AFLAME shot out from the German line,A flame shot up from Hell.Satan spake, with a smile malign:“Brothers, you have done well.”A flame went up from the heart of France,A flame from the sky down fell,A Voice came out of Heaven’s expanse:“Brothers, you have done well.”
AFLAME shot out from the German line,A flame shot up from Hell.Satan spake, with a smile malign:“Brothers, you have done well.”A flame went up from the heart of France,A flame from the sky down fell,A Voice came out of Heaven’s expanse:“Brothers, you have done well.”
AFLAME shot out from the German line,A flame shot up from Hell.Satan spake, with a smile malign:“Brothers, you have done well.”
A flame went up from the heart of France,A flame from the sky down fell,A Voice came out of Heaven’s expanse:“Brothers, you have done well.”
[“The masterpieces of prose remain in the seclusion of the library. Occasionally quoted, they are rarely read.”—Literary Paper.]
[“The masterpieces of prose remain in the seclusion of the library. Occasionally quoted, they are rarely read.”—Literary Paper.]
UPON the shelves in solemn state,Resplendent with morocco’s lustre,Dull and disconsolate they waitThe flip of pert Belinda’s duster;For long ago they learned the factThat o’er their lore no bookworm muses,These tomes which half the world collect,And no one in the world peruses.Resigned to dignified dry-rot,Unscathed by dog’s-ears detrimental,Iconoclastic hands shall notDefile their tooling ornamental;Yet can they feel with pensive pride,Whilst indoors thus their charms are flouted,By countless worshippers outsideTheir claims to fame are proudly shouted.Bowed with the learning of the years,Blanched with the wisdom of the ages,These greybeards in their lofty tiersSeem like an Upper House of sages,An Upper House too proud to bendTo popularity’s infliction,Leaving the meed to those who tendThe lowly common-lands of Fiction.Walton, great gun with hooks and flies,Has grown too grave to care for angling,Though Mandeville before his eyesSome excellent fish tales is dangling.Burton, who’s tête-à-tête with Pepys,Muses with chastened melancholy,While flippant Pepys betakes his stepsTo paths of Restoration folly.Rabelais jostles Verulam;Sir Thomas Browne at Steele looks daggers;Unmarred is Matchless Marlowe’s calmAs Mermaid Ben against him staggers;Boccaccio pours in Chaucer’s earsSome racy after-dinner stories;Gibbon and Grote unite in tearsO’er Roman grandeurs, Grecian glories.Thus while they shun the world’s delights,Unmoved by mortal contemplation,They pass laborious days and nightsEasing their woes by conversation.In patience they possess their souls,These hermits to decay devoted,Knowing, while Lethe o’er them rolls,That they’re occasionally quoted.
UPON the shelves in solemn state,Resplendent with morocco’s lustre,Dull and disconsolate they waitThe flip of pert Belinda’s duster;For long ago they learned the factThat o’er their lore no bookworm muses,These tomes which half the world collect,And no one in the world peruses.Resigned to dignified dry-rot,Unscathed by dog’s-ears detrimental,Iconoclastic hands shall notDefile their tooling ornamental;Yet can they feel with pensive pride,Whilst indoors thus their charms are flouted,By countless worshippers outsideTheir claims to fame are proudly shouted.Bowed with the learning of the years,Blanched with the wisdom of the ages,These greybeards in their lofty tiersSeem like an Upper House of sages,An Upper House too proud to bendTo popularity’s infliction,Leaving the meed to those who tendThe lowly common-lands of Fiction.Walton, great gun with hooks and flies,Has grown too grave to care for angling,Though Mandeville before his eyesSome excellent fish tales is dangling.Burton, who’s tête-à-tête with Pepys,Muses with chastened melancholy,While flippant Pepys betakes his stepsTo paths of Restoration folly.Rabelais jostles Verulam;Sir Thomas Browne at Steele looks daggers;Unmarred is Matchless Marlowe’s calmAs Mermaid Ben against him staggers;Boccaccio pours in Chaucer’s earsSome racy after-dinner stories;Gibbon and Grote unite in tearsO’er Roman grandeurs, Grecian glories.Thus while they shun the world’s delights,Unmoved by mortal contemplation,They pass laborious days and nightsEasing their woes by conversation.In patience they possess their souls,These hermits to decay devoted,Knowing, while Lethe o’er them rolls,That they’re occasionally quoted.
