Chapter 3

Let us on, ye Maidens that bring the Rain, Let us gaze on Pallas’ citadel, In the country of Cecrops, fair and dear The mystic land of the holy cell, Where the Rites unspoken securely dwell, And the gifts of the Gods that know not stain And a people of mortals that know not fear. For the temples tall, and the statues fair, And the feasts of the Gods are holiest there, The feasts of Immortals, the chaplets of flowers And the Bromian mirth at the coming of spring, And the musical voices that fill the hours, And the dancing feet of the Maids that sing!

BALLADE OF LITERARY FAME.

“All these for Fourpence.”

OH, where are the endless Romances Our grandmothers used to adore? The Knights with their helms and their lances, Their shields and the favours they wore? And the Monks with their magical lore? They have passed to Oblivion and _Nox_, They have fled to the shadowy shore,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And where the poetical fancies Our fathers rejoiced in, of yore? The lyric’s melodious expanses, The Epics in cantos a score? They have been and are not: no more Shall the shepherds drive silvery flocks, Nor the ladies their languors deplore,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

And the Music! The songs and the dances? The tunes that Time may not restore? And the tomes where Divinity prances? And the pamphlets where Heretics roar? They have ceased to be even a bore,— The Divine, and the Sceptic who mocks,— They are “cropped,” they are “foxed” to the core,— They are all in the Fourpenny Box!

ENVOY.

Suns beat on them; tempests downpour, On the chest without cover or locks, Where they lie by the Bookseller’s door,— They are _all_ in the Fourpenny Box!

Νήνεμος ’Αἰών

I WOULD my days had been in other times, A moment in the long unnumbered years That knew the sway of Horus and of hawk, In peaceful lands that border on the Nile.

I would my days had been in other times, Lulled by the sacrifice and mumbled hymn Between the Five great Rivers, or in shade And shelter of the cool Himâlayan hills.

I would my days had been in other times, That I in some old abbey of Touraine Had watched the rounding grapes, and lived my life, Ere ever Luther came or Rabelais!

I would my days had been in other times, When quiet life to death not terrible Drifted, as ashes of the Santhal dead Drift down the sacred Rivers to the Sea!

ART.

A VERY WOFUL BALLADE OF THE ART CRITIC.

(TO E. A. ABBEY.)

A SPIRIT came to my sad bed, And weary sad that night was I, Who’d tottered, since the dawn was red, Through miles of Grosvenor Gallery, Yea, leagues of long Academy Awaited me when morn grew white, ’Twas then the Spirit whispered nigh, “Take up the pen, my friend, and write!

“Of many a portrait grey as lead, Of many a mustard-coloured sky, Say much, where little should be said, Lay on thy censure dexterously, With microscopic glances pry At textures, Tadema’s delight, Praise foreign swells they always sky, Take up the pen, my friend, and write!”

I answered, “’Tis for daily bread, A sorry crust, I ween, and dry, That still, with aching feet and head, I push this lawful industry, ’Mid pictures hung or low, or high, But, touching that which I indite, Do artists hold me lovingly? Take up the pen, my friend, and write.”

_The Spirit writeth in form of_

ENVOY.

“They fain would black thy dexter eye, They hate thee with a bitter spite, But scribble since thou must, or die, Take tip the pen, my friend, and write!”

ART’S MARTYR.

Telleth of a young man that fain would be fairly tattooed on his flesh, after the heathen manner, in devices of blue, and that, falling among the Dyacks, a folk of Borneo, was by them tattooed in modern fashion and device, and of his misery that fell upon him, and his outlawry.

_HE said_, The China on the shelf Is very fair to view, And wherefore should mine outer self, Not correspond thereto? In blue My frame I must tattoo.

Where may tattooing men abound, And ah, where might they be? Nay, well I wot they are not found In lands of Christentie, (_Quoth he_) But I must cross the sea!

So forth he sailed to Borneo, (A land that culture lacks,) And there his money did bestow To purchase pricks and hacks, (Dyacks Are famed tattooing blacks.)

But European commerce had Debased the savage kind, And they this most unhappy lad Before (and eke behind) Designed In colours to their mind!

Such awful colours as are blent On terrible placards Where flames the fierce advertisement Yea, or on Christmas cards (Not Ward’s, But common Christmas cards!)

