lead men's minds the roundabout, Stirred as of old those hearers were, When Burbadge played!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

OLD BOOKS ARE BEST.

(To J. H. P.)

Old books are best! With what delight Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight; On frontispiece or title-page Of that old time, when on the stage "Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!

And you, O friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirates' rage, Old books are best.

What though the print be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight? Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right: Old books are best.

BEVERLY CHEW.

A COWARD STILL.

A coward still: I've longed to fling My arms about you, and to bring My beating heart so near to thine, That it might learn all thought of mine, And closer to me cling.

But ere I dared do anything, My trembling courage took to wing, And left its bold design, A coward still.

Poor heart: these words for ever ring, Fair dame wins not the faint fearing; Tho' secretly it may repine The loss that would make life divine, Yet it must be content to sing, A coward still.

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

RONDEAUX OF CITIES.

I.

(Rondeau à la Boston.)

A cultured mind! Before I speak The words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheek With blushes of the nodding rose That on thy breast in beauty blows, I prithee satisfy my freak.

Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek? Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak? Hast thou, in short, as I suppose, A cultured mind.

Some men require a maiden meek Enough to eat at need the leek; Some lovers crave a classic nose, A liquid eye, or faultless pose; I none of these, I only seek A cultured mind.

II.

(Rondeau à la New York.)

A pot of gold! O mistress fair, With eyes of brown that pass compare, Ere I on bended knee express The love which you already guess, I fain would ask a small affair.

Hast thou, my dear, an ample share Of this world's goods? Wilt thy papa[9] Disgorge, to gild our blessedness, A pot of gold?

Some swains for mental graces care; Some fall a prey to golden hair; I am not blind, I will confess, To intellect or comeliness; Still let these go beside, _ma chère_, A pot of gold.

III.

(Rondeau à la Philadelphia.)

A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade! Whose tresses mock the raven's shade, Before I free this aching breast, I want to set my mind at rest; 'Tis best to call a spade a spade.

What was thy father ere he made His fortune? Was he smeared with trade, Or does he boast an ancient crest-- A pedigree?

Brains and bright eyes are overweighed, For wits grow dull and beauties fade; And riches, though a welcome guest, Oft jar the matrimonial nest; I kiss her lips who holds displayed A pedigree.

IV.

(Rondeau à la Baltimore.)

A pretty face! O maid divine, Whose vowels flow as soft as wine, Before I say upon the rack The words I never can take back, A moment meet my glance with thine.

Say, art thou fair? Is the incline Of that sweet nose an aquiline? Hast thou, despite unkind attack, A pretty face?

Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine, The Graces were. I won't repine For want of pedigree, or lack Of gold to banish Care the black, If I can call forever mine A pretty face.

ROBERT GRANT.

[9] Pronounced _papaire_.

COULD SHE HAVE GUESSED.

Could she have guessed my coward care? I knew her foot upon the stair, Her figure chained my inmost eye; I only looked a lover's lie,-- I feigned indifference, felt despair.

My very blood leaped up, aware Of her free step and morning air; She raised her head, she caught my eye-- Could she have guessed?

I faced her with a chilly stare, With words so common and so bare! Her whispering skirts, as she went by, Swept every sense--a thrilling sigh! Ah, would her heart have heard my prayer Could she have guessed?

ELAINE GOODALE.

FIRST SIGHT.

When first we met the nether world was white, And on the steel-blue ice before her bower I skated in the sunrise for an hour, Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light, Was red against the bare boughs black as night; Then suddenly her sweet face, like a flower Enclosed in sables from the frost's dim power, Shone at her casement, and flashed burning bright When first we met!