Part 16

Ah truly; if for once I stray Into the treadmill,-'tis in play. I will not own its narrow code, It shall not be my cramped abode. Free of the fields, in open day I go my gait!

EMILY PFEIFFER.

(TO LOUIS HONORE FRÉCHETTE.)

Laurels for song! And nobler bays, In old Olympian golden days Of clamour thro' the clear-eyed morn, No bowed triumphant head hath borne Victorious in all Hellas' gaze!

They watched his glowing axles graze The goal, and rent the heavens with praise;- Yet the supremer heads have worn Laurels for song.

So thee, from no palaestra-plays A conqueror, to the gods we raise, Whose brows of all our singers born The sacred fillets chief adorn,- Who first of all our choice displays Laurels for song.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

"WITHOUT ONE KISS."

Without one kiss she's gone away, And stol'n the brightness out of day; With scornful lips and haughty brow She's left me melancholy now, In spite of all that I could say.

And so, to guess as best I may What angered her, awhile I stay Beneath this blown acacia bough, Without one kiss;

Yet all my wildered brain can pay My questioning, is but to pray Persuasion may my speech endow, And Love may never more allow My injured sweet to sail away Without one kiss.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

VIS EROTIS.

Love that holdeth firm in fee Many a lord of many a land, From thy thraldom few would flee; Wide the wondrous potency Of thy heart-enchanting hand.

Since on shining Cyprian sand Did thy mother, Venus, stand, Man and maid have worshipped thee, Love.

They that scorn thy slaves to be, Oft before thy throne, unmanned, Grant thy great supremacy; Hear my prayer, O Monarch, and Let my lady smile on me, Love.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

WHEN SIRIUS SHINES.

When Sirius shines, a fulgent fire, And locusts in a drowsy choir At noon within the maples drone, And pines at nightfall make sad moan Like waves upon the rocks of Tyre,

Then strike the softly sounding lyre, And let the soaring song rise higher, Or fall to minor monotone, When Sirius shines.

But should the chiming voices tire, And thoughts of past and vain desire Refill the mind, as doves once flown Return to cotes aforetime known, Then let the soul to heaven aspire, When Sirius shines.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

AT PEEP OF DAWN.

At peep of dawn the daffodil That slumbers 'neath the grassy hill Greets smilingly, with lifted head, The rosy morn's oncoming tread, The thrush sings matins by the rill.

The swallows from the ruined mill Go coursing through the air, and fill The sky with songs till then unsaid At peep of dawn.

No harbinger of day is still. With pipe new tuned and merry trill, The lark uprises from her bed 'Mong grasses wet with dews unshed, And puts to shame the whip-poor-will At peep of dawn.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

IN GREENWOOD GLEN.

In greenwood glen, where greedy bees Drain fragrant flower-cups to the lees, When summer's shining lances smite The grain-fields gleaming golden bright, I hear Æolian melodies.

The music bounds along the breeze In ever-changing symphonies, And lulls my soul with calm delight In Greenwood glen.

Elusively it faints and flees, Retreats, returns,-but no one sees The piper; for, as in affright, He skilfully eludes the sight; 'Tis Pan who hides amid the trees, In Greenwood glen.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

HER CHINA CUP.

Her china cup is white and thin; A thousand times her heart has been Made merry at its scalloped brink; And in the bottom, painted pink, A dragon greets her with a grin.

The brim her kisses loves to win; The handle is a manikin, Who spies the foes that chip or chink Her china cup.

Muse, tell me if it be a sin: I watch her lift it past her chin Up to the scarlet lips and drink The Oolong draught, somehow I think I'd like to be the dragon in Her china cup.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

BEHIND HER FAN.

Behind her fan of downy fluff, Sewed on soft saffron satin stuff, With peacock feathers, purple-eyed, Caught daintily on either side, The gay coquette displays a puff: Two blue eyes peep above the buff: Two pinky pouting lips ... enough! That cough means surely come and hide Behind her fan.

The barque of Hope is trim and tough, So out I venture on the rough, Uncertain sea of girlish pride. A breeze! I tack against the tide,- Capture a kiss and catch a cuff,- Behind her fan.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

AN ACROSTICAL VALENTINE.

(A. S. R.)

Fast in your heart, O rondeau rare, Rich with the wealth of love, I dare, Alas! to send, but not to sign, Nestles my name. The fetters fine Kissed by her lips may break,--beware Delight is dizzy with despair. Suppose she fain would answer,-there! How shall she find this name of mine Fast in your heart?

Enough if secrecy you swear: Red lips can't solve the subtile snare My tricksy muse weaves with her line: And I am caught, vain Valentine! N.B.-Say,-should she ask you where? "_Fast in your heart._"

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

WHEN TWILIGHT COMES.