UPON the shelves in solemn state,Resplendent with morocco’s lustre,Dull and disconsolate they waitThe flip of pert Belinda’s duster;For long ago they learned the factThat o’er their lore no bookworm muses,These tomes which half the world collect,And no one in the world peruses.
Resigned to dignified dry-rot,Unscathed by dog’s-ears detrimental,Iconoclastic hands shall notDefile their tooling ornamental;Yet can they feel with pensive pride,Whilst indoors thus their charms are flouted,By countless worshippers outsideTheir claims to fame are proudly shouted.
Bowed with the learning of the years,Blanched with the wisdom of the ages,These greybeards in their lofty tiersSeem like an Upper House of sages,An Upper House too proud to bendTo popularity’s infliction,Leaving the meed to those who tendThe lowly common-lands of Fiction.
Walton, great gun with hooks and flies,Has grown too grave to care for angling,Though Mandeville before his eyesSome excellent fish tales is dangling.Burton, who’s tête-à-tête with Pepys,Muses with chastened melancholy,While flippant Pepys betakes his stepsTo paths of Restoration folly.
Rabelais jostles Verulam;Sir Thomas Browne at Steele looks daggers;Unmarred is Matchless Marlowe’s calmAs Mermaid Ben against him staggers;Boccaccio pours in Chaucer’s earsSome racy after-dinner stories;Gibbon and Grote unite in tearsO’er Roman grandeurs, Grecian glories.
Thus while they shun the world’s delights,Unmoved by mortal contemplation,They pass laborious days and nightsEasing their woes by conversation.In patience they possess their souls,These hermits to decay devoted,Knowing, while Lethe o’er them rolls,That they’re occasionally quoted.
IN my little Château of Bon EspoirThere is room enough for a score, I trow,Of the friends I made in the days long syne,Of the loves I loved in the long ago.There is a chamber where music’s spellDulcetly on the ears shall fallFrom the lips of quaint old instruments,Spinet and viol and virginal.There is a high-domed dancing hall,Sacred once to the minuet,Where now in the maze of the waltz’s whirlThe flying hours shall chase regret.There is the snuggest of tabagiesWhere a man may sit as among the gods,And the world shall not have a word to sayIf Lucullus drowses, if Homer nods.With ripple of laughter and snatch of songIts echoing corridors shall sound,With rustle of delicate draperiesA subtle scent shall be cast around.The wine of life shall frothe in the cup,Its bread possess a celestial leaven,This earth shall be paradise enowTo quench the thirst for a happier heaven.In my little Château of Bon EspoirThere is room enough for a score, I trow,Of the loves I loved in the days long syne,Of the friends I made in the long ago.
IN my little Château of Bon EspoirThere is room enough for a score, I trow,Of the friends I made in the days long syne,Of the loves I loved in the long ago.There is a chamber where music’s spellDulcetly on the ears shall fallFrom the lips of quaint old instruments,Spinet and viol and virginal.There is a high-domed dancing hall,Sacred once to the minuet,Where now in the maze of the waltz’s whirlThe flying hours shall chase regret.There is the snuggest of tabagiesWhere a man may sit as among the gods,And the world shall not have a word to sayIf Lucullus drowses, if Homer nods.With ripple of laughter and snatch of songIts echoing corridors shall sound,With rustle of delicate draperiesA subtle scent shall be cast around.The wine of life shall frothe in the cup,Its bread possess a celestial leaven,This earth shall be paradise enowTo quench the thirst for a happier heaven.In my little Château of Bon EspoirThere is room enough for a score, I trow,Of the loves I loved in the days long syne,Of the friends I made in the long ago.
