Part 7

Within the grave our earnest eye Beholds a brother's body laid, Around us sombre hirelings ply The unctuous usage of their trade. Beneath the hedgerow laughs a maid, Held in a lover's arm robust; One day for her it shall be said, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

_Envoi._

Life, dost thou still possess the shade Of him in earth so rudely thrust? Canst thou the sentence yet evade, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

COTSFORD DICK.

A BALLAD TO QUEEN ELIZABETH.

Of the Spanish Armada.

King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us,-- And where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us: Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,-- For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas that his Greatness should lack us!-- But where are the galleons of Spain?

_Envoy._

GLORIANA!--the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain?

AUSTIN DOBSON.

ON A FAN THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty _frou-frou_! Picture above if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the _OEil de Boeuf_ through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, _Talon-rouge_, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,--to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah! but things more than polite Hung on this toy, _voyez vous_! Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue,-- This was the Pompadour's fan!

_Envoy._

Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? --But where is the Pompadour, too? _This_ was the Pompadour's _Fan_!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLAD OF IMITATION.

"_C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux._"

--ALFRED DE MUSSET.

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score, That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew;" Make answer--Beethoven could scarcely do more-- That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; That--plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"-- You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), Twas Gainsborough painted _your_ "Little Boy Blue;" Smile only serenely--though cut to the core-- For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic--"Sir Eperon d' Or"-- Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; Take heart--though your Pegasus' withers be sore-- For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

POSTSCRIPTUM.--And you, whom we all so adore, Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!-- One word in your ear. There were Critics before ... And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLADE OF PROSE AND RHYME.

(Ballade à double refrain.)

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, There is place and enough for the pains of prose;-- But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," There is place and enough for the pains of prose;-- But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"-- And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But," There is place and enough for the pains of prose;-- But whenever a soft glance softer grows, And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told "that no one knows," Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

_Envoy._

In the work-a-day world,--for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey!--for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE BALLAD OF DEAD CITIES.

To A. L.

Where are the cities of the plain? And where the shrines of rapt Bethel? And Calah built of Tubal-Cain? And Shinar whence King Amraphel Came out in arms, and fought, and fell, Decoyed into the pits of slime By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell; Where are the cities of old time?

Where now is Karnak, that great fane With granite built, a miracle? And Luxor smooth without a stain, Whose graven scriptures still we spell? The jackal and the owl may tell, Dark snakes around their ruins climb, They fade like echo in a shell; Where are the cities of old time?

And where is white Shusan, again, Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell, And all the Jewish oil and grain Were brought to Mithridath to sell, Where Nehemiah would not dwell, Because another town sublime Decoyed him with her oracle? Where are the cities of old time?

_Envoi._

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell, Above their wasted toil and crime The waters of oblivion swell: Where are the cities of old time?

EDMUND GOSSE.

BALLADE.

Love thou art sweet in the spring-time of sowing Bitter in reaping and salt as the seas, Lovely and soft when the young buds are growing Harsh when the fruitage is ripe on the trees: Yet who that hath plucked him thy blossom e'er flees Who that hath drunk of thy sweetness can part, Tho' he find when thy chalice is drained to the lees Ashes and dust in the place of a heart?

'Tis myself that I curse at, the wild thoughts flowing Against myself built up of the breeze Like mountainous waves to my own o'erthrowing Strike and I tremble, my shivering knees Sink thro' the quicksands that round them freeze, From their treacherous hold I am loth to start:-- In my breast laid bare, had you only the keys, Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

The world wide over young hearts are glowing With high held hopes we believed with ease, And have them still, but the saddest knowing Is the knowledge of how by slow degrees They slip from our side like a swarm of bees Bearing their sweetness away, and depart Leaving their stings in our bosom, with these Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

_Envoi._

Love, free on the uplands, the lawns, and leas; Priced and sold in the World's base mart: But the same in the end; tho' at first it please, Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

BALLADE.--LILITH.

Lady, around thy throat Gleameth the one gold hair; And none that hath taken note Of the first that he looked on fair, The moment his boyish air Was moved by that mystic breeze, But hath felt the spell of thy presence there, Lilith, the first Love sees!

