Part 2
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves Among the shining salmon-flies; A song for summer-time that grieves I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves. Between grey sea and golden sheaves, Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies, I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves Among the shining salmon-flies.
TO C. H. ARKCOLL.
Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed By the odour of myrrh on the breeze; In the isles of the East and the West That are sweet with the cinnamon trees Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas; Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete, We are more than content, if you please, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best With the scent of the limes, when the bees Hummed low 'round the doves in their nest, While the vintagers lay at their ease, Had he sung in our northern degrees, He'd have sought a securer retreat, He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees, With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest And the daffodil's fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But _we_, that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
ENVOY.
Princess, the domain of our quest It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
BALLADE OF THE TWEED
(LOWLAND SCOTCH.)
TO T. W. LANG.
The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe, A weary cry frae ony toun; The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa', They praise a' ither streams aboon; They boast their braes o' bonny Doon: Gie _me_ to hear the ringing reel, Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
There's Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and a', Where trout swim thick in May and June; Ye 'll see them take in showers o' snaw Some blinking, cauldrife April noon: Rax ower the palmer and march-broun, And syne we 'll show a bonny creel, In spring or simmer, late or soon, By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
There's mony a water, great or sma', Gaes singing in his siller tune, Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw, Beneath the sun-licht or the moon: But set us in our fishing-shoon Between the Caddon-burn and Peel, And syne we 'll cross the heather broun By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
ENVOY.
Deil take the dirty, trading loon Wad gar the water ca' his wheel, And drift his dyes and poisons doun By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF.
TO LESLIE BALFOUR.
(_East Fifes hire_.)
There are laddies will drive ye a ba' To the burn frae the farthermost tee, But ye mauna think driving is a', Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, Ye may land in the sand or the sea; And ye 're dune, sir, ye 're no worth a preen, Tak' the word that an auld man 'll gie, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw That their putting is pawky and slee; In a bunker they 're nae gude ava', But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. And a lassie can putt--ony she,-- Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, But a cleek-shot's the billy for me, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw, I hae play'd since the year thirty-three, I hae play'd in the rain and the snaw, And I trust I may play till I dee; And I tell ye the truth and nae lee, For I speak o' the thing I hae seen-- Tom Morris, I ken, will agree-- Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
ENVOY.
Prince, faith you 're improving a wee, And, Lord, man, they tell me you 're keen; Tak' the best o' advice that can be, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST
AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE.
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree; The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold, And wolves still dread Diana roaming free In secret woodland with her company. 'T is thought the peasants' hovels know her rite When now the wolds are bathed in silver light, And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey. Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold, The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee; Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy; Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white, With one long sigh for summers pass'd away; The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd, But her delight is all in archery, And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she More than her hounds that follow on the flight; The Goddess draws a golden bow of might And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay. She tosses loose her locks upon the night, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
ENVOY.
Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight: Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray There is the mystic home of our delight, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
BALLADE OF THE CRICKET
TO T. W. LANG.
The burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou score a "five" and there a "four," And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, When lo, the Umpire gives thee "leg before,"-- "This is the end of every man's desire!"
The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is "collared," swift or slower, When "bailers" break not in their wonted way, And "Yorkers" come not off as here-to-fore, When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad ton-door,-- "This is the end of every man's desire!
The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour, And running still thou stumblest, or the ray Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a "skyer," And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,-- "This is the end of every man's desire!"
ENVOY.
Alas, yet liefer on Life's hither shore Would I be some poor Player on scant hire, Than King among the old, who play no more,-- "_This_ is the end of every man's desire!"
BALLADE OF THE BOOK-MAN'S PARADISE.
Here _is_ a Heaven, or here, or there,-- A Heaven there is, for me and you, Where bargains meet for purses spare, Like ours, are not so far and few. Thuanus' bees go humming through The learned groves, 'neath rainless skies, O'er volumes old and volumes new, Within that Book-man's Paradise!
There treasures bound for Longepierre Keep brilliant their morocco blue, There Hookes' _Amanda_ is not rare, Nor early tracts upon Peru! Racine is common as Rotrou, No Shakespeare Quarto search defies, And Caxtons grow as blossoms grew, Within that Book-man's Paradise!
There's Eve,--not our first mother fair,-- But Clovis Eve, a binder true; Thither does Bauzonnet repair, Derome, Le Gascon, Padeloup! But never come the cropping crew That dock a volume's honest size, Nor they that "letter" backs askew, Within that Book-man's Paradise!
ENVOY.
Friend, do not Heber and De Thou, And Scott, and Southey, kind and wise, _La chasse au bouquin_ still pursue Within that Book-man's Paradise?
BALLADE OF WORLDLY WEALTH.
(OLD FRENCH.)
Money taketh town and wall, Fort and ramp without a blow; Money moves the merchants all, While the tides shall ebb and flow; Money maketh Evil show Like the Good, and Truth like lies: These alone can ne'er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.
Money maketh festival, Wine she buys, and beds can strow; Round the necks of captains tall, Money wins them chains to throw, Marches soldiers to and fro, Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes: These alone can ne'er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.
