The Rondel, Rondeau, and Roundel.

Allez-vous en, allez, allez, Soussy, soing et merencolie: Me cuidez-vous toute ma vie Gouverner, comme fait avez? Je vous promets que non ferez Rayson aura sur vous maistrie Allez-vous en, allez, allez, Soussy, soing et merencolie. Si jamais plus vous retournez Avecques vostre compaignie Je prye à Dieu qu' il vous mauldie Et le jour que vous reviendrez: Allez-vous en, allez, allez, Soussy, soing et merencolie.

Ma foi, c'est fait de moi, car Isabeau M'a conjuré de lui faire un rondeau. Cela me met en peine extrême Quoi! treize vers, huit en eau, cinq en ēme! Je lui ferais aussitôt un bateau. En voilà cinq pourtant en un monceau. Faisons-en huit en invoquant Brodeau, Et puis mettons, par quelque stratagème: Ma foi, c'est fait. Si je pouvais encor de mon cerveau Tirer cinq vers l'ouvrage serait beau; Mais cependant je suis dedans l'onzième: Et ci je crois que je fais le douzième; En voilà treize ajustés au niveau. Ma foi, c'est fait.

O honey of Hymettus Hill, Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste, Wert here for the soft amorous bill Of Aphrodite's courser placed? Thy musky scent what virginal chaste Blossom was ravished to distil, O honey of Hymettus Hill, Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste? What upturned calyx drank its fill When ran the draught divine to waste, That her white hands were doomed to spill— Sweet Hebe, fallen and disgraced— O honey of Hymettus Hill, Gold-brown, and cloying sweet to taste?

Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, As in the old days when he rode with her, With joy of Love that had fond Hope to bride, One year ago had made her pulses stir. Now shall no wish with any day recur (For Love and Death part year and year full wide), Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, As in the old days when he rode with her. No ghost there lingers of the smile that died On the sweet pale lip where his kisses were— ... Yet still she turns her delicate head aside, If she may hear him come with jingling spur— Through the fresh fairness of the Spring to ride, As in the old days when he rode with her.

This book of hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold; Each page with art and thought, And colours manifold. His calendar he taught To youths and virgins cold; This book of hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold. This priceless book is bought With sighs and tears untold, Of votaries who sought His countenance of old— This book of hours Love wrought With burnished letters gold.

When time upon the wing A swallow heedless flies, Love-birds forget to sing Beneath the lucent skies. For now belated spring With her last blossom hies, When time upon the wing A swallow heedless flies. What summer hope shall bring To wistful dreaming eyes? What fateful forecast fling Before life's last surprise? When time upon the wing A swallow heedless flies.

Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,— The old, old Love that we knew of yore! We see him stand by the open door With his great eyes sad, and his bosom swelling. He makes as though in our arms repelling, He fain would lie as he lay before;— Love comes back to his vacant dwelling,— The old, old Love that we knew of yore! Ah! who shall help us from over-spelling, That sweet forgotten, forbidden lore! E'en as we doubt in our hearts once more, With a rush of tears to our eyelids welling, Love comes back to his vacant dwelling.

When love is in her eyes What need of Spring for me? A brighter emerald lies On hill and vale and lea. The azure of the skies Holds nought so sweet to me; When love is in her eyes What need of spring for me? Her bloom the rose outvies, The lily dares no plea, The violet's glory dies, No flower so sweet can be; When love is in her eyes What need of spring for me?

Underneath this tablet rest, Grasshopper by autumn slain, Since thine airy summer nest Shivers under storm and rain. Freely let it be confessed Death and slumber bring thee gain Spared from winter's fret and pain, Underneath this tablet rest. Myro found thee on the plain, Bore thee in her lawny breast, Reared this marble tomb amain To receive so small a guest! Underneath this tablet rest, Grasshopper by autumn slain.

How is it you and I Are always meeting so? I see you passing by Whichever way I go. I cannot say I know The spell that draws us nigh. How is it you and I Are always meeting so? Still thoughts to thoughts reply, And whispers ebb and flow; I say it with a sigh But half confessed and low, How is it you and I Are always meeting so?

We'll to the woods and gather may Fresh from the footprints of the rain; We'll to the woods, at every vein To drink the spirit of the day. The winds of spring are out at play, The needs of spring in heart and brain. We'll to the woods and gather may Fresh from the footprints of the rain. The world's too near her end, you say?— Hark to the blackbird's mad refrain! It waits for her, the vast Inane?— Then, girls, to help her on the way We'll to the woods and gather may.

"Ainsi qu' aux fleurs la vieillesse, Fera ternir votre beauté."—Ronsard. And lightly, like the flowers, Your beauties Age will dim, Who makes the song a hymn, And turns the sweets to sours! Alas! the chubby Hours Grow lank and grey and grim, And lightly, like the flowers, Your beauties Age will dim. Still rosy are the bowers, The walks yet green and trim. Among them let your whim Pass sweetly, like the showers, And lightly, like the flowers.

"Felicity. Enquire within. The genial goddess is at home!" So read and thought the rakes of Rome, Some frail one's lintel fain to win. And now it blares thro' bronze and tin, Thro' clarion, organ, catcall, comb:— "Felicity. Enquire within. The genial goddess is at home!" For, tent or studio, bank or bin, Platonic porch, Petræan dome, Where'er our hobbies champ and foam, Thero'er the brave old sign we pin— "Felicity. Enquire within."

Sweet girl graduates, golden-haired, You for whom has been prepared Love's fair university, Dons and double-firsts to be- Why are you so quickly scared? When the prudes their worst have glared, When the dowagers have stared, What has passed they might not see, Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired, You for whom has been prepared Love's fair university? Most is won when most is dared. Let your dainty lore be aired. Love and thought and fun are free. All must flirt in their degree. Books alone have never reared Sweet girl-graduates, golden-haired.

The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. From camp and church, the fireside and the street, She signs to come, and strife and song have been. A summer night descending, cool and green And dark, on daytime's dust and stress and heat, The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet O glad and sorrowful, with triumphant mien And hopeful faces look upon and greet This last of all your lovers, and to meet Her kiss, the Comforter's, your spirit lean.... The ways of Death are soothing and serene.

I love you dearly, O my sweet! Although you pass me lightly by, Although you weave my life awry, And tread my heart beneath your feet. I tremble at your touch; I sigh To see you passing down the street; I love you dearly, O my sweet! Although you pass me lightly by. You say in scorn that love's a cheat, Passion a blunder, youth a lie. I know not. Only when we meet I long to kiss your hand and cry, "I love you dearly, O my sweet, Although you pass me lightly by."

When on the mid sea of the night, I waken at thy call, O Lord. The first that troop my bark aboard Are darksome imps that hate the light, Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight— Of wraths and cares a pirate horde— Though on the mid sea of the night It was thy call that waked me, Lord. Then I must to my arms and fight— Catch up my shield and two-edged sword, The words of him who is thy word: Nor cease till they are put to flight:— Then in the mid sea of the night I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

There comes no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid sea of the night! I lift my voice and cry with might: If thou keep silent, soon a horde Of imps again will swarm aboard, And I shall be in sorry plight If no voice come from thee, O Lord, Across the mid sea of the night. There comes no voice; I hear no word! But in my soul dawns something bright:— There is no sea, no foe to fight! Thy heart and mine beat one accord: I need no voice from thee, O Lord, Across the mid sea of the night.

