The Ballade, The Double Ballade, and The Chant Royal.

En ce beau mois delicieux, Arbres, fleurs et agriculture, Qui, durant l' yver soucieux, Avez esté en sepulture, Sortez pour servir de pasture Aux troupeaux du plus grand Pasteur: Chacun de vous en sa nature, Louez le nom de Createur. Les servans d' amour furieux Parlent de l' amour vaine et dure, Où vous, vrays amans curieux Parlez de l' amour sans laidure. Allez aux champs sur la verdure Ouir l' oyseau, parfait chanteur; Mais du plaisir, si peu qu'il dure Louez le nom de Createur. Quand vous verrez rire les Cieux Et la terre en sa floriture, Quand vous verrez devant vos yeux Les eaux lui bailler nourriture, Sur peine de grand forfaiture Et d' estre larron et menteur, N' en louez nulle creature, Louez le nom de Createur.

Prince, pensez, veu la facture, Combien est puissant le facteur; Et vous aussi, mon escriture, Louez le nom de Createur.

In these prosaic days Of politics and trade, Where seldom fancy lays Her touch on man or maid, The sounds are fled that strayed Along sweet streams that ran; Of song the world's afraid; Where are the Pipes of Pan? Within the busy maze Wherein our feet are stayed, There roam no gleesome fays Like those which once repaid His sight who first essayed The stream of song to span, Those spirits are all laid. Where are the Pipes of Pan? Dry now the poet's bays; Of song-robes disarrayed He hears not now the praise Which erst those won who played On pipes of rushes made, Before dull days began And love of song decayed. Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Prince, all our pleasures fade; Vain all the toils of man; And fancy cries dismayed, Where are the Pipes of Pan?

In the mud of the Cambrian main Did our earliest ancestor dive: From a shapeless albuminous grain We mortals our being derive. He could split himself up into five, Or roll himself round like a ball; For the fittest will always survive, While the weakliest go to the wall. As an active ascidian again Fresh forms he began to contrive, Till he grew to a fish with a brain, And brought forth a mammal alive. With his rivals he next had to strive, To woo him a mate and a thrall; So the handsomest managed to wive While the ugliest went to the wall. At length as an ape he was fain The nuts of the forest to rive; Till he took to the low-lying plain, And proceeded his fellow to knive. Thus did cannibal men first arrive, One another to swallow and maul; And the strongest continued to thrive While the weakliest went to the wall.

Prince, in our civilised hive Now money's the measure of all; And the wealthy in coaches can drive While the needier go to the wall.

Thank Heaven, in these despondent days, I have at least one faithful friend, Who meekly listens to my lays, As o'er the darkened downs we wend. Nay, naught of mine may him offend; In sooth he is a courteous wight, His constancy needs no amend— My shadow on a moonlight night. Too proud to give me perjured praise, He hearkens as we onward tend, And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase, Nor says he cannot comprehend. Might God such critics always send! He turns not to the left or right, But patient follows to the end— My shadow on a moonlight night. And if the public grant me bays, On him no jealousies descend; But through the midnight woodland ways, He velvet-footed will attend; Or where the chalk cliffs downward bend To meet the sea all silver-bright, There will he come, most reverend— My shadow on a moonlight night.

O wise companion, I commend Your grace in being silent quite; And envy with approval blend— My shadow on a moonlight night.

From country, from coast and from city, From nowhere and goodness knows where, The visitors come without pity, There is not a corner to spare; And students with work to prepare Must charter a captive balloon And study aloft in the air, For the May Week has fallen in June. The grinding of feet that are gritty So ceaseless on landing and stair; The notes of some drawing-room ditty Disturb the recluse in his lair And cause him to clutch at his hair As he toils in the hot afternoon; But nobody hears if he swear, For the May Week has fallen in June. Then the damsels supposing its pretty Their art-curtain patterns to wear, And the youths who conceive they are witty, Came round to be stared at, and stare. And amateur buglers that blare, And singers that howl to the moon, Are more than the system can bear; For the May Week has fallen in June.

Friend, do not be caught in the snare, And strive not to sing or to spoon, Your tripos is all your affair, For the May Week has fallen in June.

Says Herbert: Pray, list to my notion, All ye who the truth would invite; Be Agnostics, and spurn the emotion That ghosts and the gospels excite. In th' Unknown do I find all delight, And in Infinite Energy see All casual cravings unite— And that's the religion for me. Says Frederic: Pray list to my notion, Away with Impersonal Might, To Humanity tender promotion, And worship the idëal wight. Though from stock that is Simian hight He may trace out a pure pedigree, Yet to Man will I anthems recite— And that's the religion for me. Says Wilfrid: Pray, list to my notion, On the hip I will infidels smite; 'Tis only through Christian devotion That virtues with vices can fight. Whate'er may Theology write, Whatever the Church may decree, My soul shall acknowledge as right— And that's the religion for me.

O faith full of riddle and rite, O philosophies deep as the sea, In this posse of problems polite, Prithee, where's the religion for me?

The sunlight sways the summer sky, Quivers with breath each quicken'd blade, The birds with one another vie To move to mirth the grove and glade, While yonder solemn cavalcade Winds o'er the glebe in gloom august, Chanting a dead man's serenade, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. A smile is mated to a sigh, One flashes ere the other fade, Farce arm-in-arm with tragedy, So struts the motley masquerade. Youth deems for joy the world is made, Till disappointment deals disgust, Disease defiles the last decade, Ashes to ashes, dust to dast. Within the grave our earnest eye Beholds a brother's body laid, Around us sombre hirelings ply The unctuous usage of their trade. Beneath the hedgerow laughs a maid, Held in a lover's arm robust; One day for her it shall be said, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Life, dost thou still possess the shade Of him in earth so rudely thrust? Canst thou the sentence yet evade, Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

King Philip had vaunted his claims; He had sworn for a year he would sack us; With an army of heathenish names He was coming to fagot and stack us; Like the thieves of the sea he would track us, And shatter our ships on the main; But we had bold Neptune to back us,— And where are the galleons of Spain? His carackes were christened of dames To the kirtles whereof he would tack us; With his saints and his gilded stern-frames, He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us: Now Howard may get to his Flaccus, And Drake to his Devon again, And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,— For where are the galleons of Spain? Let his Majesty hang to St. James The axe that he whetted to hack us; He must play at some lustier games Or at sea he can hope to out-thwack us; To his mines of Peru he would pack us To tug at his bullet and chain; Alas that his Greatness should lack us!— But where are the galleons of Spain?