Money wins the priest his stall; Money mitres buys, I trow, Red hats for the Cardinal, Abbeys for the novice low; Money maketh sin as snow, Place of penitence supplies: These alone can ne'er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.
BALLADE OF THE MAY TERM.
(_Being a Petition, in the form of a Ballade, praying the University Commissioners to spare the Summer Term_.)
When Lent and Responsions are ended, When May with fritillaries waits, When the flower of the chestnut is splendid, When drags are at all of the gates (Those drags the philosopher "slates" With a scorn that is truly sublime),[3] Life wins from the grasp of the Fates Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!
When wickets are bowl'd and defended, When Isis is glad with "the Eights," When music and sunset are blended, When youth and the summer are mates, When Freshmen are heedless of "Greats," And when note-books are cover'd with rhyme, Ah, these are the hours that one rates Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!
When the brow of the Dean is unbended At luncheons and mild tête-à-têtes, When the Tutor's in love, nor offended By blunders in tenses or dates; When bouquets are purchased of Bates, When the bells in their melody chime, When unheeded the Lecturer prates-- Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!
ENVOY.
Reformers of Schools and of States, Is mirth so tremendous a crime? Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates-- Sweet hours and the fleetest of time.
BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES.
TO E. W. GOSSE.
He dust of Carthage and the dust Of Babel on the desert wold, The loves of Corinth, and the lust, Orchomenos increased with gold; The town of Jason, over-bold, And Cherson, smitten in her prime-- What are they but a dream half-told? Where are the cities of old time?
In towns that were a kingdom's trust, In dim Atlantic forests' fold, The marble wasteth to a crust, The granite crumbles into mould; O'er these--left nameless from of old-- As over Shinar's brick and slime, One vast forgetfulness is roll'd-- Where are the cities of old time?
The lapse of ages, and the rust, The fire, the frost, the waters cold, Efface the evil and the just; From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd Beneath the wave a dreamy chime That echo'd from the mountain-hold,-- "Where are the cities of old time?"
ENVOY.
Prince, all thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till all their crime, And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrus' Where are the cities of old time.
BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.
AFTER THÉODORE DE BANVILLE.
I know Cythera long is desolate; I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green. Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen! So be it, but we seek a fabled shore, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile; There let us land, there dream for evermore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle."
The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen, Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore. Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar, Come, for the air of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; "It may be we shall touch the happy isle."
Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle!"
ENVOY.
Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore. Ah, singing birds your happy music pour! Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; Flit to these ancient gods we still adore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle!"
BALLADE OF LIFE.
"'Dead and gone,'--a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life." _Death's Jest Book_.
Say, fair maids, maying In gardens green, In deep dells straying, What end hath been Two Mays between Of the flowers that shone And your own sweet queen-- "They are dead and gone!"
Say, grave priests, praying In dule and teen, From cells decaying What have ye seen Of the proud and mean, Of Judas and John, Of the foul and clean?-- "They are dead and gone!"
Say, kings, arraying Loud wars to win, Of your manslaying What gain ye glean? "They are fierce and keen, But they fall anon, On the sword that lean,-- They are dead and gone!"
ENVOY.
Through the mad world's scene, We are drifting on, To this tune, I ween, "They are dead and gone!"
BALLADE OF ÆSTHETIC ADJECTIVES.
There be "subtle" and "sweet," that are bad ones to beat, There are "lives unlovely," and "souls astray"; There is much to be done yet with "moody" and "meet," And "ghastly," and "grimly," and "gaunt," and "grey"; We should ever be "blithesome," but never be gay, And "splendid" is suited to "summer" and "sea"; "Consummate," they say, is enjoying its day,-- "Intense" is the adjective dearest to me!
The Snows and the Rose they are "windy" and "fleet," And "frantic" and "faint" are Delight and Dismay; Yea, "sanguine," it seems, as the juice of the beet, Are "the hands of the King" in a general way: There be loves that quicken, and sicken, and slay; "Supreme" is the song of the Bard of the free; But of adjectives all that I name in my lay, "Intense" is the adjective dearest to me!
The Matron intense--let us sit at her feet, And pelt her with lilies as long as we may; The Maiden intense--is not always discreet; But the Singer intense, in his "singing array," Will win all the world with his roundelay: While "blithe" birds carol from tree to tree, And Art unto Nature doth simper, and say,-- "'Intense' is the adjective dearest to me!"
ENVOY.
Prince, it is surely as good as a play To mark how the poets and painters agree; But of plumage æsthetic that feathers the jay, "Intense" is the adjective dearest to me!
BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.
AFTER VILLON.
Nay, tell me now in what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day. Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has passed away? Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,--around, below? Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?
Where is wise Héloïse, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay? All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders grey; And where's the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,--a perilous way-- Nay, but where is the last year's snow?
Where's that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren's lay? Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair? Alys and Ermengarde, where are they? Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?
ENVOY.
Prince, all this week thou need'st not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know. One burden answers, ever and aye, "Nay, but where is the last year's snow?"
VILLON'S BALLADE.
GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE.