Thus never more to Chelsea might The luckless boy return, He knew himself too dreadful, quite, A thing his friends would spurn, And turn To praise some Grecian urn!

But still he dwells in Borneo, A land that culture lacks, And there they all admire him so, They bring him heads in sacks, Dyacks Are _not_ æsthetic blacks!

THE PALACE OF BRIC-À-BRAC.

HERE, where old Nankin glitters, Here, where men’s tumult seems As faint as feeble twitters Of sparrows heard in dreams, We watch Limoges enamel, An old chased silver camel, A shawl, the gift of Schamyl, And manuscripts in reams.

Here, where the hawthorn pattern On flawless cup and plate Need fear no housemaid slattern, Fell minister of fate, ’Mid webs divinely woven, And helms and hauberks cloven, On music of Beethoven We dream and meditate.

We know not, and we need not To know how mortals fare, Of Bills that pass, or speed not, Time finds us unaware, Yea, creeds and codes may crumble, And Dilke and Gladstone stumble, And eat the pie that’s humble, We neither know nor care!

Can kings or clergies alter The crackle on one plate? Can creeds or systems palter With what is truly great? With Corots and with Millets, With April daffodillies, Or make the maiden lilies Bloom early or bloom late?

Nay, here ’midst Rhodian roses, ’Midst tissues of Cashmere, The Soul sublime reposes, And knows not hope nor fear; Here all she sees her own is, And musical her moan is, O’er Caxtons and Bodonis, Aldine and Elzevir!

RONDEAUX OF THE GALLERIES.

_Camelot_.

IN Camelot how grey and green The Damsels dwell, how sad their teen, In Camelot how green and grey The melancholy poplars sway. I wis I wot not what they mean Or wherefore, passionate and lean, The maidens mope their loves between, Not seeming to have much to say, In Camelot. Yet there hath armour goodly sheen The blossoms in the apple treen, (To spell the Camelotian way) Show fragrant through the doubtful day, And Master’s work is often seen In Camelot!

_Philistia_.

Philistia! Maids in muslin white With flannelled oarsmen oft delight To drift upon thy streams, and float In Salter’s most luxurious boat; In buff and boots the cheery knight Returns (quite safe) from Naseby fight; Thy humblest folk are clean and bright, Thou still must win the public vote, Philistia! Observe the High Church curate’s coat, The realistic hansom note! Ah, happy land untouched of blight, Smirks, Bishops, Babies, left and right, We know thine every charm by rote, Philistia!

SCIENCE.

THE BARBAROUS BIRD-GODS: A SAVAGE PARABASIS.

In the _Aves_ of Aristophanes, the Bird Chorus declare that they are older than the Gods, and greater benefactors of men. This idea recurs in almost all savage mythologies, and I have made the savage Bird-gods state their own case.

_The Birds sing_:

WE would have you to wit, that on eggs though we sit, and are spiked on the spit, and are baked in the pan, Birds are older by far than your ancestors are, and made love and made war ere the making of Man! For when all things were dark, not a glimmer nor spark, and the world like a barque without rudder or sail Floated on through the night, ’twas a Bird struck a light, ’twas a flash from the bright feather’d Tonatiu’s {105} tail! Then the Hawk {106a} with some dry wood flew up in the sky, and afar, safe and high, the Hawk lit Sun and Moon, And the Birds of the air they rejoiced everywhere, and they recked not of care that should come on them soon. For the Hawk, so they tell, was then known as Pundjel, {106b} and a-musing he fell at the close of the day; Then he went on the quest, as we thought, of a nest, with some bark of the best, and a clawful of clay. {106c} And with these did he frame two birds lacking a name, without feathers (his game was a puzzle to all); Next around them he fluttered a-dancing, and muttered; and, lastly, he uttered a magical call: Then the figures of clay, as they featherless lay, they leaped up, who but they, and embracing they fell, And _this_ was the baking of Man, and his making; but now he’s forsaking his Father, Pundjel! Now these creatures of mire, they kept whining for fire, and to crown their desire who was found but the Wren? To the high heaven he came, from the Sun stole he flame, and for this has a name in the memory of men! {107a} And in India who for the Soma juice flew, and to men brought it through without falter or fail? Why the Hawk ’twas again, and great Indra to men would appear, now and then, in the shape of a Quail, While the Thlinkeet’s delight is the Bird of the Night, the beak and the bright ebon plumage of Yehl.{107b} And who for man’s need brought the famed Suttung’s mead? why ’tis told in the creed of the Sagamen strong, ’Twas the Eagle god who brought the drink from the blue, and gave mortals the brew that’s the fountain of song. {108a} Next, who gave men their laws? and what reason or cause the young brave overawes when in need of a squaw, Till he thinks it a shame to wed one of his name, and his conduct you blame if he thus breaks the law? For you still hold it wrong if a _lubra_ {108b} belong to the self-same _kobong_ {108c} that is Father of you, To take _her_ as a bride to your ebony side; nay, you give her a wide berth; quite right of you, too. For her father, you know, is _your_ father, the Crow, and no blessing but woe from the wedding would spring. Well, these rules they were made in the wattle-gum shade, and were strictly obeyed, when the Crow was the King. {108d} Thus on Earth’s little ball to the Birds you owe all, yet your gratitude’s small for the favours they’ve done, And their feathers you pill, and you eat them at will, yes, you plunder and kill the bright birds one by one; There’s a price on their head, and the Dodo is dead, and the Moa has fled from the sight of the sun!