The lilacs are in bloom, All is that ever was, And Cupids peep and pass Through the curtains of the room. Season of light perfume, Hide all beneath thy grass. The lilacs are in bloom, All is that ever was. Dead hopes new shapes assume; Town belle and country lass Forget the word "Alas," For over every tomb The lilacs are in bloom.

Summer has seen decay Of roses white and red, And Love with wings outspread Speeds after yesterday. Blue skies have changed to grey, And joy has sorrow wed: Summer has seen decay Of roses white and red. May's flowers outlast not May; And when the hour has fled, Around the roses dead The mournful echoes say— Summer has seen decay.

Paper, inviolate, white, Shall it be joy or pain? Shall I of fate complain, Or shall I laugh to-night? Shall it be hopes that are bright? Shall it be hopes that are vain? Paper, inviolate, white, Shall it be joy or pain? A dear little hand so light, A moment in mine hath lain; Kind was its pressure again— Ah, but it was so slight! Paper, inviolate, white, Shall it be joy or pain?

Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here And Love is Lord of you and me. The blue-bells beckon each passing bee; The wild wood laughs to the flowered year: There is no bird in brake or brere, But to his little mate sings he, "Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here, And Love is Lord of you and me!" The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear, The missel-thrush upon the tree Pipes for sheer gladness loud and free; And I go singing to my dear, "Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here, And Love is Lord of you and me."

Before the dawn begins to glow, A ghostly company I keep; Across the silent room they creep, The buried forms of friend and foe. Amid the throng that come and go, There are two eyes that make me weep; Before the dawn begins to glow, A ghostly company I keep. Two dear dead eyes. I love them so! They shine like starlight on the deep; And often when I am asleep They stoop and kiss me, bending low, Before the dawn begins to glow.

Oh, say not ye that summer's over When birds within the wood stop singing! While hands still touch in desperate clinging, Some ghost of hope in hearts must hover; Though died the dream of loved and lover, While yet the marriage bells were ringing. Oh, say not ye that summer's over When birds within the wood stop singing! Their vanished hopes may none recover In some new day, new morrow bringing? And shall we see no buds fresh springing Upon the stalks of last year's clover? Oh, say not ye that summer's over When birds within the wood stop singing!

We bless the coming of the Night, Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free, Life's clamour and anxiety Her mantle covers out of sight. All eating cares have taken flight, The scented air is wine to me; We bless the coming of the Night, Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free. Rest now, O reader, worn and white, Driven by some divinity, Aloft, like sparkling hoar frost see, A starry ocean throb in light, We bless the coming of the Night.

The moon, with all her tricksy ways, Is like a careless young coquette, Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet, And flies or follows or delays. By night, along the sand-hills' maze, She leads and mocks you till you fret. The moon with all her tricksy ways, Is like a careless young coquette. As oft she veils herself in haze, A cloak before her splendour set; She is a silly charming pet, We needs must give her love and praise, The moon with all her tricksy ways.

Oh, modern singers! ye who vote Our times for song unfit, Your Pegasus is smooth of coat, And patient of the bit; But lost the freedom of his throat, And dulled his prairie wit, Oh, modern singers, ye who vote Our times for song unfit, If kin, fame, critics, age, you quote As fain to thwart and twit, Just try to feel your wings, and float Above the scornful kit:- Oh, modern singers, ye who vote Our times for song unfit!

Come, Love, across the sunlit land, As blithe as dryad dancing free, While time slips by like silvery sand Within the glass of memory. Ere Winter, in his reckless glee, Blights all the bloom with ruthless hand, Come, Love, across the sunlit land, As blithe as dryad dancing free. And all the years of life shall be Like peaceful vales that wide expand To meet a bright, untroubled sea By radiant azure arches spanned; Come, Love, across the sunlit land As blithe as dryad dancing free.

Upon the stair I see my lady stand, Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn, And, like the laughing sunbeam on the lawn, The radiant smile by which her lips are spanned. A chiselled marvel seems her slender hand What time she waves it ere my steps are gone; Upon the stair I see my lady stand, Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn. Through the green covert that the breeze has fanned She fleets as graceful as the flexile fawn; She is the star to which my soul is drawn When shadows drive the daylight from the land. Upon the stair I see my lady stand, Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.

I heard a maid with her guitar Who played, like Orpheus, to the wind, And sent forth rhythmic notes afar From out an arbor vine-entwined. She knew the God of love was blind, And left her white heart-gates ajar— I heard a maid with her guitar Who played, like Orpheus, to the wind. But ah! Love's ears are keen as are The ears of shy, pool-haunting hind, And when she closed her bosom's bar She found the god was there enshrined; I heard a maid with her guitar Who played, like Orpheus, to the wind.

Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door; The chilling breezes make him smart; His little feet are tired and sore. Arise, and welcome him before Adown his cheeks the big tears start: Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door. 'Tis Cupid come with loving art To honour, worship, and implore; And lest, unwelcomed, he depart With all his wise mysterious lore, Awake, awake, O gracious heart, There's some one knocking at the door!

I hide her in my heart, my May, And keep my darling captive there! But not because she'd fly away To seek for liberty elsewhere, For love is ever free as air! And as with me her love will stay, I hide her in my heart, my May, And keep my darling captive there. Our love is love that lives for aye Enchained in fetters strong and fair, So evermore, by night and day, That we our prisoned home may share, I hide her in my heart, my May, And keep my darling captive there.

Looks that love not are silver-cold— Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes! Hearts are wide as the boundless skies Full of loves—like the stars—untold! Love by love should be bought and sold. Other payments are shams and lies! Looks that love not are silver-cold— Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes! Many loves will a great heart hold— Foolish often, but often wise; Some of silver, but one of gold,— Life's great treasure, and crowning prize. Looks that love not are silver-cold— Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes—

The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string: The warblers now are on the wing. Across the pathless ocean-glooms, Through tender grass and violet blooms, I move along and gaily sing. The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string. Nature with beauteous tints illumes The fields and groves of budding Spring, Loud voices from afar to bring; And my glad Muse its song resumes— The larch has donned its rosy plumes, And hastes its emerald beads to string.

O all ye Green Things on the Earth, Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade; To whisper praises ye were made, Or wave to Him in solemn mirth. For this the towering pine had birth, For this sprang forth each grassy blade; O all ye Green Things on the Earth, Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade. Ye wayside weeds of little worth, Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade, Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade, Ye steadfast yews of mighty girth: O all ye Green Things on the Earth, Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade!

"Which way he went?" I know not—how should I go spy Which way he went? I only know him gone. "Relent?" He never will—unless I die! And then, what will it signify Which way he went? Say what you please, But know, I shall not change my mind! Say what you please, Even, if you wish it, on your knees— And, when you hear me next defined As something lighter than the wind, Say what you please!

Might Love be bought, I were full fain My all to give thy love to gain. Yet would such getting profit naught; Possession with keen fears were fraught, Would make even love's blisses vain. For who could tell what god might deign His golden treasures round thee rain, Till ruin on my hopes were brought, Might Love be bought. Better a pensioner remain On thy dear grace, since to attain To worthiness in vain I sought. Thy kindness hath assurance wrought Could never be between us twain Might Love be bought.

In thy clear eyes, fairest, I see Sometimes of love a transient glow; But ere my heart assured may be, With cold disdain thou mockest me: Hope fades as songs to silence flow. Ah! most bewitching, mocking she, Fairer than poet's dream may show, The glance of scorn how can I dree In thy clear eyes? Life is so brief, and to and fro, Like thistledown above the lea, Fly on poor days; why then so slow To bend from pride? Let us bliss know Ere age the light dims ruthlessly In thy clear eyes.