Nay be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You 'll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry. All evil folks that love a lie! And where goes gain that greed amasses, By wile, and guile, and thievery? 'T is all to taverns and to lasses!
Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With _mysfry_ and _morality_; Win gold at _gleek_,--and that will fly, Where all you gain at _passage_ passes, And that's? You know as well as I, 'T is all to taverns and to lasses!
Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you've no clerkly skill to ply; You 'll gain enough, with husbandry, But--sow hempseed and such wild grasses, And where goes all you take thereby?-- 'T is all to taverns and to lasses!
ENVOY.
Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpasses, Or ere they 're worn, off, off they fly, 'T is all to taverns and to lasses!
BALLADE AMOUREUSE.
AFTER FROISSART.
Not Jason nor Medea wise, I crave to see, nor win much lore, Nor list to Orpheus' minstrelsies; Nor Her'cles would I see, that o'er The wide world roamed from shore to shore; Nor, by St. James, Penelope,-- Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: To see my Love suffices me!
Virgil and Cato, no man vies With them in wealth of clerkly store; I would not see them with mine eyes; Nor him that sailed, _sans_ sail nor oar, Across the barren sea and hoar, And all for love of his ladye; Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more: To see my Love suffices me!
I heed not Pegasus, that flies As swift as shafts the bowmen pour; Nor famed Pygmalion's artifice, Whereof the like was ne'er before; Nor Oléus, that drank of yore The salt wave of the whole great sea: Why? dost thou ask? 'T is as I swore To see my Love suffices me!
BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS.
AFTER LA FONTAINE.
Rome does right well to censure all the vain Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach That earthly joys are damnable! 'T is plain We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach; No, amble on! We '11 gain it, one and all; The narrow path's a dream fantastical, And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven Mirth from the world. We 'll scale the heavenly wall. Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
He does not hold a man may well be slain Who vexes with unseasonable speech, You _may_ do murder for five ducats gain, _Not_ for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach; He ventures (most consistently) to teach That there are certain cases which befall When perjury need no good man appal, And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven. Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl, "Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!"
"For God's sake read me somewhat in the strain Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!" Why should I name them all? a mighty train-- So many, none may know the name of each. Make these your compass to the heavenly beach, These only in your library instal: Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small, Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven; I tell you, and the common voice doth call, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
ENVOY.
SATAN, that pride did hurry to thy fall, Thou porter of the grim infernal hall-- Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven! To shun thy shafts, to 'scape thy hellish thrall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE.
Who have loved and ceased to love, forget That ever they loved in their lives, they say; Only remember the fever and fret, And the pain of Love, that was all his pay; All the delight of him passes away From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met-- Too late did I love you, my love, and yet I shall never forget till my dying day.
Too late were we 'ware of the secret net That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray; There were we taken and snared, Lisette, In the dungeon of La Fausse Amistie; Help was there none in the wide world's fray, Joy was there none in the gift and the debt; Too late we knew it, too long regret-- I shall never forget till my dying day!
We must live our lives, though the sun be set, Must meet in the masque where parts we play, Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet; Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay: But while snows of winter or flowers of May Are the sad year's shroud or coronet, In the season of rose or of violet, I shall never forget till my dying day!
ENVOY.
Queen, when the clay is my coverlet, When I am dead, and when you are grey, Vow, where the grass of the grave is wet, "I shall never forget till my dying day!"
BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE.
Here I'd come when weariest! Here the breast Of the Windburg's[4] tufted over Deep with bracken; here his crest Takes the west, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Silent here are lark and plover; In the cover Deep below the cushat best Loves his mate, and croons above her O'er their nest, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.
Bring me here, Life's tired-out guest, To the blest Bed that waits the weary rover, Here should failure be confessed; Ends my quest, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
ENVOY.
Friend, or stranger kind, or lover, Ah, fulfil a last behest, Let me rest Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!
GRACE A LA MUSE, ET JE LUI DIS MERCI, J'AI COMPOSÉ MES TRENTE SIX BALLADES
DIZAIN
_As, to the pipe, with rhythmic feet_ _In windings of some old-world dance_, _The smiling couples cross and meet_, _Join hands, and then in line advance_, _Si, to these fair old tunes of France_, _Through all their maze of to-and-fro_, _The light-heeled numbers laughing go_, _Retreat, return, and ere they flee_, _moment pause in panting row_, _And seem to say_,--VOS PLAUDITE.
AUSTIN DOBSON.
[1] Thomas of Ercildoune.
[2] A knavish publisher.
[3] Cf. "Suggestions for Academic Reorganization."
[4] A hill on the Teviot in Roxburghshire.
VERSES VAIN.
ALMAE MATRES.
(_St. Andrews_, 1862. _Oxford_, 1865.)
_St. Andrews by the Northern sea_, _A haunted town it is to me_! A little city, worn and grey, The grey North Ocean girds it round. And o'er the rocks, and up the bay, The long sea-rollers surge and sound. And still the thin and biting spray Drives down the melancholy street, And still endure, and still decay, Towers that the salt winds vainly beat. Ghost-like and shadowy they stand Clear mirrored in the wet sea-sand.