Gloriana!—the Don may attack us Whenever his stomach be fain; He must reach us before he can rack us, ... And where are the galleons of Spain?

Chicken-skin, delicate, white, Painted by Carlo Vanloo, Loves in a riot of light, Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew,— This was the Pompadour's fan! See how they rise at the sight, Thronging the Œil de Bœuf through, Courtiers as butterflies bright, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Talon-rouge, falbala, queue, Cardinal, Duke,—to a man, Eager to sigh or to sue,— This was the Pompadour's fan! Ah! but things more than polite Hung on this toy, voyez vous! Matters of state and of might, Things that great ministers do; Things that, maybe, overthrew Those in whose brains they began; Here was the sign and the cue,— This was the Pompadour's fan!

Where are the secrets it knew? Weavings of plot and of plan? —But where is the Pompadour, too? This was the Pompadour's Fan!

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you played Is nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr; That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed" From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore; That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score, That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew;" Make answer—Beethoven could scarcely do more— That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shade Are simply "adapted" from other men's lore; That—plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"— You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four; That (however the writer the truth may deplore), Twas Gainsborough painted your "Little Boy Blue;" Smile only serenely—though cut to the core— For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! And you too, my Poet, be never dismayed If they whisper your Epic—"Sir Eperon d' Or"— Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayed In a tissue that's taken from Morris's store; That no one, in fact, but a child could ignore That you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do; Take heart—though your Pegasus' withers be sore— For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too! Postscriptum.—And you, whom we all so adore, Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!— One word in your ear. There were Critics before ... And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, There is place and enough for the pains of prose;— But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme! When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," There is place and enough for the pains of prose;— But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"— And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme! In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But," There is place and enough for the pains of prose;— But whenever a soft glance softer grows, And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, And the secret is told "that no one knows," Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

Where are the cities of the plain? And where the shrines of rapt Bethel? And Calah built of Tubal-Cain? And Shinar whence King Amraphel Came out in arms, and fought, and fell, Decoyed into the pits of slime By Siddim, and sent sheer to hell; Where are the cities of old time? Where now is Karnak, that great fane With granite built, a miracle? And Luxor smooth without a stain, Whose graven scriptures still we spell? The jackal and the owl may tell, Dark snakes around their ruins climb, They fade like echo in a shell; Where are the cities of old time? And where is white Shusan, again, Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell, And all the Jewish oil and grain Were brought to Mithridath to sell, Where Nehemiah would not dwell, Because another town sublime Decoyed him with her oracle? Where are the cities of old time?

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell, Above their wasted toil and crime The waters of oblivion swell: Where are the cities of old time?

Love thou art sweet in the spring-time of sowing Bitter in reaping and salt as the seas, Lovely and soft when the young buds are growing Harsh when the fruitage is ripe on the trees: Yet who that hath plucked him thy blossom e'er flees Who that hath drunk of thy sweetness can part, Tho' he find when thy chalice is drained to the lees Ashes and dust in the place of a heart? 'Tis myself that I curse at, the wild thoughts flowing Against myself built up of the breeze Like mountainous waves to my own o'erthrowing Strike and I tremble, my shivering knees Sink thro' the quicksands that round them freeze, From their treacherous hold I am loth to start:— In my breast laid bare, had you only the keys, Ashes and dust in the place of a heart. The world wide over young hearts are glowing With high held hopes we believed with ease, And have them still, but the saddest knowing Is the knowledge of how by slow degrees They slip from our side like a swarm of bees Bearing their sweetness away, and depart Leaving their stings in our bosom, with these Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

Love, free on the uplands, the lawns, and leas; Priced and sold in the World's base mart: But the same in the end; tho' at first it please, Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

Lady, around thy throat Gleameth the one gold hair; And none that hath taken note Of the first that he looked on fair, The moment his boyish air Was moved by that mystic breeze, But hath felt the spell of thy presence there, Lilith, the first Love sees! We sail in an open boat, 'Mid breakers that rage and tear, And ply the oars by rote As over the waves we fare, But never a moment dare Gaze down at the Form by our knees, For her eyes that thro' Self and thro' Soul do stare, Lilith, the first Love sees! Circle of wall and moat, Vain as the thought to wear Cunning of knightly coat Steely and tempered rare, Against her mute despair; For none there is who frees His soul from her spell, who hath all in care, Lilith, the first Love sees!

Maid without mate or pair, From the Past's pale Presences, Who is there but next his heart doth bear Lilith, the first Love sees!

Before the town had lost its wits, And scared the bravery from its beaux, When money-grubs were merely cits, And verse was crisp and clear as prose, Ere Chloë and Strephon came to blows For votes, degrees, and cigarettes, The world rejoiced to point its toes In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets. The solemn fiddlers touch their kits; The twinkling clavichord o'erflows With contrapuntal quirks and hits; And, with all measure and repose, Through figures grave as royal shows, With noble airs and pirouettes, They move, to rhythms Handel knows, In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets. O Fans and Swords, O Sacques and Mits, That was the better part you chose! You know not how those gamesome chits Waltz, Polka, and Schottische arose, Or how Quadrille—a kind of doze In time and tune—the dance besets; You aired your fashion till the close In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

Muse of the many-twinkling hose, Terpsichore, O teach your pets The charm that shines, the grace that glows In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

Where are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello's wrath and Juliet's woe? Sir Peter's whims and Timon's gall? And Millamant and Romeo?— Into the night go one and all. Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? The plumes, the armours—friend and foe? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the pride, the royal show? The cries of war and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?— Into the night go one and all. The curtain falls, the play is played: The Beggar packs beside the Beau; The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; The Thunder huddles with the Snow. Where are the revellers high and low? The clashing swords? The lover's call? The dancers gleaming row on row?— Into the night go one and all.

Prince, in one common overthrow The hero tumbles with the thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all.