MAN AND THE ASCIDIAN.

A MORALITY.

“THE Ancestor remote of Man,” Says Darwin, “is th’ Ascidian,” A scanty sort of water-beast That, ninety million years at least Before Gorillas came to be, Went swimming up and down the sea.

Their ancestors the pious praise, And like to imitate their ways; How, then, does our first parent live, What lesson has his life to give?

Th’ Ascidian tadpole, young and gay, Doth Life with one bright eye survey, His consciousness has easy play. He’s sensitive to grief and pain, Has tail, and spine, and bears a brain, And everything that fits the state Of creatures we call vertebrate. But age comes on; with sudden shock He sticks his head against a rock! His tail drops off, his eye drops in, His brain’s absorbed into his skin; He does not move, nor feel, nor know The tidal water’s ebb and flow, But still abides, unstirred, alone, A sucker sticking to a stone.

And we, his children, truly we In youth are, like the Tadpole, free. And where we would we blithely go, Have brains and hearts, and feel and know. Then Age comes on! To Habit we Affix ourselves and are not free; Th’ Ascidian’s rooted to a rock, And we are bond-slaves of the clock; Our rocks are Medicine—Letters—Law, From these our heads we cannot draw: Our loves drop off, our hearts drop in, And daily thicker grows our skin.

Ah, scarce we live, we scarcely know The wide world’s moving ebb and flow, The clanging currents ring and shock, But we are rooted to the rock. And thus at ending of his span, Blind, deaf, and indolent, does Man Revert to the Ascidian.

BALLADE OF THE PRIMITIVE JEST.

“What did the dark-haired Iberian laugh at before the tall blonde Aryan drove him into the corners of Europe?”—_Brander Matthews_.

I AM an ancient Jest! Palæolithic man In his arboreal nest The sparks of fun would fan; My outline did he plan, And laughed like one possessed, ’Twas thus my course began, I am a Merry Jest!

I am an early Jest! Man delved, and built, and span; Then wandered South and West The peoples Aryan, _I_ journeyed in their van; The Semites, too, confessed,— From Beersheba to Dan,— I am a Merry Jest!

I am an ancient Jest, Through all the human clan, Red, black, white, free, oppressed, Hilarious I ran! I’m found in Lucian, In Poggio, and the rest, I’m dear to Moll and Nan! I am a Merry Jest!

ENVOY.

Prince, you may storm and ban— Joe Millers _are_ a pest, Suppress me if you can! I am a Merry Jest!

CAMEOS.

_SONNETS FROM THE ANTIQUE_.

These versions from classical passages are pretty close to the original, except where compression was needed, as in the sonnets from Pausanias and Apuleius, or where, as in the case of fragments of Æschylus and Sophocles, a little expansion was required.

CAMEOS.

_THE graver by Apollo’s shrine_, _Before the Gods had fled_, _would stand_, _A shell or onyx in his hand_, _To copy there the face divine_, _Till earnest touches_, _line by line_, _Had wrought the wonder of the land_ _Within a beryl’s golden band_, _Or on some fiery opal fine_. _Ah_! _would that as some ancient ring_ _To us_, _on shell or stone_, _doth bring_, _Art’s marvels perished long ago_, _So I_, _within the sonnet’s space_, _The large Hellenic lines might trace_, _The statue in the cameo_!

