ANDREW LANG.

Love spake to me and said:'O lips, be mute;Let that one name be dead,That memory flown and fled,Untouched that lute!Go forth,' said Love, 'with willow in thy hand,And in thy hairDead blossoms wear,Blown from the sunless land.'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt seeHer shadow, glimmer by the trysting tree;Butsheis glad,With roses crowned and clad,Who hath forgotten thee!'But I made answer: 'Love!Tell me no more thereof,For she has drunk of that same cup as I.Yea, though her eyes be dry,She garners there for meTears salter than the sea,Even till the day she die.'So gave I Love the lie.

Love spake to me and said:

'O lips, be mute;

Let that one name be dead,

That memory flown and fled,

Untouched that lute!

Go forth,' said Love, 'with willow in thy hand,

And in thy hair

Dead blossoms wear,

Blown from the sunless land.

'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt seeHer shadow, glimmer by the trysting tree;Butsheis glad,With roses crowned and clad,Who hath forgotten thee!'But I made answer: 'Love!Tell me no more thereof,For she has drunk of that same cup as I.Yea, though her eyes be dry,She garners there for meTears salter than the sea,Even till the day she die.'So gave I Love the lie.

'Go forth,' said Love; 'thou never more shalt see

Her shadow, glimmer by the trysting tree;

Butsheis glad,

With roses crowned and clad,

Who hath forgotten thee!'

But I made answer: 'Love!

Tell me no more thereof,

For she has drunk of that same cup as I.

Yea, though her eyes be dry,

She garners there for me

Tears salter than the sea,

Even till the day she die.'

So gave I Love the lie.

To T. W. Lang.

The burden of hard hitting: slog away!Here shalt thou make a 'five' and there a 'four,'And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,That thou art in for an uncommon score.Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,And thou to rivalThorntonshalt aspire,When lo, the Umpire gives thee 'leg before,'—'This is the end of every man's desire!'The burden of much bowling, when the stayOf all thy team is 'collared,' swift or slower,When 'bailers' break not in their wonted way,And 'yorkers' come not off as here-to-fore,When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,When all deliveries lose their former fire,When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—'This is the end of every man's desire!'The burden of long fielding, when the clayClings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,And running still thou stumblest, or the rayOf blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore.And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,'And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—'This is the end of every man's desire!'ENVOY.Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shoreWould I be some poor Player on scant hire,Than King among the old, who play no more,—'Thisis the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of hard hitting: slog away!

Here shalt thou make a 'five' and there a 'four,'

And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,

That thou art in for an uncommon score.

Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,

And thou to rivalThorntonshalt aspire,

When lo, the Umpire gives thee 'leg before,'—

'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of much bowling, when the stayOf all thy team is 'collared,' swift or slower,When 'bailers' break not in their wonted way,And 'yorkers' come not off as here-to-fore,When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,When all deliveries lose their former fire,When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of much bowling, when the stay

Of all thy team is 'collared,' swift or slower,

When 'bailers' break not in their wonted way,

And 'yorkers' come not off as here-to-fore,

When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,

When all deliveries lose their former fire,

When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,—

'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of long fielding, when the clayClings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,And running still thou stumblest, or the rayOf blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore.And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,'And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—'This is the end of every man's desire!'

The burden of long fielding, when the clay

Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower's downpour,

And running still thou stumblest, or the ray

Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore.

And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore,

Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a 'skyer,'

And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,—

'This is the end of every man's desire!'

Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shoreWould I be some poor Player on scant hire,Than King among the old, who play no more,—'Thisis the end of every man's desire!'

Alas, yet liefer on Youth's hither shore

Would I be some poor Player on scant hire,

Than King among the old, who play no more,—

'Thisis the end of every man's desire!'

If the wild bowler thinks he bowls,Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled,They know not, poor misguided souls,They, too, shall perish unconsoled.Iam the batsman and the bat,Iam the bowler and the ball,The umpire, the pavilion cat,The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.