Lilacs glow, and jasmines climb, Larks are loud the livelong day. O the golden summer-prime! June takes up the sceptre of May, And the land beneath her sway Glows, a dream of flowerful closes, And the very wind's at play With Sir Love among the roses. Lights and shadows in the lime Meet in exquisite disarray. Hark! the rich recurrent rhyme Of the blackbird's roundelay! Where he carols, frank and gay, Fancy no more glooms or proses; Joyously she flits away With Sir Love among the roses. O the cool sea's slumbrous chime! O the links that beach the bay, Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme, Where the brown bees murmur and stray! Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay! Many a maiden, binding posies, Finds herself at Yea-and-Nay With Sir Love among the roses.

Boys and girls, be wise, I pray! Do as dear Queen June proposes, For she bids you troop and stay With Sir Love among the roses.

Brown's for Lalage, Jones for Lelia, Robinson's bosom for Beatrice glows, Smith is a Hamlet before Ophelia. The glamour stays if the reason goes! Every lover the years disclose Is of a beautiful name made free. One befriends, and all others are foes. Anna's the name of names for me. Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia; Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose; Courtly memories glitter in Celia; Rosalind savours of quips and hose, Araminta of wits and beaux, Prue of puddings, and Coralie All of sawdust and spangled shows; Anna's the name of names for me. Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia— These I reckon the essence of prose!— Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia, Portia's masterful Roman nose, Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes, Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea, Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes! Anna's the name of names for me.

Ruth like a gillyflower smells and blows, Sylvia prattles of Arcadee, Sybil mystifies, Connie crows, Anna's the name of names for me!

There's a noise of coming, going, Budding, waking, vast and still. Hark, the echoes are yeo-hoing Loud and sweet from vale and hill! Do you hear it? With a will, In a grandiose lilt and swing, Nature's voices shout and trill ... 'Tis the symphony of Spring! Rains are singing, clouds are flowing, Ocean thunders, croons the rill, And the West his clarion's blowing, And the sparrow tunes his quill, And the thrush is fluting shrill, And the skylark's on the wing, And the merles their hautboys fill— 'Tis the symphony of Spring! Lambs are bleating, steers are lowing, Brisk and rhythmic clacks the mill. Kapellmeister April, glowing And superb with glee and skill, Comes, his orchestra to drill In a music that will ring Till the grey world yearn and thrill. 'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Princes, though your blood he chill, Here's shall make you leap and fling, Fling and leap like Jack and Jill! 'Tis the symphony of Spring.

With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams- Midsummer days! midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams- Midsummer days! midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights! There's a music of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams— Midsummer days! midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale as from prophet heights, Sings to the Earth of her million Mays- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

And its O! for my dear and the charm that stays- Midsummer days! midsummer days! Its O! for my Love and the dark that plights- Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

Spring at her height on a morn at prime, Sails that laugh from a flying squall, Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, An empty flagon, a folded page, A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball- These are a type of the world of Age. Bells that clash in a gorgeous chime, Swords that clatter in outsets tall, The words that ring and the fames that climb- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Old hymnals prone in a dusty stall, A bald blind bird in a crazy cage, The scene of a faded festival- These are a type of the world of Age. Hours that strut as the heirs of time, Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call, Songs where the singers their souls sublime- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A staff that rests in a nook of wall, A reeling battle, a rusted gage, The chant of a nearing funeral- These are a type of the world of Age.

Struggle and sacrifice, revel and brawl- Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A smouldering hearth and a silent stage- These are a type of the world of Age.

The sun across the meads glows bright; The river shines a silver sheet, And mirrors back the pearly light. In its warm gleam the shadows fleet, Earth seems in joy the heaven to greet; Heaven's love illumes the deep blue skies, And birds and flowers and streams repeat, 'Where true love dwells is Paradise.' Beneath the hedge with May-bloom white An old man and a child, whose feet In cadence move to love's fond might; In its warm gleam the shadows fleet; Like op'ning flowers in morn's soft heat. A youth and maid whose beaming eyes Flash forth the thought their hearts secrete, 'Where true love dwells is Paradise.' Within the minster's fane the rite Is breathed; down-pours His own to meet The glory of the Infinite: In its warm gleam the shadows fleet; Faith falls before the mercy-seat, And knows, though veiled to mortal eyes, There, there in loveliness complete, Where True Love dwells is Paradise. Past sounding brass are love's tones sweet, Than gold or gems more rare its price; In its warm gleam the shadows fleet; Where true love dwells is Paradise.

Where wide the forest boughs are spread, When Flora wakes with sylph and fay, Are crowns and garlands of men dead, All golden in the morning gay; Within this ancient garden grey Are clusters such as no man knows, Where Moor and Soldan bear the sway: This is King Louis' orchard close. These wretched folk wave overhead, With such strange thoughts as none may say; A moment still, then sudden sped, They swing in a ring and waste away. The morning smites them with her ray; They toss with every breeze that blows, They dance where fires of dawning play: This is King Louis' orchard close. All hanged and dead, they've summoned (With Hell to aid that hears them pray) New legions of an army dread, Now down the blue sky flames the day; The dew dries off; the foul array Of obscene ravens gathers and goes, With wings that flaps and beaks that flay: This is King Louis' orchard close.

Prince, where leaves murmur of the May, A tree of bitter clusters grows; The bodies of men dead are they, This is King Louis' orchard close.

The soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, O'er forests where Adonis bled And lily flowers a-row. He crossed the straits like streams that flow The ocean dark as wine To my true love to whisper low To be your Valentine. The spring-time raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, "I'll send an April Day," she said, "To lands of wintry woe." He came; wan winter's overthrow With showers that sing and shine Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine. Where sands of Egypt swart and red 'Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead By the Nile's overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost, her foe, To be your Valentine.

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so Their various voice combine, But that they crave on me bestow To be your Valentine.