IN my little Château of Bon EspoirThere is room enough for a score, I trow,Of the friends I made in the days long syne,Of the loves I loved in the long ago.
There is a chamber where music’s spellDulcetly on the ears shall fallFrom the lips of quaint old instruments,Spinet and viol and virginal.
There is a high-domed dancing hall,Sacred once to the minuet,Where now in the maze of the waltz’s whirlThe flying hours shall chase regret.
There is the snuggest of tabagiesWhere a man may sit as among the gods,And the world shall not have a word to sayIf Lucullus drowses, if Homer nods.
With ripple of laughter and snatch of songIts echoing corridors shall sound,With rustle of delicate draperiesA subtle scent shall be cast around.
The wine of life shall frothe in the cup,Its bread possess a celestial leaven,This earth shall be paradise enowTo quench the thirst for a happier heaven.
In my little Château of Bon EspoirThere is room enough for a score, I trow,Of the loves I loved in the days long syne,Of the friends I made in the long ago.
THIS is the chant of the banner,The song of the flag,Raised for the doers and fighters,The nations in panoplied battle.The flag of St. George,The great broad banner of England;It has waved over Crecy and Poictiers,It has flamed at Trafalgar.The flag of the Fighting Race,The green and gold of the Irish,The men who have gone to death with a jest and a cheerFor the dear gold harp on an emerald field,For the love and the honour of Ireland.The red and yellow of SpainFluttering from the caravels of patient ColumbusBorne by arrogant Alva to cruel dishonour,Rent and torn by the wind that swept the Armada,Draping with tender pity the valiant shame of Cervera.This is your boast, O Spain, proudest of nations,Honour the flag!The Tricolour of France,Fierce heir of the Standard of Lilies,Lo, ye, the Corsican bore itOver the red bridge of Lodi;Marengo and Austerlitz saw and rose to the pride of its eagles;Over accursed Sedan it waned and it drooped.Yet from disgrace, from despair, from contention, defilement,It rises, the “Marseillaise” sounds; the Emperor lives.Vivatto France and Napoleon!Vivatto the Flag!The flag of undaunted Belgium,Crucified Land of Sorrows,Your sons shall ascend in glory.The Mother of God bends down from her throne in HeavenTo weep for the martyred dead whose land shall arise from death.The flag of the great Free StatesWith silver stars for their units,Risen from conflict of bloodNever to sink again.All is quiet to-night along the Potomac;The Federal blue, the Confederate grey,Coalesce in the fabric of history.Antietam, Gettysburgh, Frederickburg,The terrible battles of the wilderness.All these agonies pass;But the flag, the flag floats on.Salutation Old Glory!The flag of the Afric Dutch,The farmer soldiers,Fearless riders and trackers,Dogged in a losing fight,Tattered men with rifles,Hailing the tattered Vierkleur:We, too, hail it and greet it:Honour the flag!As long as the red blood runs,As the red blood courses,Chant we the chant of the banner,Sing we the song of the flag.