The sweet sad years; the sun, the rain, Alas! too quickly did they wane, For each some boon, some blessing bore; Of smiles and tears each had its store, Its chequered lot of bliss and pain. Although it idle be and vain, Yet cannot I the wish restrain That I had held them evermore, The sweet sad years! Like echo of an old refrain That long within the mind has lain, I keep repeating o'er and o'er, "Nothing can e'er the past restore, Nothing bring back the years again, The sweet sad years!"

Fain would I pass from all the pain, The aching heart and weary brain, From gnawing grief and withering care, And passion rising to despair, From love dissatisfied and vain. From tears that burn the cheeks they stain, And hopes that droop like flowers in rain, From sorrows that turn grey the hair, Fain would I pass! Beyond the silent, soundless main, Where the long lost are found again, Where summer smiles for ever fair, Where skies are pure, divine the air, Where love and joy eternal reign, Fain would I pass!

Why are you sad when the sky is blue? Why, when the sun shines bright for you, And the birds are singing, and all the air So sweet with the flowers everywhere? If life hath thorns, it has roses too. Be wise and be merry. 'Tis half untrue Your doleful song. You have work to do. If the work be good, and the world so fair, Why are you sad? Life's sorrows are many, its joys so few! Ah! sing of the joys! Let the dismal crew Of black thoughts bide in their doleful lair, Give us glad songs; sing us free from care. Gladness maketh the world anew, Why are you sad?

Why am I sad when the sky is blue, You ask, O friend, and I answer you— I love the sun and balmy air, The flowers and glad things everywhere. But if life is merry, 'tis earnest too. And the earnest hour, if hope be true, Must be solemn or sad; for the work we do Is little and weak. Ask the world so fair Why I am sad. For me glad hours are nowise few, But life is so serious-ship and crew Bound such a voyage to death's dark lair. My work is my happy song: but care Still steals on the quiet hour anew And makes it sad.

His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dips In juice of plants that no bee sips, He takes, and with his bow renown'd Goes out upon his hunting ground, Hanging his quiver at his hips. He draws them one by one, and clips Their heads between his finger tips, And looses with a twanging sound His poisoned shafts. But if a maiden with her lips Suck from his wound the blood that drips, And drink the poison from the wound, The simple remedy is found That of their deadly terror strips His poisoned shafts.

All down the years thy tale has rolled— A brilliant streak of burnished gold Old Homer, near we seem to thee, As roving over vale and sea Thou tellest of thy hero bold! For we too wonder, as of old Thy hero did. The fates are doled To us the same, both serf and free, All down the years. None other yet has ever told So sweet a tale; as we unfold Thy mystic page we find the key Of human sorrow, guilt and glee, Which ever comes our souls to mould All down the years.

The Summer's gone—how did it go? And where has gone the dogwood's show? The air is sharp upon the hill, And with a tinkle sharp and chill The icy little brooklets flow. What is it in the season, though, Brings back the days of old, and so Sets memory recalling still The Summer's gone? Why are my days so dark? for lo! The maples with fresh glory glow, Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill, The keen air sets the blood a-thrill- Ah! now that you are gone, I know The Summer's gone.

Les morts vont vite! Ay for a little space We miss and mourn them, fallen from their place; To take our portion in their rest are fain; But by-and-by, having wept, press on again, Perchance to win their laurels in the race. What man would find the old in the new love's face? Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace, For withered roses newer blooms disdain? Les morts vont vite! But when disease brings thee in piteous case, Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill grace To them for whom remembrance plead in vain. Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow Pain Clasp thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace: Les morts vont vite!

In love's disport, gay bubbles blown On summer winds light-freighted flown: A child intent upon delight The painted spheres would keep in sight, Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown. Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grown Fair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone, Clear globes where fate may read aright In love's disport. O frail as fair! though in the white Of flameful heat with force to fight, Art thou by careless hands cast down Or killed, when frozen hearts disown The children born of love and light In love's disport.

What makes the world, Sweetheart, reply? A space of lawn, a strip of sky, The bread and wine of fellowship, The cup of life for love to sip, A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eye So let the days and hours go by, Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny, With feathered heel shall fancy trip— What makes the world? The wealth that never in the grip Of blighting greed shall heedless slip,— When bought and sold is liberty, With worth of life and love gone by— What makes the world?

O babbling Spring, than glass more clear, Worthy of wreath and cup sincere, To-morrow shall a kid be thine With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,— Sure sign!—of loves and battles near. Child of the race that butt and rear! Not less, alas! his life-blood dear Must tinge thy cold wave crystalline, O babbling Spring! Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,— The wandering flock. This verse of mine Will rank thee one with founts divine; Men shall thy rock and tree revere, O babbling Spring!

On London stones I sometimes sigh For wider green and bluer sky;— Too oft the trembling note is drowned In this huge city's varied sound;— "Pure song is country-born,"—I cry. Then comes the spring,—the months go by, The last stray swallows seaward fly; And I—I too!—no more am found On London stones! In vain! the woods, the fields deny That clearer strain I fain would try; Mine is an urban Muse, and bound By some strange law to paven ground; Abroad she pouts;—she is not shy On London stones!

"In teacup-times!" The style of dress Would suit your beauty, I confess; Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear; I picture you with powdered hair,— You'd make a charming Shepherdess! And I—no doubt—could well express Sir Plume's complete conceitedness,— Could poise a clouded cane with care "In teacup-times!" The parts would fit precisely—yes: We should achieve a huge success! You should disdain and I despair, With quite the true Augustan air; But ... could I love you more, or less,— "In teacup-times?"

O royal Rose! the Roman dress'd His feast with thee; thy petals press'd Augustan brows; thine odour fine, Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine, Lent the long Thracian draught its zest. What marvel then, if host and guest By Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd, Half-trembled on the half-divine, O royal Rose! And yet—and yet—I love thee best In our old gardens of the West, Whether about my thatch thou twine, Or Her's, that brown-eyed maid of mine, Who lulls thee on her lawny breast, O royal Rose!

With pipe and flute the rustic Pan Of old made music sweet for man; And wonder hushed the warbling bird, And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,— The rolling river slowlier ran. Ah! would,—ah! would, a little span, Some air of Arcady could fan This age of ours, too seldom stirred With pipe and flute! But now for gold we plot and plan; And from Beersheba unto Dan, Apollo's self might pass unheard, Or find the night-jar's note preferred ... Not so it fared, when time began With pipe and flute!

In after days, when grasses high O'er-top the stone where I shall lie, Though ill or well the world adjust My slender claim to honoured dust, I shall not question nor reply. I shall not see the morning sky, I shall not hear the night-wind sigh, I shall be mute, as all men must In after days! But yet, now living, fain were I That some one then should testify, Saying—He held his pen in trust To Art, not serving shame or lust. Will none?... Then let my memory die In after days!

In vain to-day I scrape and blot: The nimble words, the phrases neat, Decline to mingle and to meet; My skill is all forgone, forgot. He will not canter, walk, or trot, My Pegasus; I spur, I beat In vain to-day. And yet 'twere sure the saddest lot That I should fail to leave complete One poor ... the rhyme suggests "conceit!" Alas! 'tis all too clear I'm not In vein to-day.