If the wild bowler thinks he bowls,

Or if the batsman thinks he's bowled,

They know not, poor misguided souls,

They, too, shall perish unconsoled.

Iam the batsman and the bat,

Iam the bowler and the ball,

The umpire, the pavilion cat,

The roller, pitch, and stumps, and all.

Here, where old Nankin glitters,Here, where men's tumult seemsAs faint as feeble twittersOf sparrows heard in dreams,We watch Limoges enamel,An old chased silver camel,A shawl, the gift of Schamyl,And manuscripts in reams.Here, where the hawthorn patternOn flawless cup and plateNeed fear no housemaid slattern,Fell minister of fate,'Mid webs divinely woven,And helms and hauberks cloven,On music of BeethovenWe dream and meditate.We know not, and we need notTo know how mortals fare,Of Bills that pass, or speed not,Time finds us unaware,Yea, creeds and codes may crumble,And Dilke and Gladstone stumble.And eat the pie that's humble,We neither know nor care!Can kings or clergies alterThe crackle on one plate?Can creeds or systems palterWith what is truly great?With Corots and with Millets,With April daffodillies,Or make the maiden liliesBloom early or bloom late?Nay, here 'midst Rhodian roses,'Midst tissues of Cashmere,The Soul sublime reposes,And knows not hope nor fear;Here all she sees her own is,And musical her moan is,O'er Caxtons and Bodonis,Aldine and Elzevir!

Here, where old Nankin glitters,

Here, where men's tumult seems

As faint as feeble twitters

Of sparrows heard in dreams,

We watch Limoges enamel,

An old chased silver camel,

A shawl, the gift of Schamyl,

And manuscripts in reams.

Here, where the hawthorn patternOn flawless cup and plateNeed fear no housemaid slattern,Fell minister of fate,'Mid webs divinely woven,And helms and hauberks cloven,On music of BeethovenWe dream and meditate.

Here, where the hawthorn pattern

On flawless cup and plate

Need fear no housemaid slattern,

Fell minister of fate,

'Mid webs divinely woven,

And helms and hauberks cloven,

On music of Beethoven

We dream and meditate.

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

We know not, and we need not

To know how mortals fare,

Of Bills that pass, or speed not,

Time finds us unaware,

Yea, creeds and codes may crumble,

And Dilke and Gladstone stumble.

And eat the pie that's humble,

We neither know nor care!

Can kings or clergies alterThe crackle on one plate?Can creeds or systems palterWith what is truly great?With Corots and with Millets,With April daffodillies,Or make the maiden liliesBloom early or bloom late?

Can kings or clergies alter

The crackle on one plate?

Can creeds or systems palter

With what is truly great?

With Corots and with Millets,

With April daffodillies,

Or make the maiden lilies

Bloom early or bloom late?

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

Nay, here 'midst Rhodian roses,

'Midst tissues of Cashmere,

The Soul sublime reposes,

And knows not hope nor fear;

Here all she sees her own is,

And musical her moan is,

O'er Caxtons and Bodonis,

Aldine and Elzevir!

Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!Soldans seven hath he slain in fight,Honneur à la belle Isoline!Sir Ralph he rideth in riven mail,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!Beneath his nasal is his dark face pale,Honneur à la belle Isoline!His eyes they blaze as the burning coal,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!He smiteth a stave on his gold citole,'Honneur à la belle Isoline!'From her mangonel she looketh forth,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!'Who is he spurreth so late to the north?'Honneur à la belle Isoline!Hark! for he speaketh a knightly name,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!And her wan cheek glows as a burning flame,Honneur à la belle Isoline!For Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!And his love shall ungirdle his sword to-night,Honneur à la belle Isoline!

Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,Ha, la belle blanche aubépine!Soldans seven hath he slain in fight,Honneur à la belle Isoline!

Sir Ralph he is hardy and mickle of might,