THIS is the chant of the banner,The song of the flag,Raised for the doers and fighters,The nations in panoplied battle.The flag of St. George,The great broad banner of England;It has waved over Crecy and Poictiers,It has flamed at Trafalgar.The flag of the Fighting Race,The green and gold of the Irish,The men who have gone to death with a jest and a cheerFor the dear gold harp on an emerald field,For the love and the honour of Ireland.The red and yellow of SpainFluttering from the caravels of patient ColumbusBorne by arrogant Alva to cruel dishonour,Rent and torn by the wind that swept the Armada,Draping with tender pity the valiant shame of Cervera.This is your boast, O Spain, proudest of nations,Honour the flag!The Tricolour of France,Fierce heir of the Standard of Lilies,Lo, ye, the Corsican bore itOver the red bridge of Lodi;Marengo and Austerlitz saw and rose to the pride of its eagles;Over accursed Sedan it waned and it drooped.Yet from disgrace, from despair, from contention, defilement,It rises, the “Marseillaise” sounds; the Emperor lives.Vivatto France and Napoleon!Vivatto the Flag!The flag of undaunted Belgium,Crucified Land of Sorrows,Your sons shall ascend in glory.The Mother of God bends down from her throne in HeavenTo weep for the martyred dead whose land shall arise from death.The flag of the great Free StatesWith silver stars for their units,Risen from conflict of bloodNever to sink again.All is quiet to-night along the Potomac;The Federal blue, the Confederate grey,Coalesce in the fabric of history.Antietam, Gettysburgh, Frederickburg,The terrible battles of the wilderness.All these agonies pass;But the flag, the flag floats on.Salutation Old Glory!The flag of the Afric Dutch,The farmer soldiers,Fearless riders and trackers,Dogged in a losing fight,Tattered men with rifles,Hailing the tattered Vierkleur:We, too, hail it and greet it:Honour the flag!As long as the red blood runs,As the red blood courses,Chant we the chant of the banner,Sing we the song of the flag.
THIS is the chant of the banner,The song of the flag,Raised for the doers and fighters,The nations in panoplied battle.
The flag of St. George,The great broad banner of England;It has waved over Crecy and Poictiers,It has flamed at Trafalgar.
The flag of the Fighting Race,The green and gold of the Irish,The men who have gone to death with a jest and a cheerFor the dear gold harp on an emerald field,For the love and the honour of Ireland.
The red and yellow of SpainFluttering from the caravels of patient ColumbusBorne by arrogant Alva to cruel dishonour,Rent and torn by the wind that swept the Armada,Draping with tender pity the valiant shame of Cervera.This is your boast, O Spain, proudest of nations,Honour the flag!
The Tricolour of France,Fierce heir of the Standard of Lilies,Lo, ye, the Corsican bore itOver the red bridge of Lodi;Marengo and Austerlitz saw and rose to the pride of its eagles;Over accursed Sedan it waned and it drooped.Yet from disgrace, from despair, from contention, defilement,It rises, the “Marseillaise” sounds; the Emperor lives.Vivatto France and Napoleon!Vivatto the Flag!
The flag of undaunted Belgium,Crucified Land of Sorrows,Your sons shall ascend in glory.The Mother of God bends down from her throne in HeavenTo weep for the martyred dead whose land shall arise from death.
The flag of the great Free StatesWith silver stars for their units,Risen from conflict of bloodNever to sink again.All is quiet to-night along the Potomac;The Federal blue, the Confederate grey,Coalesce in the fabric of history.Antietam, Gettysburgh, Frederickburg,The terrible battles of the wilderness.All these agonies pass;But the flag, the flag floats on.Salutation Old Glory!
The flag of the Afric Dutch,The farmer soldiers,Fearless riders and trackers,Dogged in a losing fight,Tattered men with rifles,Hailing the tattered Vierkleur:We, too, hail it and greet it:Honour the flag!
As long as the red blood runs,As the red blood courses,Chant we the chant of the banner,Sing we the song of the flag.
BUTTERFLIES carmine-and-whiteWheel into human view.Out of the womb of the nightInto the town and its lightButterflies carmine-and-whiteFlutter and flicker for you.Butterflies crimson-and-black,Splashes of blood on the dark—What do the winged things lack—Breaking, perchance, on a rack?Butterflies crimson-and-black.Butterflies powdered with gold—(How should a butterfly sting?)Butterflies, selling, and sold,Wheeling and curling behold,Butterflies powered with gold.Butterflies bistre-and-blue(How should a butterfly kiss?)Sinister wings flitting throughThe Pit and its dreadful abyss,Butterflies bistre-and-blue.Butterflies carmine-and-whiteFlicker and flutter for youInto the town and its light,Out of the gloom of the night,Butterflies carmine-and whiteFlutter and flicker for you.