When Burbadge played, the stage was bare Of fount and temple, tower and stair; Two backswords eked a battle out; Two supers made a rabble rout; The Throne of Denmark was a chair! And yet, no less, the audience there Thrilled through all changes of Despair, Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt, When Burbadge played! This is the Actor's gift; to share All moods, all passions, nor to care One whit for scene, so he without Can lead men's minds the roundabout, Stirred as of old those hearers were, When Burbadge played!

Old books are best! With what delight Does "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight; On frontispiece or title-page Of that old time, when on the stage "Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight! And you, O friend, to whom I write, Must not deny, e'en though you might, Through fear of modern pirates' rage, Old books are best. What though the print be not so bright, The paper dark, the binding slight? Our author, be he dull or sage, Returning from that distant age So lives again, we say of right: Old books are best.

A coward still: I've longed to fling My arms about you, and to bring My beating heart so near to thine, That it might learn all thought of mine, And closer to me cling. But ere I dared do anything, My trembling courage took to wing, And left its bold design, A coward still. Poor heart: these words for ever ring, Fair dame wins not the faint fearing; Tho' secretly it may repine The loss that would make life divine, Yet it must be content to sing, A coward still.

A cultured mind! Before I speak The words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheek With blushes of the nodding rose That on thy breast in beauty blows, I prithee satisfy my freak. Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek? Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak? Hast thou, in short, as I suppose, A cultured mind. Some men require a maiden meek Enough to eat at need the leek; Some lovers crave a classic nose, A liquid eye, or faultless pose; I none of these, I only seek A cultured mind.

A pot of gold! O mistress fair, With eyes of brown that pass compare, Ere I on bended knee express The love which you already guess, I fain would ask a small affair. Hast thou, my dear, an ample share Of this world's goods? Wilt thy papa[9] Disgorge, to gild our blessedness, A pot of gold? Some swains for mental graces care; Some fall a prey to golden hair; I am not blind, I will confess, To intellect or comeliness; Still let these go beside, ma chère, A pot of gold.

A pedigree! Ah, lovely jade! Whose tresses mock the raven's shade, Before I free this aching breast, I want to set my mind at rest; 'Tis best to call a spade a spade. What was thy father ere he made His fortune? Was he smeared with trade, Or does he boast an ancient crest— A pedigree? Brains and bright eyes are overweighed, For wits grow dull and beauties fade; And riches, though a welcome guest, Oft jar the matrimonial nest; I kiss her lips who holds displayed A pedigree.

A pretty face! O maid divine, Whose vowels flow as soft as wine, Before I say upon the rack The words I never can take back, A moment meet my glance with thine. Say, art thou fair? Is the incline Of that sweet nose an aquiline? Hast thou, despite unkind attack, A pretty face? Some sigh for wisdom; Three, not nine, The Graces were. I won't repine For want of pedigree, or lack Of gold to banish Care the black, If I can call forever mine A pretty face.

Could she have guessed my coward care? I knew her foot upon the stair, Her figure chained my inmost eye; I only looked a lover's lie,— I feigned indifference, felt despair. My very blood leaped up, aware Of her free step and morning air; She raised her head, she caught my eye— Could she have guessed? I faced her with a chilly stare, With words so common and so bare! Her whispering skirts, as she went by, Swept every sense—a thrilling sigh! Ah, would her heart have heard my prayer Could she have guessed?

When first we met the nether world was white, And on the steel-blue ice before her bower I skated in the sunrise for an hour, Till all the grey horizon, gulphed in light, Was red against the bare boughs black as night; Then suddenly her sweet face, like a flower Enclosed in sables from the frost's dim power, Shone at her casement, and flashed burning bright When first we met! My skating being done, I loitered home, And sought that day to lose her face again; But love was weaving in his golden loom My story up with hers, and all in vain I strove to loose the threads he spun amain When first we met!

When flower-time comes and all the woods are gay, When linnets chirrup and the soft winds blow, Adown the winding river I will row, And watch the merry maidens tossing hay, And troops of children shouting in their play, And with my thin oars flout the fallen snow Of heavy hawthorn blossom as I go: And shall I see my love at fall of day When flower-time comes? Ah, yes! for by the border of the stream She binds red roses to a trim alcove, And I shall fade into her summer-dream Of musing upon love,—nay, even seem To be myself the very god of love, When flower-time comes!

Oh! flame of grass, shot upward from the earth, Keen with a thousand quivering sunlit fires, Green with the sap of satisfied desires And sweet fulfilment of your pale sad birth, Behold! I clasp you as a lover might, Roll on you, bathing in the noonday sun, And, if it might be, I would fain be one With all your odour, mystery, and light, Oh flame of grass! For here, to chasten my untimely gloom, My lady took my hand and spoke my name; The sun was on her gold hair like a flame; The bright wind smote her forehead like perfume; The daisies darkened at her feet; she came, As spring comes, scattering incense on your bloom Oh flame of grass!

Hot hands that yearn to touch her flower-like face, With fingers spread, I set you like a weir To stem this ice-cold stream in its career,— And chill your pulses there a little space; Brown hands, what right have you to claim the grace To touch her head so infinitely dear? Learn courteously to wait and to revere, Lest haply ye be found in sorry case, Hot hands that yearn! But if ye pluck her flowers at my behest, And bring her crystal water from the well, And bend a bough for shade when she will rest, And if she find you fain and teachable, That flower-like face, perchance, ah! who can tell? In your embrace may some sweet day be found, Hot hands that yearn!

Among the flowers of summer-time she stood, And underneath the films and blossoms shone Her face, like some pomegranate strangely grown To ripe magnificence in solitude; The wanton winds, deft whisperers, had strewed Her shoulders with her shining hair outblown, And dyed her robe with many a changing tone Of silvery green, and all the hues that brood Among the flowers; She raised her arm up for her dove to know That he might perch him on her lovely head; Then I, unseen, and rising on tip-toe, Bowed over the rose-barrier, and lo, Touched not her arm, but kissed her lips instead Among the flowers!

Beside the stream and in the alder-shade, Love sat with us one dreamy afternoon, When nightingales and roses made up June, And saw the red light and the amber fade Under the canopy the willows made, And watched the rising of the hollow moon, And listened to the water's gentle tune, And was as silent as she was, sweet maid, Beside the stream; Till with "Farewell!" he vanished from our sight, And in the moonlight down the glade afar His light wings glimmered like a falling star; Then ah! she took the left path, I the right, And now no more we sit by noon or night Beside the stream!

If Love should faint, and half decline Below the fit meridian sign, And shorn of all his golden dress, His royal state and loveliness, Be no more worth a heart like thine, Let not thy nobler passion pine, But with a charity divine, Let Memory ply her soft address If Love should faint; And oh! this laggard heart of mine, Like some halt pilgrim stirred with wine, Shall ache in pity's dear distress, Until the balm of thy caress To work the finished cure combine, If Love should faint.

My love to me is always kind: She neither storms, nor is she pined; She does not plead with tears or sighs, But gentle words and soft replies— Dear earnests of the thought behind. They say the little god is blind, They do not count him quite too wise; Yet he, somehow, could bring and bind My love to me. And sweetest nut hath sourest rind? It may be so; but she I prize Is even lovelier in mine eyes Than good and gracious to my mind. I bless the fortune that consigned My love to me.