When twilight comes and nature stills The hum that haunts the dales and hills, Dim shadows deepen and combine, And Heaven with its crystal wine The cups of thirsty roses fills.

Blithe birds with music-burdened bills Hush for a space their tender trills, And seek their homes in tree or vine When twilight comes.

Soft melody the silence thrills, Played by the nymphs along the rills; And where the dew-kist grasses twine, The toads and crickets tatoo fine Drums to the fife of whip-poor-wills, When twilight comes.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

COME, PAN, AND PIPE.

Come, Pan, and pipe upon the reed, And make the mellow music bleed, As once it did in days of yore, Along the brook's leaf-tangled shore, Through sylvan shade and fragrant mead.

On Hybla honey come and feed,-- To tempt the Fauns in dance to lead The Dryads on the mossy floor,-- Come, Pan, and pipe!

To-day the ghosts,--Gold, Gain, and Greed, The world pursues with savage speed: Forgotten is your magic lore. Oh, bring it back to us once more! For simple, rustic song we plead: Come, Pan, and pipe!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

AN OLD RONDO.

Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide, All furrie, too, on every side, Soe out she trippeth daintylie, To let ye Youth full well to see How fayre ye mayde is for ye Bryde.

A lyttle puffed, may be, bye Pryde, She yett soe lovelye ys thatt I'd A Shyllynge gyve to tye, perdie, Her scuttle Hatt.

Ye Coales unto ye Scuttle slide, Soe yn her Hatt wolde I, and hide To steale some Kissestwo or three: But synce She never asketh me, Ye scornful Cynick doth deride Her scuttle Hatt!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

A STREET SKETCH.

Upon the Kerb, a maiden neat-- Her hazel eyes are passing sweet-- There stands and waits in dire distress: The muddy road is pitiless, And 'busses thunder down the street!

A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat; Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet Peep out, beneath her kilted dress, Upon the Kerb.

She'll first advance and then retreat, Half-frightened by a hansom fleet. She looks around, I must confess, With marvellous coquettishness!- Then droops her eyes and looks discreet, Upon the Kerb!

J. ASHBY STERRY.

DOVER.

On Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind, The Fates against me were combined For when I noticed standing there, Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair- To start I felt not much inclined.

Too late! I cannot change my mind, The paddles move! I am resigned- I only know I would I were On Dover Pier.

I wonder--will the Fates be kind? On my return, and shall I find That grey-eyed damsel passing fair, So bonny, blithe, and debonair, The pretty girl I left behind? On Dover Pier?

J. ASHBY STERRY.

HOMESICK.

'Mid Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed, We wander where our paths o'erspread, With yellow russet, red and sere: The country's looking dull and drear, The sky is gloomy overhead.

The equinoctial gales we dread, The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled; We've rambled far enough this year- 'Mid Autumn Leaves.

Though fast our travel-time has sped, On London's flags we long to tread; The latest laugh and chaff to hear, To find the Club grown doubly dear; Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red- 'Mid Autumn Leaves.

J. ASHBY STERRY.

IN BEECHEN SHADE.

In beechen shade the hours are sweet, By mist-veiled morn or noonday heat (And sweeter still when daylight dies) So soft the wandering streamlet sighs In passage musical and fleet.

Full drowsily the white lambs bleat, And tinkling bell-notes faintly beat The languid air where Lacon lies In beechen shade.

And still, when day and even meet; Selene strays with golden feet, That gleam along the low blue skies And paceth slow, with dreaming eyes That seek the shepherds' dim retreat 'Mid beechen shade.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

THE GATES OF HORN.

The Gates of Horn are dull of hue (If all our wise men tell us true). No songs, they say, nor perfumed air Shall greet the wistful pilgrim there, No leaves are green, no skies are blue.

Yet he who will may find a clue (Mid shadows steeped in opal dew) To seek, and see them passing fair, The Gates of Horn.

The man that goes not wreathed with rue, Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue, With red rose-garlands in their hair And garments gay with gold and vair, Full fain to meet him trooping through The Gates of Horn.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

IF LOVE BE TRUE.

If love be true-not bought at mart- Though night and darkness hide from view, What harshest of harsh things can part The loved-one from the lover's heart, Or stay the dreams that flit thereto? If love be true dreams need no chart To gain the goal to which they're due; For love will guide them with love's dart, If love be true.

If love be true, if thou be true, Sweet love, as fair thou surely art, Night shall not hide your eyes of blue From my heart's eyes the long night through; Though in sweet sadness tears may start, If love be true.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

THE COQUETTE.

This pirate bold upon love's sea Will let no passing heart go free; No barque by those bright eyes espied May sail away o'er life's blue tide Till all its treasure yielded be.