We sail in an open boat, 'Mid breakers that rage and tear, And ply the oars by rote As over the waves we fare, But never a moment dare Gaze down at the Form by our knees, For her eyes that thro' Self and thro' Soul do stare, Lilith, the first Love sees!

Circle of wall and moat, Vain as the thought to wear Cunning of knightly coat Steely and tempered rare, Against her mute despair; For none there is who frees His soul from her spell, who hath all in care, Lilith, the first Love sees!

_L' Envoi._

Maid without mate or pair, From the Past's pale Presences, Who is there but next his heart doth bear Lilith, the first Love sees!

JOHN CAMERON GRANT.

BALLADE OF ANTIQUE DANCES.

Before the town had lost its wits, And scared the bravery from its beaux, When money-grubs were merely cits, And verse was crisp and clear as prose, Ere Chloë and Strephon came to blows For votes, degrees, and cigarettes, The world rejoiced to point its toes In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

The solemn fiddlers touch their kits; The twinkling clavichord o'erflows With contrapuntal quirks and hits; And, with all measure and repose, Through figures grave as royal shows, With noble airs and pirouettes, They move, to rhythms HANDEL knows, In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

O Fans and Swords, O Sacques and Mits, That was the better part you chose! You know not how those gamesome chits Waltz, Polka, and Schottische arose, Or how Quadrille--a kind of doze In time and tune--the dance besets; You aired your fashion till the close In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

_Envoy._

Muse of the many-twinkling hose, TERPSICHORE, O teach your pets The charm that shines, the grace that glows In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS.

Where are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe? Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall? And Millamant and Romeo?-- Into the night go one and all.

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? The plumes, the armours--friend and foe? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the pride, the royal show? The cries of war and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?-- Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played: The Beggar packs beside the Beau; The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; The Thunder huddles with the Snow. Where are the revellers high and low? The clashing swords? The lover's call? The dancers gleaming row on row?-- Into the night go one and all.

_Envoy._

Prince, in one common overthrow The hero tumbles with the thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF JUNE.

Lilacs glow, and jasmines climb, Larks are loud the livelong day. O the golden summer-prime! June takes up the sceptre of May, And the land beneath her sway Glows, a dream of flowerful closes, And the very wind's at play With Sir Love among the roses.

Lights and shadows in the lime Meet in exquisite disarray. Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme Of the blackbird's roundelay! Where he carols, frank and gay, Fancy no more glooms or proses; Joyously she flits away With Sir Love among the roses.

O the cool sea's slumbrous chime! O the links that beach the bay, Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme, Where the brown bees murmur and stray! Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay! Many a maiden, binding posies, Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay With Sir Love among the roses.

_Envoi._

Boys and girls, be wise, I pray! Do as dear Queen June proposes, For she bids you troop and stay With Sir Love among the roses.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF LADIES' NAMES.

Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. The glamour stays if the reason goes! Every lover the years disclose Is of a beautiful name made free. One befriends, and all others are foes. Anna's the name of names for me.

Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia; Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose; Courtly memories glitter in Celia; Rosalind savours of quips and hose, Araminta of wits and beaux, Prue of puddings, and Coralie All of sawdust and spangled shows; Anna's the name of names for me.

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia-- These I reckon the essence of prose!-- Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia, Portia's masterful Roman nose, Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes, Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! Anna's the name of names for me.

_Envoy._

Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows, Sylvia prattles of Arcadee, Sybil mystifies, Connie crows, Anna's the name of names for me!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF SPRING.

There's a noise of coming, going, Budding, waking, vast and still. Hark, the echoes are yeo-hoing Loud and sweet from vale and hill! Do you hear it? With a will, In a grandiose lilt and swing, Nature's voices shout and trill ... 'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Rains are singing, clouds are flowing, Ocean thunders, croons the rill, And the West his clarion's blowing, And the sparrow tunes his quill, And the thrush is fluting shrill, And the skylark's on the wing, And the merles their hautboys fill-- 'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Lambs are bleating, steers are lowing, Brisk and rhythmic clacks the mill. Kapellmeister April, glowing And superb with glee and skill, Comes, his orchestra to drill In a music that will ring Till the grey world yearn and thrill. 'Tis the symphony of Spring!