With strawberries we filled a tray, And then we drove away, away Along the links beside the sea, Where wave and wind were light and free, And August felt as fresh as May. And where the springy turf was gay With thyme and balm and many a spray Of wild roses, you tempted me With strawberries! A shadowy sail, silent and grey, Stole like a ghost across the bay; But none could hear me ask my fee, And none could know what came to be. Can sweethearts all their thirst allay With strawberries?

A flirted fan of blade and gold Is wondrous winsome to behold: It seems an armoured shard to bear The Emperor-Scarab—strange and rare, Metallic, lustrous, jewel-cold. Fawning and fluttering fold on fold And scale on scale, its charm unrolled, Lures, dazzles, slays. It thrills the air, A flirted fan! Ah me, that night ... I cannot scold— Ich grolle nicht! My grief untold Shall still remain, but I will swear Some Spanish grace, dissembled there, Stood by her stall, she so controlled A flirted fan.

In Rotten Row a cigarette I sat and smoked, with no regret For all the tumult that had been. The distances were still and green, And streaked with shadows cool and wet. Two sweethearts on a bench were set, Two birds among the boughs were met; So love and song were heard and seen In Rotten Row. A horse or two there was to fret The soundless sand; but work and debt, Fair flowers and falling leaves between, While clocks are chiming clear and keen, A man may very well forget In Rotten Row.

The leaves are sere, and on the ground They rustle with an eerie sound, A sound half-whisper and half-sigh— The plaint of sweet things fain to die, Poor things for which no ruth is found. With summer once the land was crowned; But now that autumn scatters round Decay, and summer fancies die, The leaves are sere. Once, too, my thought within the bound Of summer frolicked, like a hound In meadows jocund with July. And now I sit and wonder why, With all my waste of plack and pound, The leaves are sere!

Go, happy Fan, in all the land The happiest ... seek my lady's hand, And, swinging at her winsome waist, Forget for aye, so greatly graced, The House of Odours in the Strand. Ivory, with lilac silk outspanned, With ruffling black sedately grand, With bloom of eglantine o'ertraced, Go, happy Fan. Her kindly heart will understand, Her gentle eyes will grow more bland At sight of you. Away in haste, Dear New Year's gift! Such perfect taste As yours her praises may command ... Go, happy Fan!

If I were king, my pipe should be premier. The skies of time and chance are seldom clear, We would inform them all with bland blue weather. Delight alone would need to shed a tear, For dream and deed should war no more together. Art should aspire, yet ugliness be dear; Beauty, the shaft, should speed with wit for feather; And love, sweet love, should never fall to sere, If I were king. But politics should find no harbour near; The Philistine should fear to slip his tether; Tobacco should be duty free, and beer; In fact, in room of this, the age of leather, An age of gold all radiant should appear, If I were king.

The gods are dead? Perhaps they are! Who knows? Living at least in Lempriere undeleted, The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose, Are one and all, I like to think, retreated In some still land of lilacs and the rose. Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows With sacrificial dance and song were greeted. Once ... long ago: but now the story goes, The gods are dead. It must be true. The world a world of prose, Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted, Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze. Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows Who will may hear the sorry words repeated— The gods are dead.

Her little feet!... Beneath us ranged the sea, She sat, from sun and wind umbrella-shaded, One shoe above the other danglingly, And lo! a Something exquisitely graded, Brown rings and white, distracting—to the knee! The band was loud. A wild waltz melody Flowed rhythmic forth. The nobodies paraded. And thro' my dream went pulsing fast and free: Her little feet. Till she made room for some one. It was He! A port-wine-flavoured He, a He who traded, Rich, rosy, round, obese to a degree! A sense of injury overmastered me. Quite bulbously his ample boots upbraided Her little feet.

When you are old, and I am passed away— Passed, and your face, your golden face, is grey— I think, whate'er the end, this dream of mine, Comforting you, a friendly star will shine Down the dim slope where still you stumble and stray. So may it be; that so dead Yesterday, No sad-eyed ghost, but generous and gay, May serve your memories like almighty wine, When you are old. Dear Heart, it shall be so. Under the sway Of death the past's enormous disarray Lies hushed and dark. Yet though there come no sign, Live on well pleased! Immortal and divine, Love shall still tend you, as God's angels may, When you are old.

These are my books-a Burton old, A Lamb arrayed against the cold In polished dress of red and blue, A rare old Elzevir or two, And Johnson clothed in green and gold. A Pope in gilded calf I sold, To buy a Sterne of worth untold, To cry, as bibliomaniacs do, "These are my books!" What though a Fate unkind hath doled But favours few to me, yet bold My little wealth abroad I strew, To purchase acquisitions new, And say by love of them controlled, These are my books.

Most sweet of all the flowers memorial That autumn tends beneath his wasted trees, Where wearily the unremembering breeze Whirls the brown leaves against the blackening wall More sweet than those that summer fed so tall And glad with soft wind blowing overseas; Through all incalculable distances Of many shades that swerve and sands that crawl, Most sweet of all! When comes the fulness of the time to me As yours is full to-day, O flower of mine? Touched by her hand who evermore shall be, While the slow planets circle for a sign, Till periods flag and constellations fall, Most sweet of all!

In country lanes the robins sing, Clear-throated, joyous, swift of wing, From misty dawn to dewy eve (Though cares of nesting vex and grieve) Their little heart-bells ring and ring. And when the roses say to Spring: "Your reign is o'er" when breezes bring The scent of spray that lovers weave In country lanes, The redbreast still is heard to fling His music forth; and he will cling To Autumn till the winds bereave Her yellowing trees, nor will he leave Till Winter finds him shivering In country lanes.

To Q. H. F. the idle band Of poetasters oft has planned Tributes of praise—and penned them, too— For love of verse that keeps its hue Though dead its language and its land. True, Pegasus has ever fanned The ether at a bard's command, But ah! how eagerly he flew To Q. H. F. Not oversweet or overgrand Your poems, Horace, hence your stand Firm in the hearts of men: and few Have gained a place so clearly due, Since Death with unrelenting hand, Took you, H. F.

In London town men love and hate, And find Death tragic soon or late, Just in the old unreasoning way, As if they breathed the warmer day In Athens when the gods were great. Mine is the town by Thames's spate, And so it chanced I found my fate, One of my fates, that is to say— In London town. The whole world comes to those who wait; Mine came and went with one year's date. Pity it made so short a stay! The sweetest face, the sweetest sway That ever Love did consecrate In London town.

O happy sleep! that bear'st upon thy breast The blood-red poppy of enchanting rest, Draw near me through the stillness of this place And let thy low breath move across my face, As faint winds move above a poplar's crest. The broad seas darken slowly in the west; The wheeling sea-birds call from nest to nest; Draw near and touch me, leaning out of space, O happy Sleep! There is no sorrow hidden or confess'd, There is no passion uttered or suppress'd, Thou can'st not for a little while efface; Enfold me in thy mystical embrace, Thou sovereign gift of God, most sweet, most blest, O happy Sleep!

It is enough to love you. Let me be Only an influence, as the wandering sea Answers the moon that yet foregoes to shine; Only a sacrifice, as in a shrine The lamp burns on where dead eyes cannot see; Only a hope unknown, withheld from thee, Yet ever like a petrel plaintively, Just following on to life's far twilight line, It is enough. Go where you will, I follow. You are free. Alone, unloved, to all eternity I track that chance no virtue can divine, When pitiful, loving, with fond hands in mine, You say: "True heart, here take your will of me, It is enough."