HELEN ON THE WALLS.

(_Iliad_, iii. 146.)

FAIR Helen to the Scæan portals came, Where sat the elders, peers of Priamus, Thymoetas, Hiketaon, Panthöus, And many another of a noble name, Famed warriors, now in council more of fame. Always above the gates, in converse thus They chattered like cicalas garrulous; Who marking Helen, swore “it is no shame That armed Achæan knights, and Ilian men For such a woman’s sake should suffer long. Fair as a deathless goddess seemeth she. Nay, but aboard the red-prowed ships again Home let her pass in peace, not working wrong To us, and children’s children yet to be.”

THE ISLES OF THE BLESSED.

_Pindar_, _Fr._, 106, 107 (95): B. 4, 129–130, 109 (97): B. 4, 132.

NOW the light of the sun, in the night of the Earth, on the souls of the True Shines, and their city is girt with the meadow where reigneth the rose; And deep is the shade of the woods, and the wind that flits o’er them and through Sings of the sea, and is sweet from the isles where the frankincense blows: Green is their garden and orchard, with rare fruits golden it glows, And the souls of the Blessed are glad in the pleasures on Earth that they knew, And in chariots these have delight, and in dice and in minstrelsy those, And the savour of sacrifice clings to the altars and rises anew.

But the Souls that Persephone cleanses from ancient pollution and stain, These at the end of the age be they prince, be they singer, or seer; These to the world, shall be born as of old, shall be sages again; These of their hands shall be hardy, shall live, and shall die, and shall hear Thanks of the people, and songs of the minstrels that praise them amain, And their glory shall dwell in the land where they dwelt, while year calls unto year!

DEATH.

(_Æsch._, _Fr._, 156.)

OF all Gods Death alone Disdaineth sacrifice: No man hath found or shown The gift that Death would prize. In vain are songs or sighs, Pæan, or praise, or moan, Alone beneath the skies Hath Death no altar-stone!

There is no head so dear That men would grudge to Death; Let Death but ask, we give All gifts that we may live; But though Death dwells so near, We know not what he saith.

NYSA.

(_Soph._, _Fr._, 235; _Æsch._, _Fr._, 56.)

ON these Nysæan shores divine The clusters ripen in a day. At dawn the blossom shreds away; The berried grapes are green and fine And full by noon; in day’s decline They’re purple with a bloom of grey, And e’er the twilight plucked are they, And crushed, by nightfall, into wine.

But through the night with torch in hand Down the dusk hills the Mænads fare; The bull-voiced mummers roar and blare, The muffled timbrels swell and sound, And drown the clamour of the band Like thunder moaning underground.

COLONUS.

(_Œd. Col._, 667–705.)

I.

HERE be the fairest homes the land can show, The silvery-cliffed Colonus; always here The nightingale doth haunt and singeth clear, For well the deep green gardens doth she know. Groves of the God, where winds may never blow, Nor men may tread, nor noontide sun may peer Among the myriad-berried ivy dear, Where Dionysus wanders to and fro.

For here he loves to dwell, and here resort These Nymphs that are his nurses and his court, And golden eyed beneath the dewy boughs The crocus burns, and the narcissus fair Clusters his blooms to crown thy clustered hair, Demeter, and to wreathe the Maiden’s brows!

II.

YEA, here the dew of Heaven upon the grain Fails never, nor the ceaseless water-spring, Near neighbour of Cephisus wandering, That day by day revisiteth the plain. Nor do the Goddesses the grove disdain, But chiefly here the Muses quire and sing, And here they love to weave their dancing ring, With Aphrodite of the golden rein.

And here there springs a plant that knoweth not The Asian mead, nor that great Dorian isle, Unsown, untilled, within our garden plot It dwells, the grey-leaved olive; ne’er shall guile Nor force of foemen root it from the spot: Zeus and Athene guarding it the while!

THE PASSING OF ŒDIPOUS.

(_Œd. Col._, 1655–1666.)

