Chapter 1

Transcribed from the 1888 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price, email [email protected]

GRASS OF PARNASSUS

RHYMES OLD AND NEW

BY ANDREW LANG

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LONDON LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET

_All rights reserved_

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PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE LONDON

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TO E. M. S.

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_Primâ dicta mihi_, _summâ dicenda Camenâ_.

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The years will pass, and hearts will range, _You_ conquer Time, and Care, and Change. Though Time doth still delight to shed The dust on many a younger head; Though Care, oft coming, hath the guile From younger lips to steal the smile; Though Change makes younger hearts wax cold, And sells new loves for loves of old, Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art To fleck your hair, to chill your heart, To touch your tresses with the snow, To mar your mirth of long ago. Change, Care, nor Time, while life endure, Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure, The love which flows from sacred springs, In ‘old unhappy far-off things,’ From sympathies in grief and joy, Through all the years of man and boy.

Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung When even this ‘brindled’ head was young I bring, and later rhymes I bring That flit upon as weak a wing, But still for you, for yours, they sing!

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MANY of the verses and translations in this volume were published first in _Ballads and Lyrics of Old France_ (1872). Though very sensible that they have the demerits of imitative and even of undergraduate rhyme, I print them again because people I like have liked them. The rest are of different dates, and lack (though doubtless they need) the excuse of having been written, like some of the earlier pieces, during College Lectures. I would gladly have added to this volume what other more or less serious rhymes I have written, but circumstances over which I have no control have bound them up with _Ballades_, and other toys of that sort.

It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said in verse, that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in the marshes at the foot of the Muses’ Hill, and other hills, not at the top by any means.

Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been published in the _Fortnightly Review_, and the sonnet on Colonel Burnaby appeared in _Punch_. These, with pieces from other serials, are reprinted by the courteous permission of the Editors.

The verses that were published in _Ballades and Lyrics_, and in _Ballads and Verses Vain_ (Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York), are marked in the contents with an asterisk.

CONTENTS

_DEEDS OF MEN_ PAGE SEEKERS FOR A CITY 3 THE WHITE PACHA 6 MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886 8 ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA 9 COLONEL BURNABY 11 MELVILLE AND COGHILL 12 _RHODOCLEIA_ TO RHODOCLEIA 15 _AVE_ CLEVEDON CHURCH 21 TWILIGHT ON TWEED * 23 METEMPSYCHOSIS * 25 LOST IN HADES * 26 A STAR IN THE NIGHT * 27 A SUNSET ON YARROW * 28 ANOTHER WAY 29 _HESPEROTHEN_ * THE SEEKERS FOR PHÆACIA 33 A SONG OF PHÆACIA 35 THE DEPARTURE FROM PHÆACIA 37 A BALLAD OF DEPARTURE 39 THEY HEAR THE SIRENS FOR THE SECOND TIME 40 CIRCE’S ISLE REVISITED 42 THE LIMIT OF LANDS 44 _VERSES_ MARTIAL IN TOWN 49 APRIL ON TWEED 51 TIRED OF TOWNS 53 SCYTHE SONG 55 PEN AND INK 56 A DREAM 58 THE SINGING ROSE 59 A REVIEW IN RHYME 62 COLINETTE * 63 A SUNSET OF WATTEAU * 65 NIGHTINGALE WEATHER * 67 LOVE AND WISDOM * 69 GOOD-BYE * 71 AN OLD PRAYER * 73 À LA BELLE HÉLÈNE * 74 SYLVIE ET AURÉLIE * 76 A LOST PATH * 78 THE SHADE OF HELEN * 79 _SONNETS_ SHE 83 HERODOTUS IN EGYPT 84 GÉRARD DE NERVAL * 85 RONSARD * 86 LOVE’S MIRACLE * 87 DREAMS * 88 TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS * 89 _TRANSLATIONS_ HYMN TO THE WINDS * 93 MOONLIGHT * 94 THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE * 95 A VOW TO HEAVENLY VENUS * 96 OF HIS LADY’S OLD AGE * 97 SHADOWS OF HIS LADY * 98 APRIL * 99 AN OLD TUNE * 103 OLD LOVES * 104 A LADY OF HIGH DEGREE * 106 IANNOULA * 108 THE MILK WHITE DOE * 109 HELIODORE 112 THE PROPHET 113 LAIS 114 CLEARISTA 115 THE FISHERMAN’S TOMB 116 OF HIS DEATH 117 RHODOPE 118 TO A GIRL 119 TO THE SHIPS 120 A LATE CONVERT 121 THE LIMIT OF LIFE 122 TO DANIEL ELZEVIR 123 _THE LAST CHANCE_ THE LAST CHANCE 127

GRASS OF PARNASSUS.