BUTTERFLIES carmine-and-whiteWheel into human view.Out of the womb of the nightInto the town and its lightButterflies carmine-and-whiteFlutter and flicker for you.Butterflies crimson-and-black,Splashes of blood on the dark—What do the winged things lack—Breaking, perchance, on a rack?Butterflies crimson-and-black.Butterflies powdered with gold—(How should a butterfly sting?)Butterflies, selling, and sold,Wheeling and curling behold,Butterflies powered with gold.Butterflies bistre-and-blue(How should a butterfly kiss?)Sinister wings flitting throughThe Pit and its dreadful abyss,Butterflies bistre-and-blue.Butterflies carmine-and-whiteFlicker and flutter for youInto the town and its light,Out of the gloom of the night,Butterflies carmine-and whiteFlutter and flicker for you.
BUTTERFLIES carmine-and-whiteWheel into human view.Out of the womb of the nightInto the town and its lightButterflies carmine-and-whiteFlutter and flicker for you.
Butterflies crimson-and-black,Splashes of blood on the dark—What do the winged things lack—Breaking, perchance, on a rack?Butterflies crimson-and-black.
Butterflies powdered with gold—(How should a butterfly sting?)Butterflies, selling, and sold,Wheeling and curling behold,Butterflies powered with gold.
Butterflies bistre-and-blue(How should a butterfly kiss?)Sinister wings flitting throughThe Pit and its dreadful abyss,Butterflies bistre-and-blue.
Butterflies carmine-and-whiteFlicker and flutter for youInto the town and its light,Out of the gloom of the night,Butterflies carmine-and whiteFlutter and flicker for you.
IWONDER in what quiet zone,The Shades on high are not irate,What Thespian temple, brick or stone,Shrines Jupiters who will not slatePale authors still importunate,And timid actors blenching greyBeneath their grease-paints roseate—Where are the gods of yesterday?Where’s “Bravo, Hicks!” who held his own,Sans hoot or shout or wild debate,Declaiming in full, mellow toneHeroic lines on virtue’s state?Where’s comic Robson, Little-Great(Great Little spoils the rhyme’s array),Who ne’er incurred the High God’s hate?—Sped with the gods of yesterday.Where’s Poet Bunn, who roused no moan.Or dreadful booh expostulateBy lyrics arduously thrownTo give an o’er-light opera weight?Where does our Dion hibernate—The Boucicault of once-a-day,Master of his Hibernian fate?—Gone with his gods of yesterday.
IWONDER in what quiet zone,The Shades on high are not irate,What Thespian temple, brick or stone,Shrines Jupiters who will not slatePale authors still importunate,And timid actors blenching greyBeneath their grease-paints roseate—Where are the gods of yesterday?Where’s “Bravo, Hicks!” who held his own,Sans hoot or shout or wild debate,Declaiming in full, mellow toneHeroic lines on virtue’s state?Where’s comic Robson, Little-Great(Great Little spoils the rhyme’s array),Who ne’er incurred the High God’s hate?—Sped with the gods of yesterday.Where’s Poet Bunn, who roused no moan.Or dreadful booh expostulateBy lyrics arduously thrownTo give an o’er-light opera weight?Where does our Dion hibernate—The Boucicault of once-a-day,Master of his Hibernian fate?—Gone with his gods of yesterday.
IWONDER in what quiet zone,The Shades on high are not irate,What Thespian temple, brick or stone,Shrines Jupiters who will not slatePale authors still importunate,And timid actors blenching greyBeneath their grease-paints roseate—Where are the gods of yesterday?
Where’s “Bravo, Hicks!” who held his own,Sans hoot or shout or wild debate,Declaiming in full, mellow toneHeroic lines on virtue’s state?Where’s comic Robson, Little-Great(Great Little spoils the rhyme’s array),Who ne’er incurred the High God’s hate?—Sped with the gods of yesterday.