He lived in a cave by the seas, He lived upon oysters and foes, But his list of forbidden degrees An extensive morality shows; Geological evidence goes To prove he had never a pan, But he shaved with a shell when he chose. 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze, He worshipped the river that flows, And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees, And bogies, and serpents, and crows; He buried his dead with their toes Tucked up, an original plan, Till their knees came right under their nose, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man! His communal wives, at his ease, He would curb with occasional blows; Or his State had a queen, like the bees (As another philosopher trows): When he spoke it was never in prose, But he sang in a strain that would scan, For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose) 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

Max, proudly your Aryans pose, But their rigs they undoubtedly ran, For, as every Darwinian knows, 'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

When strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And far from Fleet Street, far from here The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, And moonlight nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand. When clamour that doves in the lindens keep, Mingles with musical plash of the weir, Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose-hung hedges on either hand, Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand! When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer, Where kine knee-deep in the water stand, On a Highland loch, or a Lowland mere, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And Summer runs out like grains of sand, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

This life's most jolly, Amiens said Heigh-ho, the Holly! So sang he As the good duke was comforted By these reflections, so may we! The years may darken as they flee, And Christmas bring his melancholy; But round the old mahogany tree We drink, we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly! Though some are dead and some are fled To lands of summer over sea, The holly berry keeps his red, The merry children keep their glee; They hoard with artless secresy, This gift for Maude, and that for Molly, And Santa Claus he turns the key On Christmas Eve, Heigh-ho, the Holly! Amid the snow the birds are fed, The snow lies deep on lawn and lea, The skies are shining overhead, The robin's tame that was so free. Far North, at home, the "barley bree" They brew; they give the hour to folly. How "Rab and Allen cam' to prie" They sing; we sing Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Friend, let us pay the wonted fee, The yearly tithe of mirth: be jolly! It is a duty so to be, Though half we sigh, Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Our youth began with tears and sighs With seeking what we could not find; Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind: Life's more amusing than we thought! Oh! foolish youth, untimely wise! Oh! phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old and worn, and tired we find Life's more amusing than we thought! Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies," To mourn for youth we're not inclined; We set our souls on salmon-flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind! By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot; Who hum, contented or resigned, "Life's more amusing than we thought!"

O nate mecum, worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught; Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind— Life's more amusing than we thought!

Rhyme, in a late disdainful age, Hath many and many an eager knight, Each man of them, to print his page, From every quarter wings his flight! What tons of manuscript alight Here in the Row, how many a while For all can rhyme, when all can write— The master's yonder in the Isle! Like Otus some, with giant rage, But scarcely with a giant's might, Ossa on Pelion engage To pile, and scale Parnassus' height! And some, with subtle nets and slight, Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,[8] And wond'rous adjectives unite— The master's yonder in the Isle! Alas, the Muse they cannot cage These poets in a sorry plight! Vain is the weary war they wage, In vain they curse the Critic's spite! While grammar some neglect outright, While others polish with the file, The Fates contrive their toil to blight— The master's yonder in the Isle!

Prince, Arnold's jewel-work is bright, And Browning, in his iron style, Doth gold on his rude anvil smite— The master's yonder in the Isle!

Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold, Whose havens are the haunts of Peace, Whose boys are in our quarrel bold; Our bolt is shot, our tale is told, Our ship of state in storms may toss, But ye are young if we are old, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! Aye, we must dwindle and decrease, Such fates the ruthless years unfold; And yet we shall not wholly cease, We shall not perish unconsoled; Nay, still shall Freedom keep her hold Within the sea's inviolate fosse, And boast her sons of English mould, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross! All empires tumble—Rome and Greece— Their swords are rust, their altars cold! For us, the Children of the Seas, Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled, For us, in Fortune's books enscrolled, I read no runes of hopeless loss; Nor—while ye last—our knell is tolled, Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold, When o'er thy grave has grown the moss, Still Rule Australia shall be trolled In Islands of the Southern Cross!

Who is it that weeps for the last year's flowers When the wood is aflame with the fires of spring, And we hear her voice in the lilac bowers As she croons the runes of the blossoming? For the same old blooms do the new years bring. But not to our lives do the years come so, New lips must kiss and new bosoms cling.— Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. Ah! me for a breath of those morning hours When Alice and I went awandering Through the shining fields, and it still was ours To kiss and to feel we were shuddering— Ah! me, when a kiss was a holy thing.— How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh! With Phyllis once more to be whispering.— Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. But it cannot be that old Time devours Such loves as was Annie's and mine we sing, And surely beneficent heavenly powers Save Muriel's beauty from perishing; And if in some golden evening To a quaint old garden I chance to go, Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?— Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago. In these lives of ours do the new years bring Old loves as old flowers again to blow? Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?— Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

O Love, whom I have never seen, Yet ever hope to see; The memory that might have been The hope that yet may be; The passion that persistently Makes all my pulses beat With unassuaged desire that we Some day may come to meet: This August night outspread serene, The scent of flower and tree, The fall of water that unseen Moans on incessantly, That line of fire, where breaks the sea In ripples at my feet; What mean they all, if not that we Some day may come to meet? About your window bowered in green The night wind wanders free, While out into the night you lean, And dream, but not of me, As now I dream of you who flee Before my dream complete The shadow of the day when we Some day may come to meet.

Princess, while yet on lawn and lea The harvest moon is sweet, Ere August die, who knows but we Some day may come to meet?

Where's Heraclitus and his Flux Of Sense that never maketh stay? Or Thales, with whom water sucks Into itself both Clod and Clay? Or He, who in an evil Day Νόμος and φύσις first employ'd; And of the Sum of Things doth say, They all are Atoms in the Void? Where's grave Parmenides? Death plucks His Beard: and by the Velian Bay Sleeps Zeno; Plato's Pen their Crux Of One and Many doth portray. Empedocles too, well-away, His taste for climbing, unalloy'd By Prudence, led him far astray: They all are Atoms in the Void. Where's Socrates himself, who chucks Up Physics, makes of Sophists hay, Into Induction briskly tucks, And Definitions frames alway? The good Athenians him did slay, His Dialectic them annoy'd; And his Disciples, where are they? They all are Atoms in the Void.

Prince, tho' with these old names and grey Our peace of mind be half destroyed, Take comfort; say they what they may, They all are Atoms in the Void.

When Venus saw Ascanius sleep On sweet Cythera's snow-white roses His face like Adon's made her weep, And long to kiss him where he dozes; But fearing to disturb the boy, She kissed the pallid blooms instead, Which blushed and kept their blush for joy, When Venus kissed white roses red. Straight of these roses she did reap Sufficient store of pleasant posies, And coming from Cythera's steep Where every fragrant flower that grows is, She tossed them for the winds to toy And frolic with till they were dead. Heaven taught the earth a fair employ When Venus kissed white roses red. For each red rose the symbol deep In its sad, happy heart encloses Of kisses making love's heart leap, And every summer wind that blows is A prayer that ladies be not coy Of kisses ere brief life be sped. There gleamed more gold in earth's alloy When Venus kissed white roses red.