Her craft, the _Conquest_, waits for thee, Where her swift rapine none may see; From shadowing coves on thee will glide This pirate bold.

Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee, Go, feign thyself love's refugee, And crave sweet shelter;-she'll deride Thy piteous suit with scornful pride; And thou, thou shalt escape in glee This pirate bold.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

YES OR NO?

A Good man's love! Oh, prithee, stay, Before you turn such gift away, And write no unconsidered "No" To him who proves he loves you so, And humbly owns your regal sway.

For hearts may change, the wise folk say, And as full oft the brightest ray Fades in an hour, so too may go A Good man's love.

Then pause awhile. This short delay May gladden many an after-day. Search well your heart, and if it show True signs of love, bid pride bend low, And take this great gift while you may-- A Good man's love!

G. WEATHERLY.

MY WINDOW BIRDS.

My window birds, I love to strew With punctual hands the crumb for you, Flying for comfort day by day From frozen woodland and highway, And bringing Christmas bills now due!

Fair creditors of every hue Crimson and yellow, brown and blue, Whate'er your thoughts, your coats are gay, My window birds.

Your claims are neither small nor few, Dated, when May-flowers drank the dew, And on sweet pipes ye used to play, Scattering full many a golden lay; Now ye for wages mutely sue, My window birds.

REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A.

SNOWDROPS AND ACONITES.

Silver and gold! The snowdrop white And yellow blossomed aconite, Waking from Winter's slumber cold, Their hoarded treasures now unfold, And scatter them to left and right.

Ah, with how much more rare delight Upon my sense their colours smite Than if my fingers were to hold Silver and gold.

They bear the superscription bright Of the great King of love and might, Who stamped such beauty there of old That men might learn, as ages rolled, To trust in God, nor worship quite Silver and gold.

REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A.

THE CHIFF-CHAFF'S MESSAGE, HEARD IN MARCH.

"Cheer up, cheer up!" it seems to say, As lighting on some leafless spray, It shakes its dissyllabic song, And with small beak, but courage strong, Charges the East-wind all the day.

"Soon will the Swallow round you play, The Nightingale be on its way, Blue skies and gladness come ere long, Cheer up, cheer up!"

Such happy voice be mine, I pray, Bleak hours to bless with sunny ray, A comfort life's rough path among; Be mine to lighten pain and wrong, Still letting fall a hopeful lay-- Cheer up, cheer up!

REV. RICHARD WILTON, M.A.

"WHEN SUMMER DIES."

When Summer dies, the leaves are falling fast In fitful eddies on the chilly blast, And fields lie blank upon the bare hillside Where erst the poppy flaunted in its pride, And woodbine on the breeze its fragrance cast.

And where the hawthorn scattered far and wide Its creamy petals in the sweet Springtide Red berries hang, for birds a glad repast When summer dies.

Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied; The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied; The beech has shed its store of bitter mast, And days are drear and skies are overcast, But Love will warm our hearts whate'er betide When summer dies.

ARTHUR G. WRIGHT.

MY LITTLE SWEETHEART.

Across the pew, with complaisance And eyes that with Love's sunshine dance, My little sweetheart smiles at me-- She is the only saint I see; The sermon passes in a trance.

The painted figures gaze askance, Down from their glassy vigilance, On this our tender heresy Across the pew.

Ah! little sweetheart, the romance Of Life, with all its change and chance, Is but a sealëd book to thee-- When opened, may its pages be As fair and sweet as thy bright glance Across the pew!

ARTHUR G. WRIGHT.

THREE ROUNDELS.

I.

Love, though I die, and dying lave My soul in Lethe endlessly, Losing all else, I still would save --Love, though I die--

Thy living presence, touch and sigh, All that the golden moments gave To vanished hours of ecstasy.

Then make thou great and wide my grave, So wide we two therein may lie; For sense of thee my soul will crave, Love, though I die.

II.

My lips refuse to take farewell of bliss, Sweet Love! so sweet and false, I can but choose To leave thee, only parting word and kiss My lips refuse.

Fancy wears livery of a thousand hues, So love in idleness may come to this! And I must bring the thought to common use

That ever--save in memory--I shall miss Thy short-lived tenderness-ever lose All that has taught how dear a thing it is My lips refuse.

III.

Other lips than yours intreat Those I vowed in vanished hours, Never Fate should force to greet Other lips than yours.

Memory dulls, perchance, or sours What was once so keenly sweet, Being ours and only ours.

All the life and heart and heat, All the soul that love outpours, Dies upon the lips that meet Other lips than yours.

D. F. BLOMFIELD.

A SINGING LESSON.