Where’s Poet Bunn, who roused no moan.Or dreadful booh expostulateBy lyrics arduously thrownTo give an o’er-light opera weight?Where does our Dion hibernate—The Boucicault of once-a-day,Master of his Hibernian fate?—Gone with his gods of yesterday.
L’Envoi
LET’S candidly commiseratePlaywrights and players turned to bay.Let’s also freely objurgateThe gods who rule our latter day.
LET’S candidly commiseratePlaywrights and players turned to bay.Let’s also freely objurgateThe gods who rule our latter day.
LET’S candidly commiseratePlaywrights and players turned to bay.Let’s also freely objurgateThe gods who rule our latter day.
IDIG a grave from hour to hour,A little house of dole and death,A gruesome court, a ghastly bower,For love that drew dishonoured breath.I dig a grave from day to day,Without a pang or any prayer,Irreverently, clay to clay,I lay my dead illusions there.I dig a grave from year to year.God wot it needs be wide and deep,For hopes that mock the chance of fear,For dreams beyond the sport of sleep!
IDIG a grave from hour to hour,A little house of dole and death,A gruesome court, a ghastly bower,For love that drew dishonoured breath.I dig a grave from day to day,Without a pang or any prayer,Irreverently, clay to clay,I lay my dead illusions there.I dig a grave from year to year.God wot it needs be wide and deep,For hopes that mock the chance of fear,For dreams beyond the sport of sleep!
IDIG a grave from hour to hour,A little house of dole and death,A gruesome court, a ghastly bower,For love that drew dishonoured breath.
I dig a grave from day to day,Without a pang or any prayer,Irreverently, clay to clay,I lay my dead illusions there.
I dig a grave from year to year.God wot it needs be wide and deep,For hopes that mock the chance of fear,For dreams beyond the sport of sleep!
WHEN my Lost Lady comes againWith the glory of Old France,Her sweet form will speak to meOf the dames of dead romance.Ninon, Diane, whence died a king,In tourney, not in battle’s jar;Marguerite the Valois’ pride,Royal comrade of Navarre.De Fontanges, De Montespan,Ripe rose beauties such as these,Lily too of Fleur-de-Lys,Sad, frail, angel-eyed Louise.All De Sabran’s swift allures,All Du Barry’s silken wiles,Sunlight of the Pompadour’sWhen the Court said, “Lo, she smiles!”I will kiss their gracious hands,Kissing hers—for she will deignTo my homage, when, ah when,My Lost Lady comes again!
WHEN my Lost Lady comes againWith the glory of Old France,Her sweet form will speak to meOf the dames of dead romance.Ninon, Diane, whence died a king,In tourney, not in battle’s jar;Marguerite the Valois’ pride,Royal comrade of Navarre.De Fontanges, De Montespan,Ripe rose beauties such as these,Lily too of Fleur-de-Lys,Sad, frail, angel-eyed Louise.All De Sabran’s swift allures,All Du Barry’s silken wiles,Sunlight of the Pompadour’sWhen the Court said, “Lo, she smiles!”I will kiss their gracious hands,Kissing hers—for she will deignTo my homage, when, ah when,My Lost Lady comes again!
WHEN my Lost Lady comes againWith the glory of Old France,Her sweet form will speak to meOf the dames of dead romance.
Ninon, Diane, whence died a king,In tourney, not in battle’s jar;Marguerite the Valois’ pride,Royal comrade of Navarre.
De Fontanges, De Montespan,Ripe rose beauties such as these,Lily too of Fleur-de-Lys,Sad, frail, angel-eyed Louise.
All De Sabran’s swift allures,All Du Barry’s silken wiles,Sunlight of the Pompadour’sWhen the Court said, “Lo, she smiles!”
I will kiss their gracious hands,Kissing hers—for she will deignTo my homage, when, ah when,My Lost Lady comes again!