When I see you my heart sings Deep within me for deep love; In my deep heart's dreamiest grove, Your bright image comes like Spring's, Bringing back the murmured dove To the wan dim watersprings. Would my tongue could tell the things Love seems but one echo of When I see you! Hope lies dying, Time's disproof Strips love's roses to the stings; But the bird that knows its wings Bear it where it will aloof, Sings not, Love, as my heart sings When I see you.

To-day, what is there in the air That makes December seem sweet May? There are no swallows anywhere, Nor crocuses to crown your hair, And hail you down my garden way. Last night the full moon's frozen stare Struck me, perhaps; or did you say Really,—you'd come, sweet friend and fair! To-day? To-day is here:—come! crown to-day With Spring's delight or Spring's despair, Love cannot bide old Time's delay:— Down my glad gardens light winds play, And my whole life shall bloom and bear To-day.

The Old Year goes down-hill so slow And silent that he seems to know The mighty march of time, foretelling His passing: into his eyelids welling Come tears of bitter pain and woe. The lusty blast can scarce forego His cape about his ears to blow, As feebly to his final dwelling The Old Year goes. Within the belfry, row on row, The bells are swinging to and fro; Now joyfully the chimes are swelling— Now solemn and few the notes are knelling— For here the New Year comes:—and lo! The Old Year goes!

Under the rows of gas-jets bright, Bathed in a blazing river of light, A regal beauty sits; above her The butterflies of fashion hover, And burn their wings, and take to flight. Mark you her pure complexion,-white Though flush may follow flush? Despite Her blush, the lily I discover Under the rose. All compliments to her are trite; She has adorers left and right; And I confess, here, under cover Of secrecy, I too-I love her! Say naught; she knows it not. 'Tis quite Under the rose.

Violet, delicate, sweet, Down in the deep of the wood, Hid in thy still retreat, Far from the sound of the street, Man and his merciless mood:- Safe from the storm and the heat, Breathing of beauty and good Fragrantly, under thy hood Violet. Beautiful maid, discreet, Where is the mate that is meet, Meet for thee-strive as he could- Yet will I kneel at thy feet, Fearing another one should, Violet!

O scorn me not, although my worth be slight, Although the stars alone can match thy light, Although the wind alone can mock thy grace, And thy glass only show so fair a face— Yet—let me find some favour in thy sight. The proud stars will not bend from their chill height, Nor will the wind thy faithfulness requite. Thy mirror gives thee but a cold embrace. O scorn me not. My lamp is feeble, but by day or night It shall not wane, and, but for thy delight, My footsteps shall not for a little space Forego the echo of thy tender pace,- I would so serve and guard thee if I might. O scorn me not.

Ten thousand Pounds (a-year), no more Nor less will suit. A man is poor Without his horses and his cows, His city and his country house, His salmon river and his moor; And many things unmissed before Would be desired and swell the score; But 'tis enough when fate allows Ten thousand Pounds. But O, my babies on the floor; My wife's blithe welcome at the door; My bread well-earned with sweat of brows; My garden flowerful, green of boughs; Friends, books;-I would not change ye for Ten thousand Pounds.

One of these days, my lady whispereth, A day made beautiful with summer's breath, Our feet shall cease from these divided ways, Our lives shall leave the distance and the haze And flower together in a mingling wreath. No pain shall part us then, no grief amaze, No doubt dissolve the glory of our gaze; Earth shall be heaven for us twain, she saith, One of these days. Ah love, my love! Athwart how many Mays The old hope lures us with its long delays! How many winters waste our fainting faith! I wonder, will it come this side of death, With any of the old sun in its rays, One of these days?

Life lapses by for you and me; Our sweet days pass us by and flee And evermore death draws us nigh; The blue fades fast out of our sky, The ripple ceases from our sea. What would we not give, you and I, The early sweet of life to buy? Alas! sweetheart, that cannot we; Life lapses by. But though our young days buried lie, Shall love with Spring and Summer die? What if the roses faded be? We in each other's eyes will see New Springs, nor question how or why Life lapses by.

Beyond the night no withered rose Shall mock the later bud that blows, Nor lily blossom e'er shall blight, But all shall gleam more pure and white Than starlight on the Arctic snows. Sigh not when daylight dimmer grows, And life a turbid river flows, For all is sweetness-all is light Beyond the night. Oh, haste, sweet hour that no man knows; Uplift us from our cumbering woes Where joy and peace shall crown the right, And perished hopes shall blossom bright- To aching hearts bring sweet repose Beyond the night.

Among my books-what rest is there From wasting woes! what balm for care! If ills appal or clouds hang low, And drooping dim the fleeting show, I revel still in visions rare. At will I breathe the classic air, The wanderings of Ulysses share; Or see the plume of Bayard flow Among my books. Whatever face the world may wear- If Lilian has no smile to spare, For others let her beauty blow, Such favours I can well forgo; Perchance forget the frowning fair Among my books.

I go my gait, and if my way Is cheered by song and roundelay, Or if I bear upon my road, Like Issachar, a double load, I sing and bear as best I may. But lo a rondeau! Can I say, While halting thus my toll to pay Before a stile now a la mode, I go my gate? Ah truly; if for once I stray Into the treadmill,-'tis in play. I will not own its narrow code, It shall not be my cramped abode. Free of the fields, in open day I go my gait!

Laurels for song! And nobler bays, In old Olympian golden days Of clamour thro' the clear-eyed morn, No bowed triumphant head hath borne Victorious in all Hellas' gaze! They watched his glowing axles graze The goal, and rent the heavens with praise;- Yet the supremer heads have worn Laurels for song. So thee, from no palaestra-plays A conqueror, to the gods we raise, Whose brows of all our singers born The sacred fillets chief adorn,- Who first of all our choice displays Laurels for song.

Without one kiss she's gone away, And stol'n the brightness out of day; With scornful lips and haughty brow She's left me melancholy now, In spite of all that I could say. And so, to guess as best I may What angered her, awhile I stay Beneath this blown acacia bough, Without one kiss; Yet all my wildered brain can pay My questioning, is but to pray Persuasion may my speech endow, And Love may never more allow My injured sweet to sail away Without one kiss.

Love that holdeth firm in fee Many a lord of many a land, From thy thraldom few would flee; Wide the wondrous potency Of thy heart-enchanting hand. Since on shining Cyprian sand Did thy mother, Venus, stand, Man and maid have worshipped thee, Love. They that scorn thy slaves to be, Oft before thy throne, unmanned, Grant thy great supremacy; Hear my prayer, O Monarch, and Let my lady smile on me, Love.

When Sirius shines, a fulgent fire, And locusts in a drowsy choir At noon within the maples drone, And pines at nightfall make sad moan Like waves upon the rocks of Tyre, Then strike the softly sounding lyre, And let the soaring song rise higher, Or fall to minor monotone, When Sirius shines. But should the chiming voices tire, And thoughts of past and vain desire Refill the mind, as doves once flown Return to cotes aforetime known, Then let the soul to heaven aspire, When Sirius shines.

At peep of dawn the daffodil That slumbers 'neath the grassy hill Greets smilingly, with lifted head, The rosy morn's oncoming tread, The thrush sings matins by the rill. The swallows from the ruined mill Go coursing through the air, and fill The sky with songs till then unsaid At peep of dawn. No harbinger of day is still. With pipe new tuned and merry trill, The lark uprises from her bed 'Mong grasses wet with dews unshed, And puts to shame the whip-poor-will At peep of dawn.

