Part 9

When at the midnight chime are met Together elves of every hue, I trow the gazer will regret That peers upon their retinue; For limb awry and eye askew Have oft proclaimed a fairy's spite- Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

'Tis said their forms are tiny, yet All human ills they can subdue, Or with a wand or amulet Can win a maiden's heart for you; And many a blessing know to strew To make the way to wedlock bright; Give honour to the dainty crew, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

_Envoy._

Prince, e'en a prince might vainly sue, Unaided by a fairy's might; Remember Cinderella's shoe, The Pixies are abroad to-night.

SAMUEL MINTURN PECK.

A BALLADE OF THE THUNER-SEE.

Soft on the lake's soft bosom we twain Float in the haze of a dim delight, While the wavelets cradle the sleepless brain, And the eyes are glad of the lessening light, And the east with a fading glory is bright-- The lingering smile of a sun that is set,-- And the earth in its tender sorrow is dight, And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Oh, the mellow beam of the suns that wane, Oh the joys, ah me! that are taking flight, Oh, the sting of a rapture too near to pain, And of love that loveth in death's despite. But the hour is ours, and its beauty's might Subdues our souls to a still regret, While the Blumlis-alp unveils to the night, And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Now we set our prow to the land again, And our backs to those splendours ghostly white, But a mirrored star with a watery train We hold in our wake as a golden kite; When we near the shore with its darkening height, And its darker shade on the waters set, Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight, And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

_Envoy._

From the jewelled circles where I indite This song which my faithless tears make wet, We trail the light till its gemmed rings smite The shadow--that falleth! and spares us yet.

EMILY PFEIFFER.

GRANDMOTHER.

Another new gown, as I declare! How many more is it going to be? And your forehead all hid in a cloud of hair-- 'Tis nothing but folly, that I can see! The maidens of nowaday make too free; To right and to left is the money flung; _We_ used to dress as became our degree-- But things have altered since I was young.

Stuff, in my time, was made to wear; Gowns we had never but two or three; Did we fancy them spoilt, if they chanced to tear? And shrink from a patch, or a darn? not we! For pleasure, a gossiping dish of tea, Or a mushroom hunt, while the dew yet hung, And no need, next day, for the doctor's fee-- But things have altered since I was young.

The yellow gig, and a drive to the fair; A keepsake bought in a booth on the lea; A sixpence, perhaps, to break and share-- That's how your grandfather courted me. Did your grandmother blush, do you think--not she! When he found her, the churn and the pails among? Or your grandfather like her the less? not he! But things have altered since I was young.

_Envoi._

Child! you pout, and you urge your plea-- Better it were that you held your tongue! Maids should learn at their elders' knee-- But things have altered since I was young.

MAY PROBYN.

A BALLADE OF PHILOMELA.

From gab of jay and chatter of crake The dusk wood covered me utterly. And here the tongue of the thrush was awake. Flame floods out of the low bright sky Lighted the gloom with gold-brown dye, Before dark; and a manifold chorussing Arose of thrushes remote and nigh,-- For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

Midmost a close green covert of brake A brown bird listening silently Sat; and I thought--"She grieves for the sake Of Itylus,--for the stains that lie In her heritage of sad memory." But the thrushes were hushed at evening. Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,-- For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

And I said--"The thought of the thrushes will shake With rapture remembered her heart; and her shy Tongue of the dear times dead will take To make her a living song, when sigh The soft night winds disburthened by. Hark now!" for the upraised quivering wing, The throat exultant, I could descry,-- For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

_L'Envoi._

But the bird dropped dead with only a cry: I found its tongue was withered, poor thing! Then I no whit wondered, for well knew I That the heart of the singer will break or sing.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

A BALLADE OF CALYPSO.

The loud black flight of the storm diverges Over a spot in the loud mouthed main, Where, crowned with summer and sun, emerges An isle unbeaten of wind or rain. And here, of its sweet queen grown full fain, By whose kisses the whole broad earth seems poor, Tarries the wave-worn prince, Troy's bane, In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges. She gives him all things, counting it gain. Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges, How could Fate dissever these twain? But him no loves nor delights retain; New knowledge, new lands, new loves allure; Forgotten the perils, and toils, and pain, In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urges His weak skiff over the wind-vext plain, Till the grey of the sky in the grey sea merges, And nights reel round, and waver and wane. He sits once more in his own domain. No more the remote sea-walls immure.- But ah, for the love he shall clasp not again In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

_L'Envoi._

Princes, and ye whose delights remain, To the one good gift of the gods hold sure, Lest ye, too, mourn, in vain, in vain, Your green Ogygian Isle secure.

CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS.

A BALLAD OF FORGOTTEN TUNES.

TO V. L.

Forgotten seers of lost repute That haunt the banks of Acheron, Where have you dropped the broken lute You played in Troy or Calydon? O ye that sang in Babylon By foreign willows cold and grey, Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon, _Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

De Coucy, is your music mute, The quaint old plain-chant woe-begone That served so many a lover's suit? Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron! Then, sweet De Caurroy, try upon Your virginals a virelay; Or play Orlando, one pavonne-- _Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

But ye whose praises none refute, Who have the immortal laurel won; Trill me your quavering close acute, Astorga, dear unhappy Don! One air, Galuppi! Sarti one So many fingers used to play!- Dead as the ladies of Villon, _Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

_Envoy._

Vernon, in vain you stoop to con The slender, faded notes to-day- The Soul that dwelt in them is gone: _Dead are the tunes of yesterday!_

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

BALLADE OF A GARDEN.

With plash of the light oars swiftly plying, The sharp prow furrows the watery way; The ripples' reach as the bank is dying, And soft shades slender, and long lights play In the still dead heat of the drowsy day, As on I sweep with the stream that flows By sleeping lilies that lie astray In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

There ever a whispering wind goes sighing, Filled with the scent of the new-mown hay, Over the flower hedge peering and prying, Wooing the rose as with words that pray; And the waves from the broad bright river bay Slide through clear channels to dream and doze, Or rise in a fountain's silver spray In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

The sweet white rose with the red rose dying, Blooms where the summer follows the May, Till the streams be hid by the lost leaves lying, That autumn shakes where the lilies lay. But now all bowers and beds are gay And no rain ruffles the flower that blows, And still on the water soft dreams stay In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

_Envoi._

Before the blue of the sky grows grey And the frayed leaves fall from the faded rose, Love's lips shall sing what the day-dreams say In the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

ARTHUR REED ROPES.

BALLADE OF THE BARD.

Though through the cloudy ranks of morn The Sun-god sends no golden ray, Though swift along the air are borne The feathery shafts that none may stay; Though wrathful storm-blasts pangless slay, And wan the patient plodder rues His lonely lot each dagging day- He's gay who courts the merry muse!

When down the fields the tender corn Upsprings, and sees blue skies in May, When budding blooms the boughs adorn, And flowers bespangle sprig and spray, When torrid summer's regnant sway Has dimmed the foliage's fairest hues, And bronzèd reapers house the hay-- He's gay who courts the merry muse!

And when the hollow harvest horn O'erflows with autumn's rich display, When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn, Is piled each lofty granary, When, like dark moons amid the gray Of cornfields, where the red ear woos, The pumpkins lie in long array- He's gay who courts the merry muse!

_Envoy._

Prince, e'en though Fortune go astray And lost is wealth's bright-shining cruse, Though dark and drear the weary way- He's gay who courts the merry muse.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE OF DEAD POETS.

Theocritus, who bore The lyre where sleek herds graze On the Sicilian shore, (There yet the shepherd strays)-- And Horace, crowned with bays, Who dwelt by Tiber's flow, Sleep through the silent days-- For God will have it so!

The bard, whose requiem o'er And o'er the sad sea plays, Who sang of classic lore, Of Mab, the queen of fays-- And Keats, fair Adonais, The child of song and woe, No longer thread life's maze-- For God will have it so!

Your voices, sweet of yore, With honied word and phrase, Are heard by men no more, They list to other lays-- New poets now have praise, But all in turn must go To follow in your ways-- For God will have it so!

_Envoy._

Poets, the thrones ye raise Are not a "fleeting show;" Fame lives, though dust decays-- For God will have it so!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE TO VILLON.

Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold, With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow, Who, in the merry days of old, Made light of all but red wine's flow? Where now are cavalier and beau Who joyed with thee in that bright clime? Ah! dust to dust!--and none may know-- Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

Where now are they whom gleaming gold Led on to many a bandit blow, Who roamed with thee the widening wold And vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe? Where they, who, in the sunset glow, With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime? Ah! they are gone!--and still men go-- Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

And where are they, those maids untold, Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe? They too are now but loathsome mould, With earth above and earth below. And she who won, aside to throw Thy love, the promise of thy prime, Doth any seek her name? Ah! no-- Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

_Envoy._

Poet of ballade and rondeau, Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme, Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow; Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE.

Of all the songs that dwell Where softest speech doth flow, Some love the sweet rondel, And some the bright rondeau, With rhymes that tripping go In mirthful measures clad; But would I choose them?--no, For me the blithe ballade!

O'er some, the villanelle, That sets the heart aglow, Doth its enchanting spell With lines' recurring throw; Some weighed with wasting woe, Gay triolets make them glad; But would I choose them?--no, For me the blithe ballade!

On chant of stately swell With measured feet and slow, At grave as minster bell As vesper tolling low, Do some their praise bestow; Some on sestinas sad; But would I choose them?--no, For me the blithe ballade!

_Envoy._

Prince, to these songs a-row The Muse might endless add; But would I choose them?--no, For me the blithe ballade!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

O LADY MINE.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair, The birds are caroling blithe and gay In the bourgeoning boughs that sway in air O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way. The mock-bird pipes to the busy jay: There's a gleam of white on the vines that twine Where your casement opes to the golden day, O lady mine.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair, The rills are glad that the month is May; The dawns are bright and the eves are fair O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way. The dales have doffed their gowns of grey, The sending buttercups spill their wine, There is joy in the heart of faun and fay, O lady mine.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair The bees, like ruthless bandits, prey On the blooms that part their lips in prayer O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way. From the sunny shores where the nereids play The breezes blow o'er the foamy brine, And I dream I hear them softly say, "O lady mine!"

_Envoy._

O lady mine, wilt thou not stray O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way, And list to Love where the wind-flowers shine, O lady mine?

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

WHERE ARE THE SHIPS OF TYRE?

Hark, how the surges dash On Tyrian beaches hoar! With far-resounding crash, And unremitting roar, The white foam squadrons pour Their ranks with sullen ire Along the sandy floor; "Where are the ships of Tyre?"

Within her walls the clash Of arms is heard no more; No supple bough of ash Is hewn for mast or oar; Through no tall temple's door Now gleams the altar fire, But winds and waves deplore, "Where are the ships of Tyre?"

By night no torches flash From porches as of yore; 'Neath sword or stinging lash No slave now lies in gore; No voice that men adore Lifts song to lute or lyre; With all the freight they bore, "Where are the ships of Tyre?"

_Envoy._

Prince, with these "gone before," We, whom these days inspire, Must seek that unknown shore "Where are the ships of Tyre?"

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE OF VAIN HOPES.

O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that stand Upon the marge of yonder shore Where by the pale feet-trampled sand (Though none is seen to walk that floor) The Stygian wave flows evermore: We fain would buy what ye can tell, Speak! Speak! And thrill to each heart's core-- _Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

O spectral Hours that throng this land-- Where no sweet floods of sunshine pour, But vast, tenebriously grand, Dense glooms abide, wind-swept or frore-- O ye who thus have gone before, Break silence--break your charmëd spell! Heed not our negligence of yore! _Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

O sombre, sad-eyed, shadowy band, Speak, speak, and wave not o'er and o'er Each wan phantasmal shadow-hand; O say, if when with battling sore We cross the flood and hear the roar O' the world like a sighed farewell, What waits beyond the Grave's last door? _Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

_Envoy._

O coming Hours, O unspent store, _Your_ promise breathe--as in sea-shell Imprison'd Echo sings her lore-- _Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!_

WILLIAM SHARP.

BALLADE OF THE SONG OF THE SEA-WIND.

