Part 3

“What is the story? Rivets loose, Superb contrivance; fainter use; For years, Allegiance, consecrate with tears, Sad loyalty, its own excuse;

“A morning faith magnificent; Defiance breaking; ardor spent And pains For royal blood thro’ dwindled veins, Half-clogged with dust of dull content,

“But weak not wholly; for there burst In the last scion, battle-nursed, Such scope Of rich emprise, that our rash hope Wrote him not last, indeed, but first.

“For our true liege folk mocked at ease, And chartered foes, and crossed the seas: Behold! Where are they now, the gaps, the old Delicious taunts and enmities?

“Then, troops of gallant gentlemen That passed by night o’er field and fen, Did shout Townward, lusty and loud throughout: ‘When the King comes back to his own again.’

“Then rose a prayer, heart-tremulous, Near many an heir, in many a house, Asleep: ‘O kindly Heaven! do thou but keep Our children rebels after us!’

“Then sailors landing from the fleet, Idling wits in a sunny street, And sirs With trim-clipp’d beards and rattling spurs Met, swearing fealty: so we meet.

“And since the stars, and you, and I Have seen the cycle rolling by, And know That right is right, thro’ flower and snow, Why then, give still the wonted cry:—

“Here’s to the proud, forgotten names, Here’s to the Stuart, Charles and James! Ah me! Full few that live so long as we Fan older love to steadier flames.

“Here’s to our fathers, Cavaliers; Their noble toil, their patient years That bore A burden precious now no more: So may they rest in happier spheres.

“And here’s our benison for her Who doth the forfeit sceptre stir; A toast Late in the day, and welcome most: Death and doom to Hanover!”

. . . .

Now this I heard from comrades dead, And vowed Amen to all they said, And rose With fair intent to draw more close; But like the forest deer they fled.

SPRING.

“With a difference.”—HAMLET.

AGAIN the bloom, the northward flight, The fount freed at its silver height, And down the deep woods to the lowest, The fragrant shadows scarred with light.

O inescapeable joy of spring! For thee the world shall leap and sing; But by her darkened door thou goest Forever as a spectral thing.

ADVENTURERS.

WHEN we were children, at our will, That vanished summer blithe and free, Dear shipmate! how we loved to float Thro’ wind and calm, in a little boat, All alone on the sparkling sea!

One morn, defying storms we sailed And sang our Credo, you and I— “Beyond the foam, the surge, the mist, The sea-fog’s moving amethyst, The peaceful fairy islands lie.”

And far we urged the forward prow, Half-mad with longing as we hied; Yet at the sunset’s dying glow Faint-hearted, ceased, and homewards so Came meekly with the evening tide.

Surely, the Isles of Rest were near! Why did our childish ardor tire? Now more, oh, more the thousandth time! We thirst for that celestial clime, We hunger with that old desire.

Some day, when we shall sail again, The home-lights late indeed may burn; Let signals flutter on the shore, Let tides creep up to the open door, But with no tide shall we return.

L’ETIQUETTE.

NEVER one in your kingdom, my queen, Who stands in your presence serene, Would take the first step less or more, Or pose otherwise on the floor, Or bend a whit deeper the knee, Or speak but as low as can be, And then at your royal command; And never a lord in the land Would stir the fine blade in its sheath, Or a marchioness rustle her wreath, Or a page grow too lean or too stout For fear of an exile, no doubt. And yet I remember the first Thro’ order and system to burst, Old freedom of ways to reclaim, Was that blithe little fellow who came To the arras majestic one day, In his lace and his velvet array, And rioted gallantly round, And talked of his horse and his hound, And gave milord’s buckler a clang And leaped o’er the marbles, and sang, And laughed in barbarian glee, Disturbing your stately levee;— Till the horrified ladies came down And bore him away, at your frown.

That was a twelvemonth ago. You sit there as placid as snow: In ease and politeness and state, The court holds its doings of late, With nothing to vex with a qualm That formal, respectable calm. Patrician reproofs are forgot, Since further ill-doers are not. Liege lady! say, what would you give Henceforward as long as you live, For the roguish soft clutch at your hair, The capers and curvets in air, The laughter’s wild musical flow, That you frowned at a twelvemonth ago?

THE GRAVE AND THE ROSE.

[_Translated from Victor Hugo._]

WHISPERS the grave to the rose: “With the dew that the dawn bestows, What dost thou, love’s darling blossom?” And the rose to the grave soft saith: “And thou, dread abyss of death, With them in thine awful bosom?” But answers: “Mystical tomb, From the dew I exhale in the gloom Mine odor of amber and spices.” Then the grave: “Ah, querulous flower! Even so from each heart in my power An angel to Heaven arises.”

End of Project Gutenberg's Songs at the Start, by Louise Imogen Guiney