All lovers true since windy Troy Flamed for a woman's golden head, You gained surcease from life's annoy When Venus kissed white roses red.

The furious storm takes wing; Quenched is the fiery ray; And broken the frosty air's sting, For these hold mutable sway: Pain puts an end to its stay; Ills have a time to endure; One thing will not heal nor allay: For death there is no cure! For the good that the future may bring, We strive to exist to-day. With the veering vane we swing, When fate sweeps fortune away: Seldom will misery slay; And ever will hope allure; Yet one thing endureth for aye, For death there is no cure! Though life be an exquisite thing, Death shatters the curious clay; Though in frenzy we cry and we cling, There is none who can save us that day: So life is devoured as a prey, And in darkness for aye will immure; And silence for ever hath sway: For death there is no cure!

O man, be ye sad, be ye gay, In the end there is one thing sure: Make out of life what ye may, For death there is no cure!

When verdant youth sees life afar, And first sets out wild oats to sow, He puffs a stiff and stark cigar, And quaffs champagne of Mumm & Co. He likes not smoking yet; but though Tobacco makes him sick indeed, Cigars and wine he can't forego:— A slave is each man to the weed. In time his tastes more dainty are, And delicate. Become a beau, From out the country of the Czar He brings his cigarettes, and lo! He sips the vintage of Bordeaux. Thus keener relish shall succeed The baser liking we outgrow:— A slave is each man to the weed. When age and his own lucky star To him perfected wisdom show, The schooner glides across the bar, And beer for him shall freely flow, A pipe with genial warmth shall glow; To which he turns in direst need, To seek in smoke surcease of woe:— A slave is each man to the weed.

Smokers! who doubt or con or pro, And ye who dare to drink, take heed! And see in smoke a friendly foe:— A slave is each man to the weed.

The native drama's sick and dying, So say the cynic critic crew: The native dramatist is crying— "Bring me the paste! Bring me the glue! Bring me the pen, and scissors, too! Bring me the works of E. Augier! Bring me the works of V. Sardou! I am the man to write a play!" For want of plays the stage is sighing, Such is the song the wide world through: The native dramatist is crying— "Behold the comedies I brew! Behold my dramas not a few! On German farces I can prey, And English novels I can hew; I am the man to write a play!" There is, indeed, no use denying That fashion's turned from old to new: The native dramatist is crying— "Molière, good-bye! Shakespeare adieu! I do not think so much of you. Although not bad, you've had your day, And for the present you won't do. I am the man to write a play!"

Prince of the stage, don't miss the cue, A native dramatist, I say To every cynic critic, "Pooh! I am the man to write a play!"

The heat wave sweeps along the street, And torrid ripples mark its flow; Successive billows follow fleet, And blister all things with their glow. No puff of air swings to and fro; No gentle zephyr stirs the trees. O for the winds that o'er ocean blow! O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze! Along the shadeless ways you greet No damsel fair, no buckramed beau— The solitude is ruled by heat— A sultry, sullen, scorching woe. The blazing sun rides high and slow, As if with laziness to tease The melting, sweltering world below— O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze! The laggard steed with aching feet Must stagger on; for him is no Surcease of labour, no retreat Before his stint is done. And so Must man still labour on, although He hopeless longs to take his ease, Or to the ocean fain would go— O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

Princes or peasants, friend and foe, No man may have all that he please; Midsummer heat shall lay him low— O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

The clouds are thick and darkly lower; The sullen sodden sky would fain Pour down a never-ending shower: I hear the pattering of the rain, I hear it rattle on the pane.— And then I see the mist entwining, Nor one position long retain. Behold! the gentle sun is shining! As though exulting in its power, The storm beats down with steady strain; Upon the ivy of the tower I hear the pattering of the rain; It swiftly sweeps across the plain.— And then I see the sky refining, And molten with a golden stain. Behold! the gentle sun is shining! Beneath the storm the cattle cower; It beats upon the growing grain, And as it breaks both bud and flower, I hear the pattering of the rain,— From where the clouds too long have lain They turn, and show a silver lining, A splendid glory comes again. Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

Although like some far, faint refrain, I hear the pattering of the rain, The storm is past. No more repining— Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

She's had a Vassar education, And points with pride to her degrees; She's studied household decoration; She knows a dado from a frieze, And tells Corots from Boldonis; A Jacquemart etching, or a Haden, A Whistler, too, perchance might please A free and frank young Yankee maiden. She does not care for meditation; Within her bonnet are no bees; She has a gentle animation, She joins in singing simple glees. She tries no trills, no rivalries With Lucca (now Baronin Räden), With Nilsson or with Gerster; she's A frank and free young Yankee maiden. I'm blessed above the whole creation, Far, far, above all other he's; I ask you for congratulation On this the best of jubilees: I go with her across the seas Unto what Poe would call an Aiden,— I hope no serpent's there to tease A frank and free young Yankee maiden.

Princes, to you the western breeze Bears many a ship and heavy laden, What is the best we send in these? A free and frank young Yankee maiden.

What of this prayer which myriad skies Hear from the shrines where tired men kneel, Godward upturning anguished eyes, Clasping gaunt hands in strong appeal? What of this fear that worn lives feel? Why should some strain their labouring breath, Since they must gain not woe but weal, From battle, murder and sudden death! Is it not well with him who dies Flushed amid smoke and flash of steel; Stabbed by some traitor's swift surprise; Stricken by doom no signs reveal? Ruin and wrong can no more deal Blows beneath which (man's record saith) Men ask deliverance, while they reel, From battle, murder and sudden death! Can one so dead be harmed by lies, Tortured by wounds smiles ill conceal? Can love bring loss, or desire devise Vain visions, or grim fate's iron heel Brand both on brow and soul its seal, Till, wretched as He of Nazareth, Man loathes the life he yet prays to steal From battle, murder and sudden death?

Waifs that on life's tide sink and rise, Chaff that each chance wind winnoweth, Why dread God's rest that comes, a prize From battle, murder and sudden death?