What is the song the sea-wind sings-- The old, old song it singeth for aye? When abroad it stretcheth its mighty wings And driveth the white clouds far away,-- What is the song it sings to-day? _From fire and tumult the white world came,_ _Where all was a mist of driven spray_ _And the whirling fragments of a frame!_

What is the song the sea-wind sings-- The old, old song it singeth for aye? It seems to breathe a thousand things Ere the world grew sad and old and grey-- Of the dear gods banished far astray-- Of strange wild rumours of joy and shame! _The Earth is old, so old, To-day--_ _Blind and halt and weary and lame._

What is the song the sea-wind sings-- The old, old song it singeth for aye? Like a trumpet blast its voice out-rings, _The world spins down the darksome way!_ It crieth aloud in wild dismay, _The Earth that from fire and tumult came_ _Draws swift to her weary end To-day,_ _Her fires are fusing for that last Flame!_

_Envoy._

What singeth the sea-wind thus for aye-- _From fire and tumult the white world came!_ What is the sea-wind's cry To-day-- _Her central fires make one vast flame!_

WILLIAM SHARP.

BALLADE OF THE SEA-FOLK.

Where are the creatures of the deep, That made the sea-world wondrous fair? The dolphins that with royal sweep Sped Venus of the golden-hair Through leagues of summer sea and air? Are they all gone where past things be? The merman in his weedy lair? O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

O singing syrens, do ye weep That now ye hear not anywhere The swift oars of the seamen leap, See their wild, eager eyes a-stare? O syrens, that no more ensnare The souls of men that once were free, Are ye not filled with cold despair-- O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

O Triton, on some coral steep In green-gloom depths, dost thou forbear With wreathëd horn to call thy sheep, The wandering sea-waves, to thy care? O mermaids, once so debonnair, Sport ye no more with mirthful glee? The ways of lover-folk forswear?-- O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

_Envoy._

Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware! They wait a day that yet must be, When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir-- O sweet wild creatures of the sea!

WILLIAM SHARP.

TO AUSTIN DOBSON.

From the sunny climes of France, Flying to the west, Came a flock of birds by chance, There to sing and rest: Of some secrets deep in quest,-- Justice for their wrongs,-- Seeking one to shield their breast, One to write their songs.

Melodies of old romance, Joy and gentle jest, Notes that made the dull heart dance With a merry zest;-- Maids in matchless beauty drest, Youths in happy throngs;-- These they sang to tempt and test One to write their songs.

In old London's wide expanse Built each feathered guest,-- Man's small pleasure to entrance, Singing him to rest,-- Came, and tenderly confessed, Perched on leafy prongs, Life were sweet if they possessed One to write their songs.

_Envoy._

Austin, it was you they blest: Fame to you belongs! Time has proven you're the best One to write their songs.

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

BALLADE OF RHYME.

When blossoms born of balmy spring Breathe fragrance in the pleasant shade Of branches where the blue-birds sing, Their hearts with music overweighed; When brooks go babbling through the glade, And over rocks the grasses climb To greet the sunshine, half-afraid,- How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

When invitations are a-wing For gay Terpsichore's parade; When dreamy waltzes stir the string And jewels flash on rich brocade, Where Paris dresses are displayed, And slippered feet keep careful time;- In winter, when the roses fade, How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

When by your side, with graceful swing, Some fair-faced, gentle girl has strayed, Willing and glad to have you bring Your claims for love and get them paid In kisses, smiles, and words that aid The bells of bliss to better chime;- When Cupid's rules are first obeyed, How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

_Envoy._

Reader, forgive me, man or maid, Against Calliope this crime; And let this brief ballade persuade How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!

FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN.

A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND.

I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun's way, hidden apart; In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is, Under the roses I hid my heart. Why would it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird.

Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes, And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart; Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart? Only the song of a secret bird.

The green land's name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's mart. The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, Only the song of a secret bird.

_Envoi._

In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, To sleep for a season and hear no word Of true love's truth or of light love's art, Only the song of a secret bird.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

A BALLADE OF KINGS.

Where are the mighty kings of yore Whose sword-arm cleft the world in twain? And where are they who won and wore The empire of the land and main? Where's Alexander, Charlemain? Alone the sky above them brings Their tombs the tribute of the rain. Dust in dust are the bones of kings!

Where now is Rome's old emperor, Who gazed on burning Rome full fain; And where, at one for evermore, The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain? What of Napoleon's lightning brain, Grim Fritz's iron hammerings, Forging the links of Europe's chain? Dust in dust are the bones of kings!