_Envoy._

Princes, though your blood he chill, Here's shall make you leap and fling, Fling and leap like Jack and Jill! 'Tis the symphony of Spring.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS.

(Double refrain.)

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams- Midsummer days! midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams- Midsummer days! midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

There's a music of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams-- Midsummer days! midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale as from prophet heights, Sings to the Earth of her million Mays- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

_Envoy._

And its O! for my dear and the charm that stays- Midsummer days! midsummer days! Its O! for my Love and the dark that plights- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE OF YOUTH AND AGE.

(Double refrain.)

Spring at her height on a morn at prime, Sails that laugh from a flying squall, Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, An empty flagon, a folded page, A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball- These are a type of the world of Age.

Bells that clash in a gorgeous chime, Swords that clatter in outsets tall, The words that ring and the fames that climb- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Old hymnals prone in a dusty stall, A bald blind bird in a crazy cage, The scene of a faded festival- These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time, Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call, Songs where the singers their souls sublime- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A staff that rests in a nook of wall, A reeling battle, a rusted gage, The chant of a nearing funeral- These are a type of the world of Age.

_Envoy._

Struggle and sacrifice, revel and brawl- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A smouldering hearth and a silent stage- These are a type of the world of Age.

W. E. HENLEY.

BALLADE.

The sun across the meads glows bright; The river shines a silver sheet, And mirrors back the pearly light. In its warm gleam the shadows fleet, Earth seems in joy the heaven to greet; Heaven's love illumes the deep blue skies, And birds and flowers and streams repeat, 'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'

Beneath the hedge with May-bloom white An old man and a child, whose feet In cadence move to love's fond might; In its warm gleam the shadows fleet; Like op'ning flowers in morn's soft heat. A youth and maid whose beaming eyes Flash forth the thought their hearts secrete, 'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'

Within the minster's fane the rite Is breathed; down-pours His own to meet The glory of the Infinite: In its warm gleam the shadows fleet; Faith falls before the mercy-seat, And knows, though veiled to mortal eyes, There, there in loveliness complete, Where True Love dwells is Paradise.

Past sounding brass are love's tones sweet, Than gold or gems more rare its price; In its warm gleam the shadows fleet; Where true love dwells is Paradise.

W. H. JEWITT.

BALLADE DES PENDUS. (GRINGOIRE.)

Where wide the forest boughs are spread, When Flora wakes with sylph and fay, Are crowns and garlands of men dead, All golden in the morning gay; Within this ancient garden grey Are clusters such as no man knows, Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: _This is King Louis' orchard close._

These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; A moment still, then sudden sped, They swing in a ring and waste away. The morning smites them with her ray; They toss with every breeze that blows, They dance where fires of dawning play: _This is King Louis' orchard close._

All hanged and dead, they've summoned (With Hell to aid that hears them pray) New legions of an army dread, Now down the blue sky flames the day; The dew dries off; the foul array Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, With wings that flaps and beaks that flay: _This is King Louis' orchard close._

_Envoi._

Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, A tree of bitter clusters grows; The bodies of men dead are they, This is King Louis' orchard close.

ANDREW LANG.

VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.

The soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, O'er forests where Adonis bled And lily flowers a-row. He crossed the straits like streams that flow The ocean dark as wine To my true love to whisper low To be your Valentine.

The spring-time raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, "I'll send an April Day," she said, "To lands of wintry woe." He came; wan winter's overthrow With showers that sing and shine Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine.

Where sands of Egypt swart and red 'Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead By the Nile's overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost, her foe, To be your Valentine.

_Envoy._

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so Their various voice combine, But that they crave on me bestow To be your Valentine.

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF PRIMITIVE MAN.

(To J. A. Farrer.)

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose. 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipped the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

_Envoy._

MAX, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

ANDREW LANG.

BALLADE OF SUMMER.

(To Constance Arkcoll.)

When strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And far from Fleet Street, far from here The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, And moonlight nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep, Mingles with musical plash of the weir, Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose-hung hedges on either hand, Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!