Oh, to go back to the days of June, Just to be young and alive again, Hearken again to the mad, sweet tune Birds were singing with might and main: South they flew at the summer's wane, Leaving their nests for storms to harry, Since time was coming for wind and rain Under the wintry skies to marry. Wearily wander by dale and dune Footsteps fettered with clanking chain— Free they were in the days of June, Free they never can be again: Fetters of age, and fetters of pain, Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry— Youth is over, and hopes were vain Under the wintry skies to marry. Now we chant but a desolate rune— Oh to be young and alive again! But never December turns to June, And length of living is length of pain: Winds in the nestless trees complain, Snows of winter about us tarry, And never the birds come back again Under the wintry skies to marry.

Youths and maidens, blithesome and vain, Time makes thrusts that you cannot parry; Mate in season, for who is fain Under the wintry skies to marry?

My lady's heart 'twere hard to touch, And sighs and vows she'd soon repel; But if she liked one twice as much, One would not like her half as well; She careth not for sage or swell, For guardsman stout or poet lean, Who haunt Parnassus or Pall Mall; My lady-love is just thirteen. She loves a rabbit in a hutch (A fat Aquinas in his cell), She loves an aged cat, whose clutch At breakfast-time exerts a spell, A most ungracious Florizel. In fact it's easy to be seen, Were she at all averse to tell, My lady-love is just thirteen. Although she reads the Higher Dutch, On culture's peaks apart to dwell, She feigns not; nor of things 'as such' Does she discourse, nor parallel Dante and Dante Gabriel; Yet she has 'views' advanced and keen, On chocolate and caramel,— My lady-love is just thirteen.

Madam, just homage you compel, Mature, self-conscious, and serene, One heart alone you cannot quell; My lady-love is just thirteen.

Fly westward, westward, gentle wind, Where erst we trod the windy ways; And wake within her wayward mind The memory of forgotten days. The stars step forth aslant the bays, The still moon silvers tower and tree, And never sound the silence frays Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea. So soft, so strange the light that lined The ferny moors, the forest maze, Till all the west was smitten blind With glamour of the golden haze; What time we watch'd the stag upraise His lordly brow by linn and lea, To fright the morris of the fays Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea. O'er the dim passes flung behind The dying daylight all ablaze, About those dainty tresses twined One aureole of dreamy rays, And many a winged lamp that strays Darkling his weird in heaven to dree, Lit the rare eyne downdrops to gaze Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

O westward wind, whose low breath sways Her locks, whereto night's shadows flee, Bear hence a lilt of summer lays Athwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

Where are the dreams of the days gone by, The hopes of honour, the glancing play Of fire-new fancies that filled our sky— The songs we sang in the middle May, Carol and ballad and roundelay? Where are the garlands our young hands twined? Life's but a memory, well-away! All else flits past on the wings of the wind. Where are the ladies fair and high— Marie and Alice and Maud and May And merry Madge with the laughing eye— And all the gallants of yesterday That held us merry—ah, where are they? Under the mould we must look to find Some; and the others are worn and grey. All else flits past on the wings of the wind. I know of nothing that lasts, not I, Save a heart that is true to its love alway— A love that is won with tear and sigh And never changes or fades away, In a breast that is oftener sad than gay; A tender look and a constant mind— These are the only things that stay: All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

Prince, I counsel you, never say, Alack for the years that are left behind! Look you keep love when your dreams decay; All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

The frost hath spread a shining net Where late the autumn roses blew, On lake and stream a seal is set Where floating lilies charmed the view; So silently the wonder grew Beneath pale Dian's mystic light, I know my fancies whisper true, The Pixies are abroad to-night. 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.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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!

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.

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!

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

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!

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.

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!

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

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!"

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?

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?"

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

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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.

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

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!

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

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.

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.

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! Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore, Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain? Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore The spears toward Zion's gate again? And can so little space contain, Quiet from all his wanderings, The world-demanding Tamburlaine? Dust in dust are the bones of kings!

O Kings, bethink ye then how vain The pride and pomp of earthly things: A little pain, a little gain, Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.

Between the Midnight and the Morn, The under-world my soul espied; I saw the shades of men out-worn, The Heroes fallen in their pride; I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide, And many a ghost that strayed thereon; "Still must I roam," a maiden sighed, "The sunless marsh of Acheron." "And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn?" "Yea, even so," the shade replied, "For one I wronged in life hath sworn In hatred ever to abide: The lover seeketh not the bride, But aye, with me, his heart dreams on, Asleep in these cold mists that hide The sunless marsh of Acheron. "And still for me will Lacon mourn, And still my pardon be denied: Ah, never shall I cross the bourne That Dead from Living doth divide; Yet I repent me not!" she cried, "Nay—only that mine hour is gone; One memory hath glorified The sunless marsh of Acheron."

Ah, Princess! when thy ghost shall glide Where never star nor sunlight shone, See thou she tarry not beside The sunless marsh of Acheron.

Now who will thread the winding way, Afar from fervid summer heat, Beyond the sunshafts of the day, Beyond the blast of winter sleet? In the green twilight, dimly sweet, Of poplar shades, the shadows dwell, Who found erewhile a fair retreat Along the mead of Asphodel. There death and birth are one, they say; Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat; No sound doth rise of mortal fray, Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat: Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat; Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell; But lovers one another greet Along the mead of Asphodel. I would that there my soul might stray; I would my phantom, fair and fleet, Might cleave the burden of the clay, Might leave the murmur of the street, Nor with half-hearted prayer entreat The half-believed-in Gods; too wel I know the name I shall repeat Along the mead of Asphodel.

Queen Proserpine, at whose white feet In life my love I may not tell, Wilt give me welcome when we meet Along the mead of Asphodel?

What goal remains for pilgrim feet Now all our gods are banishèd? Afar, where sea and sunrise meet, Tall portals bathed in gold and red, From either door a carven head Smiles down on men full drowsilie 'Mid mystic forms of wings outspread Between the Gates of Ivorie. Now if beyond lie town or street I know not nor hath any said, Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet; Some say that there men meet the dead, Or filmy phantoms in their stead, And some "it leads to Arcadie," In sooth I know not, yet would tread Between the Gates of Ivorie. For surely there sounds music sweet With fair delights and perfumes shed, And all things broken made complete, And found again things forfeited; All this for him who scorning dread Shall read the wreathen fantasie, And pass, where no base soul had sped Between the Gates of Ivorie.

Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread, Rise up and follow fearlesslie, By high desire and longing led Between the Gates of Ivorie.

A goblin trapped in netted skein, Did bruise his wings with vain essay; "Now who will rend this hempen chain? Let that man ask me what he may, I shall not, surely, say him nay: The shadows wane, the day grows old, Meseems this mesh will keep for aye The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!" These echoes of the creature's pain, As in the fowler's net he lay, Drew soon anigh a surly swain Who cut the cords and freed the fay: "Now what fair gift shall well repay Thy service done?—for words are cold— Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?" "The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold." "Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain, Lo! here is treasure good and gay:" The goat-herd grasped his golden gain And bore the shining store away; He oped his chest, at break of day, To find—no talents, bright and cold, But soft, dead cowslips—nowhere lay The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!

Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray, We twain, where nought is bought or sold, And find in every woodland way, The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.

Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing, Full fast he flies for woe or weal, And some do bear his grievous sting Too deep for any leech to heal; I scorn to swell their sad appeal, False phantom, fled from our embrace! And yet—I doubt me I might kneel Should you but chance to turn your face. Of days long done our praises ring Right loud and full, a valorous peal, For life was then a lusty thing: Ah! then were mighty blows to deal. Brave days, my masters!—still, I feel In sooth I could not deem him base Who'd shun your stare, O age of steel! Should you but chance to turn your face. "Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing, "That sorrow sets unbroken seal On saint and sinner, clown and king." They beg death's boon with busy zeal. They'll do you homage warm and leal, Death! while you pass their dwelling-place But lips would gape and senses reel, Should you but chance to turn your face.

Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel, We bow to find you full of grace, We would not turn on sullen heel Should you but chance to turn your face.

Heed not the folk who sing or say In sonnet sad or sermon chill, "Alas, alack, and well-a-day, This round world's but a bitter pill." Poor porcupines of fretful quill! Sometimes we quarrel with our lot: We, too, are sad and careful; still We'd rather be alive than not. What though we wish the cats at play Would some one else's garden till; Though Sophonisba drop the tray And all our worshipped Worcester spill, Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill, Though May be cold and June be hot, Though April freeze and August grill, We'd rather be alive than not. And, sometimes, on a summer's day To self and every mortal ill We give the slip, we steal away, To lie beside some sedgy rill; The darkening years, the cares that kill, A little while are well forgot; Deep in the broom upon the hill We'd rather be alive than not. Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil The task thy braggart tongue begot. We eat our leek with better will, We'd rather be alive than not.

So quaintly sadly mute they hang, We ask in vain what fingers played, What hearts were stirred, what voices sang, What songs in life's brief masquerade,— What old-world catch or serenade, What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs Found voice when maid or ruffling blade Sang long-forgot familiar airs. We only know that once they rang In oaken room and forest glade, Where yule logs glowed or branches swang; When earth and heaven itself were made For roistering off a Spanish raid, To drown in such life's shallower cares, Or trip in ruffs and old brocade, To long-forgot familiar airs. Dead all—a pun for every pang (So Shakespeare then the race portrayed That fought and revelled, danced and sprang Half-way to meet death undismayed); About them gather mist and shade, Yet Time ironically spares These strings on which their fingers strayed To long-forgot familiar airs.

Ah! child, so soon the colours fade From Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs, You yet may seek in notes decayed Our long-forgot familiar airs.

Sink, sun, in crimson far away, Float out, pale moon, above the roar, While brown and silver, flame and grey, Round rock and sand, the waters pour; For night hath clue to all the store, Of wild wave-harmony that rings, And earth hath not in all her lore, The legends that sea-music brings. Here singing silver shallows fray The ruby-tufted golden floor, Here wondrous twilight forests sway Round coral porch and corridor Where lurk——but ah; why yet implore The splendid dream that round them clings?... Where lie the dead who heard of yore The legends that sea-music brings. This is the sea that could not stay, The tides of men that evermore Rolled westward still and cleft its spray, With hollowed trunk, and dauntless oar. Here Grecian trireme reeled before, Rome's purple galley; here sea kings, Left red on wave and blackened shore The legends that sea-music brings.

Earth keeps not now the face she wore The smoke-trails dusk the wide white wings; No longer as of old shall soar, The legends that sea-music brings.

When the fairies are all for their dances drest, When day's discords in the distance fail, When the robin and wren are asleep in the nest, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale, When star-fires are fading spark by spark, And the little birds all the dawning hail, O hark to the song of the merry lark! When over the hills the silver crest Is pouring enchantment on mere and vale, And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But when the bright sun dight in golden mail Flames over the tree-tops in the park, And the world goes again on its busy trail, O hark to the song of the merry lark! When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast, And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale, As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale, And Phillis is met where no one may mark, And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale, O hark to the song of the merry lark!

If Il Penseroso's mood prevail, Then list to the note of the nightingale! But whenever L'Allegro woos, then hark, O hark to the song of the merry lark!

Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue, And serious Dickie, brave as fair, Crossing to Church you oft may view When no one but myself is there: First to the belfry they repair, And while to the large ropes they cling, And make believe to call to prayer, For angels' ears the bells they ring! Next seated gravely in a pew, A pulpit homily they share, Meet for my little flock of two, Pointed and plain as they can bear: Then venture up the pulpit's stair, Pray at the desk or gaily sing: O sweet Child-life without a care- For angels' ears the bells they ring! Dear little ones, the early dew Of holy infancy they wear, And lift to Heaven a face as true As flowers that breathe the morning air: Whate'er they do, where'er they fare, They can command an angel's wing Their voices have a music rare, For angels' ears the bells they ring! O parents, of your charge beware: Their angels stand before the King: In work, play, sleep, and everywhere For angels' ears the bells they ring!

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Grass that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet's ferneries; A green sky's minor thirds- To live, I think of these! Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow, at will From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon's dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds- To live, I think of these! Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one's naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds- To live, I think of these!

Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words— To live, I think of these!