In greenwood glen, where greedy bees Drain fragrant flower-cups to the lees, When summer's shining lances smite The grain-fields gleaming golden bright, I hear Æolian melodies. The music bounds along the breeze In ever-changing symphonies, And lulls my soul with calm delight In Greenwood glen. Elusively it faints and flees, Retreats, returns,-but no one sees The piper; for, as in affright, He skilfully eludes the sight; 'Tis Pan who hides amid the trees, In Greenwood glen.

Her china cup is white and thin; A thousand times her heart has been Made merry at its scalloped brink; And in the bottom, painted pink, A dragon greets her with a grin. The brim her kisses loves to win; The handle is a manikin, Who spies the foes that chip or chink Her china cup. Muse, tell me if it be a sin: I watch her lift it past her chin Up to the scarlet lips and drink The Oolong draught, somehow I think I'd like to be the dragon in Her china cup.

Behind her fan of downy fluff, Sewed on soft saffron satin stuff, With peacock feathers, purple-eyed, Caught daintily on either side, The gay coquette displays a puff: Two blue eyes peep above the buff: Two pinky pouting lips ... enough! That cough means surely come and hide Behind her fan. The barque of Hope is trim and tough, So out I venture on the rough, Uncertain sea of girlish pride. A breeze! I tack against the tide,- Capture a kiss and catch a cuff,- Behind her fan.

Fast in your heart, O rondeau rare, Rich with the wealth of love, I dare, Alas! to send, but not to sign, Nestles my name. The fetters fine Kissed by her lips may break,—beware Delight is dizzy with despair. Suppose she fain would answer,-there! How shall she find this name of mine Fast in your heart? Enough if secrecy you swear: Red lips can't solve the subtile snare My tricksy muse weaves with her line: And I am caught, vain Valentine! N.B.-Say,-should she ask you where? "Fast in your heart."

When twilight comes and nature stills The hum that haunts the dales and hills, Dim shadows deepen and combine, And Heaven with its crystal wine The cups of thirsty roses fills. Blithe birds with music-burdened bills Hush for a space their tender trills, And seek their homes in tree or vine When twilight comes. Soft melody the silence thrills, Played by the nymphs along the rills; And where the dew-kist grasses twine, The toads and crickets tatoo fine Drums to the fife of whip-poor-wills, When twilight comes.

Come, Pan, and pipe upon the reed, And make the mellow music bleed, As once it did in days of yore, Along the brook's leaf-tangled shore, Through sylvan shade and fragrant mead. On Hybla honey come and feed,— To tempt the Fauns in dance to lead The Dryads on the mossy floor,— Come, Pan, and pipe! To-day the ghosts,—Gold, Gain, and Greed, The world pursues with savage speed: Forgotten is your magic lore. Oh, bring it back to us once more! For simple, rustic song we plead: Come, Pan, and pipe!

Her scuttle Hatt is wondrous wide, All furrie, too, on every side, Soe out she trippeth daintylie, To let ye Youth full well to see How fayre ye mayde is for ye Bryde. A lyttle puffed, may be, bye Pryde, She yett soe lovelye ys thatt I'd A Shyllynge gyve to tye, perdie, Her scuttle Hatt. Ye Coales unto ye Scuttle slide, Soe yn her Hatt wolde I, and hide To steale some Kissestwo or three: But synce She never asketh me, Ye scornful Cynick doth deride Her scuttle Hatt!

Upon the Kerb, a maiden neat— Her hazel eyes are passing sweet— There stands and waits in dire distress: The muddy road is pitiless, And 'busses thunder down the street! A snowy skirt, all frills and pleat; Two tiny, well-shod, dainty feet Peep out, beneath her kilted dress, Upon the Kerb. She'll first advance and then retreat, Half-frightened by a hansom fleet. She looks around, I must confess, With marvellous coquettishness!- Then droops her eyes and looks discreet, Upon the Kerb!

On Dover Pier, brisk blew the wind, The Fates against me were combined For when I noticed standing there, Sweet Some-one with the sunny hair- To start I felt not much inclined. Too late! I cannot change my mind, The paddles move! I am resigned- I only know I would I were On Dover Pier. I wonder—will the Fates be kind? On my return, and shall I find That grey-eyed damsel passing fair, So bonny, blithe, and debonair, The pretty girl I left behind? On Dover Pier?

'Mid Autumn Leaves, now thickly shed, We wander where our paths o'erspread, With yellow russet, red and sere: The country's looking dull and drear, The sky is gloomy overhead. The equinoctial gales we dread, The summer's gone, the sunshine's fled; We've rambled far enough this year- 'Mid Autumn Leaves. Though fast our travel-time has sped, On London's flags we long to tread; The latest laugh and chaff to hear, To find the Club grown doubly dear; Its gas burns bright, its fire glows red- 'Mid Autumn Leaves.

In beechen shade the hours are sweet, By mist-veiled morn or noonday heat (And sweeter still when daylight dies) So soft the wandering streamlet sighs In passage musical and fleet. Full drowsily the white lambs bleat, And tinkling bell-notes faintly beat The languid air where Lacon lies In beechen shade. And still, when day and even meet; Selene strays with golden feet, That gleam along the low blue skies And paceth slow, with dreaming eyes That seek the shepherds' dim retreat 'Mid beechen shade.

The Gates of Horn are dull of hue (If all our wise men tell us true). No songs, they say, nor perfumed air Shall greet the wistful pilgrim there, No leaves are green, no skies are blue. Yet he who will may find a clue (Mid shadows steeped in opal dew) To seek, and see them passing fair, The Gates of Horn. The man that goes not wreathed with rue, Right lovely shapes his smile shall sue, With red rose-garlands in their hair And garments gay with gold and vair, Full fain to meet him trooping through The Gates of Horn.

If love be true-not bought at mart- Though night and darkness hide from view, What harshest of harsh things can part The loved-one from the lover's heart, Or stay the dreams that flit thereto? If love be true dreams need no chart To gain the goal to which they're due; For love will guide them with love's dart, If love be true. If love be true, if thou be true, Sweet love, as fair thou surely art, Night shall not hide your eyes of blue From my heart's eyes the long night through; Though in sweet sadness tears may start, If love be true.

This pirate bold upon love's sea Will let no passing heart go free; No barque by those bright eyes espied May sail away o'er life's blue tide Till all its treasure yielded be. Her craft, the Conquest, waits for thee, Where her swift rapine none may see; From shadowing coves on thee will glide This pirate bold. Yet thou, if thou her power wouldst flee, Go, feign thyself love's refugee, And crave sweet shelter;-she'll deride Thy piteous suit with scornful pride; And thou, thou shalt escape in glee This pirate bold.

A Good man's love! Oh, prithee, stay, Before you turn such gift away, And write no unconsidered "No" To him who proves he loves you so, And humbly owns your regal sway. For hearts may change, the wise folk say, And as full oft the brightest ray Fades in an hour, so too may go A Good man's love. Then pause awhile. This short delay May gladden many an after-day. Search well your heart, and if it show True signs of love, bid pride bend low, And take this great gift while you may— A Good man's love!