_PALE star that by the lochs of Galloway_, _In wet green places ’twixt the depth and height_ _Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away_, _When now the moors have doffed the heather bright_, _Grass of Parnassus_, _flower of my delight_, _How gladly with the unpermitted bay_— _Garlands not mine_, _and leaves that not decay_— _How gladly would I twine thee if I might_!

_The bays are out of reach_! _But far below_ _The peaks forbidden of the Muses’ Hill_, _Grass of Parnassus_, _thy returning snow_ _Between September and October chill_ _Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago_, _And these kind faces that are with me still_.

DEEDS OF MEN

αειδε δ’ αρα κλέα ανδρων

TO _COLONEL IAN HAMILTON_

To you, who know the face of war, You, that for England wander far, You that have seen the Ghazis fly From English lads not sworn to die, You that have lain where, deadly chill, The mist crept o’er the Shameful Hill, You that have conquered, mile by mile, The currents of unfriendly Nile, And cheered the march, and eased the strain When Politics made valour vain, Ian, to you, from banks of Ken, We send our lays of Englishmen!

SEEKERS FOR A CITY.

“Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither. . . But the number and variety of the ways! For you know, _There is but one road that leads to Corinth_.”

HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater’s Version).

“The Poet says, _dear city of Cecrops_, and wilt thou not say, _dear city of Zeus_?”

M. ANTONINUS.

_TO Corinth leads one road_, you say: Is there a Corinth, or a way? Each bland or blatant preacher hath His painful or his primrose path, And not a soul of all of these But knows the city ’twixt the seas, Her fair unnumbered homes and all Her gleaming amethystine wall!

Blind are the guides who know the way, The guides who write, and preach, and pray, I watch their lives, and I divine They differ not from yours and mine!

One man we knew, and only one, Whose seeking for a city’s done, For what he greatly sought he found, A city girt with fire around, A city in an empty land Between the wastes of sky and sand, A city on a river-side, Where by the folk he loved, he died. {4a}

Alas! it is not ours to tread That path wherein his life he led, Not ours his heart to dare and feel, Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel; Yet are we not quite city-less, Not wholly left in our distress— Is it not said by One of old, _Sheep have I of another fold_? Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will, For us there is a city still!

_Dear city of Zeus_, the Stoic says, {4b} The Voice from Rome’s imperial days, _In Thee meet all things_, _and disperse_, _In Thee_, _for Thee_, _O Universe_! _To me all’s fruit thy seasons bring_, _Alike thy summer and thy spring_; _The winds that wail_, _the suns that burn_, _From Thee proceed_, _to Thee return_.

_Dear city of Zeus_, shall _we_ not say, Home to which none can lose the way! Born in that city’s flaming bound, We do not find her, but are found. Within her wide and viewless wall The Universe is girdled all. All joys and pains, all wealth and dearth, All things that travail on the earth, God’s will they work, if God there be, If not, what is my life to me?

Seek we no further, but abide Within this city great and wide, In her and for her living, we Have no less joy than to be free; Nor death nor grief can quite appal The folk that dwell within her wall, Nor aught but with our will befall!

THE WHITE PACHA.

VAIN is the dream! However Hope may rave, He perished with the folk he could not save, And though none surely told us he is dead, And though perchance another in his stead, Another, not less brave, when all was done, Had fled unto the southward and the sun, Had urged a way by force, or won by guile To streams remotest of the secret Nile, Had raised an army of the Desert men, And, waiting for his hour, had turned again And fallen on that False Prophet, yet we know GORDON is dead, and these things are not so! Nay, not for England’s cause, nor to restore Her trampled flag—for he loved Honour more— Nay, not for Life, Revenge, or Victory, Would he have fled, whose hour had dawned to die. He will not come again, whate’er our need, He will not come, who is happy, being freed From the deathly flesh and perishable things, And lies of statesmen and rewards of kings. Nay, somewhere by the sacred River’s shore He sleeps like those who shall return no more, No more return for all the prayers of men— Arthur and Charles—they never come again! They shall not wake, though fair the vision seem: Whate’er sick Hope may whisper, vain the dream!

MIDNIGHT, JANUARY 25, 1886.

TO-MORROW is a year since Gordon died! A year ago to-night, the Desert still Crouched on the spring, and panted for its fill Of lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied, And paltered, and evaded, and denied; Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will, And craven heart, and calculated skill In long delays, of their great homicide.