HOW Œdipous departed, who may tell Save Theseus only? for there neither came The burning bolt of thunder, and the flame To blast him into nothing, nor the swell Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on him fell. But some diviner herald none may name Called him, or inmost Earth’s abyss became The painless place where such a soul might dwell.

Howe’er it chanced, untouched of malady, Unharmed by fear, unfollowed by lament, With comfort on the twilight way he went, Passing, if ever man did, wondrously; From this world’s death to life divinely rent, Unschooled in Time’s last lesson, how we die.

THE TAMING OF TYRO.

(_Soph._, _Fr._, 587.)

(Sidero, the stepmother of Tyro, daughter of Salmoneus, cruelly entreated her in all things, and chiefly in this, that she let sheer her beautiful hair.)

AT fierce Sidero’s word the thralls drew near, And shore the locks of Tyro,—like ripe corn They fell in golden harvest,—but forlorn The maiden shuddered in her pain and fear, Like some wild mare that cruel grooms in scorn Hunt in the meadows, and her mane they sheer, And drive her where, within the waters clear, She spies her shadow, and her shame doth mourn.

Ah! hard were he and pitiless of heart Who marking that wild thing made weak and tame, Broken, and grieving for her glory gone, Could mock her grief; but scornfully apart Sidero stood, and watched a wind that came And tossed the curls like fire that flew and shone!

TO ARTEMIS.

(_Hippol._, _Eurip._, 73–87.)

FOR thee soft crowns in thine untrampled mead I wove, my lady, and to thee I bear; Thither no shepherd drives his flocks to feed, Nor scythe of steel has ever laboured there; Nay, through the spring among the blossoms fair The brown bee comes and goes, and with good heed Thy maiden, Reverence, sweet streams doth lead About the grassy close that is her care!

Souls only that are gracious and serene By gift of God, in human lore unread, May pluck these holy blooms and grasses green That now I wreathe for thine immortal head, I that may walk with thee, thyself unseen, And by thy whispered voice am comforted.

CRITICISM OF LIFE.

(_Hippol._, _Eurip._, 252–266.)

LONG life hath taught me many things, and shown That lukewarm loves for men who die are best, Weak wine of liking let them mix alone, Not Love, that stings the soul within the breast; Happy, who wears his love-bonds lightliest, Now cherished, now away at random thrown! Grievous it is for other’s grief to moan, Hard that my soul for thine should lose her rest!

Wise ruling this of life: but yet again Perchance too rigid diet is not well; He lives not best who dreads the coming pain And shunneth each delight desirable: _Flee thou extremes_, this word alone is plain, Of all that God hath given to Man to spell!

AMARYLLIS.

(_Theocritus_, _Idyll_, iii.)

FAIR Amaryllis, wilt thou never peep From forth the cave, and call me, and be mine? Lo, apples ten I bear thee from the steep, These didst thou long for, and all these are thine. Ah, would I were a honey-bee to sweep Through ivy, and the bracken, and woodbine; To watch thee waken, Love, and watch thee sleep, Within thy grot below the shadowy pine. Now know I Love, a cruel god is he, The wild beast bare him in the wild wood drear; And truly to the bone he burneth me. But, black-browed Amaryllis, ne’er a tear, Nor sigh, nor blush, nor aught have I from thee; Nay, nor a kiss, a little gift and dear.

THE CANNIBAL ZEUS.

A.D. 160

Καὶ ἔθυσε τὸ βρέφος, καὶ ἔσπεισεν ἐπὶ τοῦ βωμοῦ τὸ ‘αῖμχ—έπὶ τούτου βωμοῦ τῷ Δὺ θύουσιν ἐν ἀποῤῥήτῳ.—_Paus._ viii. 38

NONE elder city doth the Sun behold Than ancient Lycosura; ’twas begun Ere Zeus the meat of mortals learned to shun, And here hath he a grove whose haunted fold The driven deer seek and huntsmen dread: ’tis told That whoso fares within that forest dun Thenceforth shall cast no shadow in the Sun, Ay, and within the year his life is cold!

Hard by dwelt he {130} who, while the Gods deigned eat At good men’s tables, gave them dreadful meat, A child he slew:—his mountain altar green Here still hath Zeus, with rites untold of me, Piteous, but as they are let these things be, And as from the beginning they have been!

INVOCATION OF ISIS.

(_Apuleius_, _Metamorph. XI_.)