My window birds, I love to strew With punctual hands the crumb for you, Flying for comfort day by day From frozen woodland and highway, And bringing Christmas bills now due! Fair creditors of every hue Crimson and yellow, brown and blue, Whate'er your thoughts, your coats are gay, My window birds. Your claims are neither small nor few, Dated, when May-flowers drank the dew, And on sweet pipes ye used to play, Scattering full many a golden lay; Now ye for wages mutely sue, My window birds.

Silver and gold! The snowdrop white And yellow blossomed aconite, Waking from Winter's slumber cold, Their hoarded treasures now unfold, And scatter them to left and right. Ah, with how much more rare delight Upon my sense their colours smite Than if my fingers were to hold Silver and gold. They bear the superscription bright Of the great King of love and might, Who stamped such beauty there of old That men might learn, as ages rolled, To trust in God, nor worship quite Silver and gold.

"Cheer up, cheer up!" it seems to say, As lighting on some leafless spray, It shakes its dissyllabic song, And with small beak, but courage strong, Charges the East-wind all the day. "Soon will the Swallow round you play, The Nightingale be on its way, Blue skies and gladness come ere long, Cheer up, cheer up!" Such happy voice be mine, I pray, Bleak hours to bless with sunny ray, A comfort life's rough path among; Be mine to lighten pain and wrong, Still letting fall a hopeful lay— Cheer up, cheer up!

When Summer dies, the leaves are falling fast In fitful eddies on the chilly blast, And fields lie blank upon the bare hillside Where erst the poppy flaunted in its pride, And woodbine on the breeze its fragrance cast. And where the hawthorn scattered far and wide Its creamy petals in the sweet Springtide Red berries hang, for birds a glad repast When summer dies. Gone are the cowslips and the daisies pied; The swallow to a warmer clime hath hied; The beech has shed its store of bitter mast, And days are drear and skies are overcast, But Love will warm our hearts whate'er betide When summer dies.

Across the pew, with complaisance And eyes that with Love's sunshine dance, My little sweetheart smiles at me— She is the only saint I see; The sermon passes in a trance. The painted figures gaze askance, Down from their glassy vigilance, On this our tender heresy Across the pew. Ah! little sweetheart, the romance Of Life, with all its change and chance, Is but a sealëd book to thee— When opened, may its pages be As fair and sweet as thy bright glance Across the pew!

Love, though I die, and dying lave My soul in Lethe endlessly, Losing all else, I still would save —Love, though I die— Thy living presence, touch and sigh, All that the golden moments gave To vanished hours of ecstasy. Then make thou great and wide my grave, So wide we two therein may lie; For sense of thee my soul will crave, Love, though I die.

My lips refuse to take farewell of bliss, Sweet Love! so sweet and false, I can but choose To leave thee, only parting word and kiss My lips refuse. Fancy wears livery of a thousand hues, So love in idleness may come to this! And I must bring the thought to common use That ever—save in memory—I shall miss Thy short-lived tenderness-ever lose All that has taught how dear a thing it is My lips refuse.

Other lips than yours intreat Those I vowed in vanished hours, Never Fate should force to greet Other lips than yours. Memory dulls, perchance, or sours What was once so keenly sweet, Being ours and only ours. All the life and heart and heat, All the soul that love outpours, Dies upon the lips that meet Other lips than yours.

Far-fetched and dear bought, as the proverb rehearses, Is good, or was held so, for ladies: but nought In a song can be good if the turn of the verse is Far-fetched and dear bought. As the turn of a wave should it sound, and the thought Ring smooth, and as light as the spray that disperses Be the gleam of the words for the garb thereof wrought. Let the soul in it shine through the sound as it pierces Men's hearts with possession of music unsought; For the bounties of song are no jealous god's mercies, Far-fetched and dear bought.

The heavenly bay, ringed round with cliffs and moors, Storm-stained ravines, and crags that lawns inlay, Soothes as with love the rocks whose guard secures The heavenly bay. O friend, shall time take even this away, This blessing given of beauty that endures, This glory shown us, not to pass but stay? Though sight be changed for memory, love ensures What memory, changed by love to sight, would say— The word that seals for ever mine and yours, The heavenly bay.

My mother sea, my fortress, what new strand, What new delight of waters, may this be, The fairest found since time's first breezes fanned My mother sea? Once more I give me body and soul to thee, Who hast my soul for ever: cliff and sand Recede, and heart to heart once more are we. My heart springs first and plunges, ere my hand Strike out from shore: more close it brings to me, More near and dear than seems my fatherland, My mother sea. Across and along, as the bay's breadth opens, and o'er us Wild autumn exults in the wind, swift rapture and strong Impels us, and broader the wide waves brighten before us Across and along. The whole world's heart is uplifted, and knows not wrong; The whole world's life is a chant to the sea-tide's chorus; Are we not as waves of the water, as notes of the song? Like children unworn of the passions and toils that wore us, We breast for a season the breadth of the seas that throng, Rejoicing as they, to be borne as of old they bore us Across and along.

A Roundel is wrought as a ring or a starbright sphere, With craft of delight and with cunning of sound unsought, That the heart of the hearer may smile if to pleasure his ear A roundel is wrought. Its jewel of music is carven of all or of aught— Love, laughter, or mourning—remembrance of rapture or fear— That fancy may fashion to hang in the ear of thought. As a bird's quick song runs round, and the hearts in us hear— Pause answers to pause, and again the same strain caught, So moves the device whence, round as a pearl or tear, A roundel is wrought.

Nothing so sweet in all the world there is Than this-to stand apart in Love's retreat And gaze at Love. There is as that, ywis, Nothing so sweet. Yet surely God hath placed before our feet Some sweeter sweetness and completer bliss, And something that shall prove more truly meet. Soothly I know not:-when the live lips kiss There is no more that our prayers shall entreat, Save only Death. Perhaps there is as this Nothing so sweet.

Meet me, love, where the woodbines grow And where the wild rose smells most sweet; And the breezes, as they softliest blow, Meet; Passing along through the field of wheat, By the hedge where in spring the violets glow, And the blue-bells blossom around one's feet; Where latest lingers the drifted snow, And the fir-tree grows o'er our trysting-seat, Come-and your love, as long ago, Meet.

If rest is sweet at shut of day For tired hands and tired feet, How sweet at last to rest for aye, If rest is sweet! We work or work not through the heat: Death bids us soon our labours lay In lands where night and twilight meet. When the last dawns are fallen on grey And all life's toils and ease complete, They know who work, not they who play, If rest is sweet.

We know not yet what life shall be, What shore beyond earth's shore be set; What grief awaits us, or what glee, We know not yet. Still, somewhere in sweet converse met, Old friends, we say, beyond death's sea Shall meet and greet us, nor forget Those days of yore, those years when we Were loved and true,-but will death let Our eyes the longed-for vision see? We know not yet.

When Clarice died, and it was told to me, I only covered up my face, and sighed To lose the world and cease to breathe or see, When Clarice died. She was my playmate, sweet, and thoughtful-eyed, With curls, gold curls, that fluttered wild and free; My child companion and most tender guide. When Clarice died I wandered wearily Down the mute grove where she was wont to hide, And cast myself beneath her favourite tree, When Clarice died.

In a fairy boat on a fairy sea, All amber and gold, I used to float When never a wind rose stormily; In a fairy boat. And sweet and sad like a white dove's note Strange voices wakened my soul to glee, And soft scents strayed from the violets' throat. In a fairy boat I shall no more be, For gloom has fallen on creek and moat, And my tired soul's too heavy to flee In a fairy boat.