A year ago to-night ’twas not too late. The thought comes through our mirth, again, again; Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate Approaching and approaching us; and then Comes cackle of the House, and the Debate! Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.

ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA.

ON THE OFFER OF HELP FROM THE AUSTRALIANS AFTER THE FALL OF KHARTOUM.

Sons of the giant Ocean isle In sport our friendly foes for long, Well England loves you, and we smile When you outmatch us many a while, So fleet you are, so keen and strong.

You, like that fairy people set Of old in their enchanted sea Far off from men, might well forget An elder nation’s toil and fret, Might heed not aught but game and glee.

But what your fathers were you are In lands the fathers never knew, ’Neath skies of alien sign and star You rally to the English war; Your hearts are English, kind and true.

And now, when first on England falls The shadow of a darkening fate, You hear the Mother ere she calls, You leave your ocean-girdled walls, And face her foemen in the gate.

COLONEL BURNABY.

συ δ’ εν στροφάλιγγι κονίης κεισο μέγας μεγαλωστι, λελασμένος ιπποσυνάων

THOU that on every field of earth and sky Didst hunt for Death, who seemed to flee and fear, How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear: ‘Not here, alas!’ may England say, ‘not here Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die, But in that dreadful battle drawing nigh To thunder through the Afghan passes sheer:

Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood, And in some glen have stayed the stream of flight, The bulwark of thy people and their shield, When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood, Till back into the Northland and the Night The smitten Eagles scattered from the field.’

MELVILLE AND COGHILL.

(THE PLACE OF THE LITTLE HAND.)

DEAD, with their eyes to the foe, Dead, with the foe at their feet, Under the sky laid low Truly their slumber is sweet, Though the wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow, And the rain on the wilderness beat.

Dead, for they chose to die When that wild race was run; Dead, for they would not fly, Deeming their work undone, Nor cared to look on the face of the sky, Nor loved the light of the sun.

Honour we give them and tears, And the flag they died to save, Rent from the rain of the spears, Wet from the war and the wave, Shall waft men’s thoughts through the dust of the years, Back to their lonely grave!

RHODOCLEIA

TO RHODOCLEIA ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING.

(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek Anthology.)

STILL, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead, Still singing of the meads of asphodel, Lands desolate of delight? Say, hast thou dreamed of, or rememberèd, The shores where shadows dwell, Nor know the sun, nor see the stars of night?

There, ’midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze As a girl pines for home, Looking along the way that she hath come, Sick to return, and counts the weary days! So wouldst thou flee Back to the multitude whose days are done, Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone, The sacrament of death; and die, and be No more in the wind and sun!

Thou hast not dreamed it, but rememberèd I know thou hast been there, Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead Rise in the twilight air, And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread, And climbed the golden stair!

Nay, by thy cloudy hair And lips that were so fair, Sad lips now mindful of some ancient smart, And melancholy eyes, the haunt of Care, I know thee who thou art! That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose, Of Hellas, ere her close, That Rhodocleia who, when all was done The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun, Swayed her last poet’s heart.

With roses did he woo thee, and with song, With thine own rose, and with the lily sweet, The dark-eyed violet, Garlands of wind-flowers wet, And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long Burned till the dawn was burning in the skies, Praising _thy golden eyes_, _And feet more silvery than Thetis’ feet_!

But thou didst die and flit Among the tribes outworn, The unavailing myriads of the past: Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of morn, And, waking, wept for it, Till his own time came at last, And then he sought thee in the dusky land! Wide are the populous places of the dead Where souls on earth once wed May never meet, nor each take other’s hand, Each far from the other fled!

So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou Didst never taste of the Lethæan stream, Nor that forgetful fruit, The mystic pom’granate; But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now, The fugitive of Fate, Thou farest in our life as in a dream, Still wandering with thy lute, Like that sweet paynim lady of old song, Who sang and wandered long, For love of her Aucassin, seeking him! So with thy minstrelsy Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim, Below the veilèd sky!

There doth thy lover dwell, Singing, and seeking still to find thy face In that forgetful place: Thou shalt not meet him here, Not till thy singing clear Through all the murmur of the streams of hell Wins to the Maiden’s ear! May she, perchance, have pity on thee and call Thine eager spirit to sit beside her feet, Passing throughout the long unechoing hall Up to the shadowy throne, Where the lost lovers of the ages meet; Till then thou art alone!

AVE.

‘_Our Faith and Troth_ _All time and space controules_ _Above the highest sphere we meet_ _Unseen_, _unknowne_, _and greet as Angels greet_.’