O to be somewhere by the sea, Far from the city's dust and shine, From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's shrine, From the stony street, and the grim decree That over an inkstand crooks my spine, From the books that are and the books to be, And the need that makes of the sacred Nine A school of harridans!—sweetheart mine, O to be somewhere by the sea! Under a desk I bend my knee, Whether the morn be foul or fine. I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine, Or footing it over the sunlit lea. But I struggle and write and make no sign, For a labouring ox must earn his fee, And even a journalist has to dine; But O for a breath of the eglantine! O to be somewhere by the sea! Out on the links, where the wind blows free, And the surges gush, and the rounding brine Wanders and sparkles, an air like wine Fills the senses with pride and glee. In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine, A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee: Life, love, and laziness are a trine Worshipful, wonderful, dear, divine.... O to be somewhere by the sea!

Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne, When I was rich in a certain key— The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine, Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline, O to be somewhere by the Sea!

Gold or silver every day, Dies to grey. There are knots in every skein. Hours of work and hours of play Fade away Into one immense Inane. Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, Are as vain As the foam or as the spray. Life goes crooning, faint and fain, One refrain— "If it could be always May!" Though the earth be green and gay, Though, they say, Man the cup of heaven may drain; Though his little world to sway. He display Hoard on hoard of pith and brain, Autumn brings a mist and rain That constrain Him and his to know decay, Where undimmed the lights that wane Would remain, If it could be always May. Yea, alas, must turn to Nay, Flesh to clay. Chance and Time are ever twain. Men may scoff and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain. Life may soar and Fortune deign To explain Where her prizes hide and stay; But we lack the lusty train We should gain If it could be always May.

Time the pedagogue his cane Might retain, But his charges all would stray Truanting in every lane— Jack with Jane!— If it could be always May.

Fools may pine, and sots may swill, Cynics jibe and prophets rail, Moralists may scourge and drill, Preachers prose, and faint hearts quail. Let them whine, or threat, or wail! 'Till the touch of Circumstance Down to darkness sink the scale— Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. What if skies be wan and chill? What if winds be harsh and stale? Presently the East will thrill, And the sad and shrunken sail, Bellying with a kindly gale, Bear you sunwards, while your chance Sends you back the hopeful hail— "Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance." Idle shot or coming bill, Hapless love or broken bail, Gulp it (never chew your pill!) And if Burgundy should fail, Try a humble pot of ale! Over all is heaven's expanse. Gold exists among the shale. Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill, Hard Sir Æger dints his mail; And the while, by hill and dale, Tristram's braveries gleam and glance, And his blithe horn tells its tale.... Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. Araminta's grand and shrill, Delia's passionate and frail, Doris drives an earnest quill, Athanasia takes the veil; Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail, At the heart of all romance Reading, sings to Strephon's flail— Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance. Every Jack must have his Jill, (Even Johnson had his Thrale!) Forward, couples—with a will! This, the world, is not a jail. Hear the music, sprat and whale! Hands across, retire, advance! Though the doomsman's on your trail, Fate's a Fiddler, Life's a dance.

Boys and girls, at slug and snail And their compeers look askance. Pay your footing on the nail: Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.

The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral That covers praise and blame, The isms and the anities, Magnificence and shame, "O Vanity of Vanities!" The Fates are subtile girls! They give us chaff for grain; And Time, the Thunderer, hurls, Like bolted death, disdain At all that heart and brain Conceive, or great or small, Upon this earthly ball. Would you be knight and dame? Or woo the sweet humanities? Or illustrate a name? O Vanity of Vanities! We sound the sea for pearls, Or lose them in the drain; We flute it with the merles, Or tug and sweat and strain; We grovel, or we reign; We saunter, or we brawl; We answer, or we call; We search the stars for Fame, Or sink her subterranities; The legend's still the same:— "O Vanity of Vanities!" Here at the wine one birls, There someone clanks a chain. The flag that this man furls That man to float is fain. Pleasure gives place to pain:— These in the kennel crawl, While others take the wall. She has a glorious aim, He lives for the inanities. What comes of every claim? O Vanity of Vanities! Alike are clods and earls. For sot, and seer, and swain, For emperors and for churls, For antidote and bane, There is but one refrain: But one for king and thrall, For David and for Saul, For fleet of foot and lame, For pieties and profanities, The picture and the frame— "O Vanity of Vanities!" Life is a smoke that curls— Curls in a flickering skein, That winds and whisks and whirls, A figment thin and vain, Into the vast Inane. One end for hut and hall! One end for cell and stall! Burned in one common flame Are wisdoms and insanities. For this alone we came:— "O Vanity of Vanities!"

Prince, pride must have a fall. What is the worth of all Your state's supreme urbanities? Bad at the best's the game. Well might the sage exclaim:— "O Vanity of Vanities!"

The hours are passing slow, I hear their weary tread Clang from the tower, and go Back to their kinsfolk dead. Sleep! death's twin brother dread! Why dost thou scorn me so? The wind's voice overhead Long wakeful here I know, And music from the steep, Where waters fall and flow. Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? All sounds that might bestow Rest on the fever'd bed, All slumb'rous sounds and low Are mingled here and wed, And bring no drowsihed. Shy dreams flit to and fro With shadowy hair dispread; With wistful eyes that glow, And silent robes that sweep. Thou wilt not hear me; no? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep? What cause hast thou to show Of sacrifice unsped? Of all thy slaves below I most have labourèd With service sung and said; Have cull'd such buds as blow, Soft poppies white and red Where thy still gardens grow And Lethe's waters weep, Why, then, art thou my foe? Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

Prince, ere the dark be sped By golden shafts, ere low And long the shadows creep: Lord of the wand of lead, Soft-footed as the snow, Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?

My days for singing and loving are over And stark I lie in my narrow bed, I care not at all if roses cover Or if above me the snow is spread; I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead— Vera and Lily and Annie and May, And my soul is set on the present fray, Its piercing kisses and subtle snares: So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway, My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. O happy moths that now flit and hover From the blossom of white to the blossom of red, Take heed, for I was a lordly lover Till the little day of my life had sped; As straight as a pine tree, a golden head, And eyes as blue as an austral bay. Ladies when loosing your satin array, Reflect, in my years had you lived my prayers Might have won you from weakly lovers away. My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs. Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the plover Sweet voices come down through the binding lead; O queens that every age must discover For men, that Man's delight may be fed; Oh, sister queens to the queens I wed For the space of a year, a month, a day, No thirst but mine could your thirst allay; And oh, for an hour of life, my dears, To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay,— My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.