Far-fetched and dear bought, as the proverb rehearses, Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but nought In a song can be good if the turn of the verse is Far-fetched and dear bought.

As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thought Ring smooth, and as light as the spray that disperses Be the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought.

Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it pierces Men's hearts with possession of music unsought; For the bounties of song are no jealous god's mercies, Far-fetched and dear bought.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

IN GUERNSEY.

(To Theodore Watts.)

I.

The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors, Storm-stained ravines, and crags that lawns inlay, Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard secures The heavenly bay.

O friend, shall time take even this away, This blessing given of beauty that endures, This glory shown us, not to pass but stay?

Though sight be changed for memory, love ensures What memory, changed by love to sight, would say-- The word that seals for ever mine and yours, The heavenly bay.

II.

My mother sea, my fortress, what new strand, What new delight of waters, may this be, The fairest found since time's first breezes fanned My mother sea?

Once more I give me body and soul to thee, Who hast my soul for ever: cliff and sand Recede, and heart to heart once more are we.

My heart springs first and plunges, ere my hand Strike out from shore: more close it brings to me, More near and dear than seems my fatherland, My mother sea. Across and along, as the bay's breadth opens, and o'er us Wild autumn exults in the wind, swift rapture and strong Impels us, and broader the wide waves brighten before us Across and along.

The whole world's heart is uplifted, and knows not wrong; The whole world's life is a chant to the sea-tide's chorus; Are we not as waves of the water, as notes of the song?

Like children unworn of the passions and toils that wore us, We breast for a season the breadth of the seas that throng, Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old they bore us Across and along.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

THE ROUNDEL.

A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere, With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought, That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear A roundel is wrought.

Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught-- Love, laughter, or mourning--remembrance of rapture or fear-- That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought.

As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear-- Pause answers to pause, and again the same strain caught, So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear, A roundel is wrought.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

NOTHING SO SWEET.

Nothing so sweet in all the world there is Than this-to stand apart in Love's retreat And gaze at Love. There is as that, ywis, Nothing so sweet.

Yet surely God hath placed before our feet Some sweeter sweetness and completer bliss, And something that shall prove more truly meet.

Soothly I know not:-when the live lips kiss There is no more that our prayers shall entreat, Save only Death. Perhaps there is as this Nothing so sweet.

CHARLES SAYLE.

THE TRYSTING-TREE.

Meet me, love, where the woodbines grow And where the wild rose smells most sweet; And the breezes, as they softliest blow, Meet;

Passing along through the field of wheat, By the hedge where in spring the violets glow, And the blue-bells blossom around one's feet;

Where latest lingers the drifted snow, And the fir-tree grows o'er our trysting-seat, Come-and your love, as long ago, Meet.

CHARLES SAYLE.

A ROUNDEL OF REST.

If rest is sweet at shut of day For tired hands and tired feet, How sweet at last to rest for aye, If rest is sweet!

We work or work not through the heat: Death bids us soon our labours lay In lands where night and twilight meet.

When the last dawns are fallen on grey And all life's toils and ease complete, They know who work, not they who play, If rest is sweet.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

MORS ET VITA.

We know not yet what life shall be, What shore beyond earth's shore be set; What grief awaits us, or what glee, We know not yet.

Still, somewhere in sweet converse met, Old friends, we say, beyond death's sea Shall meet and greet us, nor forget

Those days of yore, those years when we Were loved and true,-but will death let Our eyes the longed-for vision see? We know not yet.

SAMUEL WADDINGTON.

RONDELS OF CHILDHOOD.

I.-WHEN CLARICE DIED.

When Clarice died, and it was told to me, I only covered up my face, and sighed To lose the world and cease to breathe or see, When Clarice died.

She was my playmate, sweet, and thoughtful-eyed, With curls, gold curls, that fluttered wild and free; My child companion and most tender guide.

When Clarice died I wandered wearily Down the mute grove where she was wont to hide, And cast myself beneath her favourite tree, When Clarice died.

BERNARD WELLER.

II.-IN A FAIRY BOAT.

In a fairy boat on a fairy sea, All amber and gold, I used to float When never a wind rose stormily; In a fairy boat.

And sweet and sad like a white dove's note Strange voices wakened my soul to glee, And soft scents strayed from the violets' throat.

In a fairy boat I shall no more be, For gloom has fallen on creek and moat, And my tired soul's too heavy to flee In a fairy boat.

BERNARD WELLER.

#The Sestina.#

"_La sextine en général sera l'expression d'une rêverie, dans laquelle la même idée, les mêmes objets se représenteront successivement à l'esprit avec des nuances diverses jouant et se transformant par d'harmonieuses gradations._"

--DE GRAMONT.

SESTINA.