Col. RICHARD LOVELACE. 1649

CLEVEDON CHURCH.

IN MEMORIAM H. B.

WESTWARD I watch the low green hills of Wales, The low sky silver grey, The turbid Channel with the wandering sails Moans through the winter day. There is no colour but one ashen light On tower and lonely tree, The little church upon the windy height Is grey as sky or sea. But there hath he that woke the sleepless Love Slept through these fifty years, There is the grave that has been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain, As Hallam’s dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain.

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Grey sky, brown waters, as a bird that flies, My heart flits forth from these Back to the winter rose of northern skies, Back to the northern seas. And lo, the long waves of the ocean beat Below the minster grey, Caverns and chapels worn of saintly feet, And knees of them that pray. And I remember me how twain were one Beside that ocean dim, I count the years passed over since the sun That lights me looked on him, And dreaming of the voice that, save in sleep, Shall greet me not again, Far, far below I hear the Channel sweep And all his waves complain.

TWILIGHT ON TWEED.

THREE crests against the saffron sky, Beyond the purple plain, The kind remembered melody Of Tweed once more again.

Wan water from the border hills, Dear voice from the old years, Thy distant music lulls and stills, And moves to quiet tears.

Like a loved ghost thy fabled flood Fleets through the dusky land; Where Scott, come home to die, has stood, My feet returning stand.

A mist of memory broods and floats, The Border waters flow; The air is full of ballad notes, Borne out of long ago.

Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy’s day dream, While trout below the blossom’d tree Plashed in the golden steam.

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Twilight, and Tweed, and Eildon Hill, Fair and too fair you be; You tell me that the voice is still That should have welcomed me.

1870.

METEMPSYCHOSIS.

I SHALL not see thee, nay, but I shall know Perchance, the grey eyes in another’s eyes, Shall guess thy curls in gracious locks that flow On purest brows, yea, and the swift surmise Shall follow and track, and find thee in disguise Of all sad things, and fair, where sunsets glow, When through the scent of heather, faint and low, The weak wind whispers to the day that dies.

From all sweet art, and out of all old rhyme, Thine eyes and lips are light and song to me; The shadows of the beauty of all time, In song or story are but shapes of thee; Alas, the shadowy shapes! ah, sweet my dear, Shall life or death bring all thy being near?

LOST IN HADES.

I DREAMED that somewhere in the shadowy place, Grief of farewell unspoken was forgot In welcome, and regret remembered not; And hopeless prayer accomplished turned to praise On lips that had been songless many days; Hope had no more to hope for, and desire And dread were overpast, in white attire New born we walked among the new world’s ways.

Then from the press of shades a spirit threw Towards me such apples as these gardens bear; And turning, I was ’ware of her, and knew And followed her fleet voice and flying hair,— Followed, and found her not, and seeking you I found you never, dearest, anywhere.

A STAR IN THE NIGHT.

THE perfect piteous beauty of thy face Is like a star the dawning drives away; Mine eyes may never see in the bright day Thy pallid halo, thy supernal grace; But in the night from forth the silent place Thou comest, dim in dreams, as doth a stray Star of the starry flock that in the grey Is seen, and lost, and seen a moment’s space.

And as the earth at night turns to a star, Loved long ago, and dearer than the sun, So in the spiritual place afar, At night our souls are mingled and made one, And wait till one night fall, and one dawn rise, That brings no noon too splendid for your eyes.

A SUNSET ON YARROW.

The wind and the day had lived together, They died together, and far away Spoke farewell in the sultry weather, Out of the sunset, over the heather, The dying wind and the dying day.

Far in the south, the summer levin Flushed, a flame in the grey soft air: We seemed to look on the hills of heaven; You saw within, but to me ’twas given To see your face, as an angel’s, there.

Never again, ah surely never Shall we wait and watch, where of old we stood, The low good-night of the hill and the river, The faint light fade, and the wan stars quiver, Twain grown one in the solitude.

ANOTHER WAY.

_COME to me in my dreams_, _and then_, _One saith_, _I shall be well again_, _For then the night will more than pay_ _The hopeless longing of the day_.

Nay, come not _thou_ in dreams, my sweet, With shadowy robes, and silent feet, And with the voice, and with the eyes That greet me in a soft surprise.

Last night, last night, in dreams we met, And how, to-day, shall I forget, Or how, remembering, restrain Mine incommunicable pain?

Nay, where thy land and people are, Dwell thou remote, apart, afar, Nor mingle with the shapes that sweep The melancholy ways of Sleep.