WHITE roses, white roses,In Holyrood’s Hall,On dainty, white bosoms,The whitest of all.White roses at Derby,Ah! withered long sinceIn the bonnets of laddiesWho fought for the Prince.A curse upon Cheshire,Its cowardly fear,That drew not a swordFor the Young Chevalier!God prosper brave Lancashire,Stalwart for aye!Proud Preston may droop,But her rose shall not die.God’s rest to the clansmen,The Jacobite dead,Who sleep where Culloden’sWhite roses are red!
WHITE roses, white roses,In Holyrood’s Hall,On dainty, white bosoms,The whitest of all.White roses at Derby,Ah! withered long sinceIn the bonnets of laddiesWho fought for the Prince.A curse upon Cheshire,Its cowardly fear,That drew not a swordFor the Young Chevalier!God prosper brave Lancashire,Stalwart for aye!Proud Preston may droop,But her rose shall not die.God’s rest to the clansmen,The Jacobite dead,Who sleep where Culloden’sWhite roses are red!
WHITE roses, white roses,In Holyrood’s Hall,On dainty, white bosoms,The whitest of all.
White roses at Derby,Ah! withered long sinceIn the bonnets of laddiesWho fought for the Prince.
A curse upon Cheshire,Its cowardly fear,That drew not a swordFor the Young Chevalier!
God prosper brave Lancashire,Stalwart for aye!Proud Preston may droop,But her rose shall not die.
God’s rest to the clansmen,The Jacobite dead,Who sleep where Culloden’sWhite roses are red!
THE birds of the woodland pauseAs her footsteps pass:Her song is as golden rainIn the singing grass.Borne in the haunted airBy a fairy breeze,Her song is as star-dust strewnThrough the laughing trees.The song of the primal dawnOf God’s sunrise,The song Our Lady singsBy the Brook of Paradise.
THE birds of the woodland pauseAs her footsteps pass:Her song is as golden rainIn the singing grass.Borne in the haunted airBy a fairy breeze,Her song is as star-dust strewnThrough the laughing trees.The song of the primal dawnOf God’s sunrise,The song Our Lady singsBy the Brook of Paradise.
THE birds of the woodland pauseAs her footsteps pass:Her song is as golden rainIn the singing grass.
Borne in the haunted airBy a fairy breeze,Her song is as star-dust strewnThrough the laughing trees.
The song of the primal dawnOf God’s sunrise,The song Our Lady singsBy the Brook of Paradise.
FROM Marble Arch to Holland Park,They liked his gentle ways,A youth who roused no rude remark,But very often praise.When paying calls at afternoonA careful way he picked;He let the cat ungallèd croon,The poodle drowse unkicked.He never screamed his hostess down,Or raised a threatening arm,When dining with his friends in town:They marvelled at his charm.When chatting with another guestA pleasant word he’d pass,Instead of growling, “Perfect pest!”Or, “You’re a silly ass!”If in the tango’s mazy whirlA vagrant flounce he tore,He suavely smiled, “My fault, dear girl,”And never, “What a bore!”When at the club the waiter gaveHim change for half-a-crown,He did not dance, or rant, or rave,And rarely knocked him down.His life was calm and halcyon,His manners so exact,His friends proclaimed, “Dear AlgernonHas got suchperfecttact.”
FROM Marble Arch to Holland Park,They liked his gentle ways,A youth who roused no rude remark,But very often praise.When paying calls at afternoonA careful way he picked;He let the cat ungallèd croon,The poodle drowse unkicked.He never screamed his hostess down,Or raised a threatening arm,When dining with his friends in town:They marvelled at his charm.When chatting with another guestA pleasant word he’d pass,Instead of growling, “Perfect pest!”Or, “You’re a silly ass!”If in the tango’s mazy whirlA vagrant flounce he tore,He suavely smiled, “My fault, dear girl,”And never, “What a bore!”When at the club the waiter gaveHim change for half-a-crown,He did not dance, or rant, or rave,And rarely knocked him down.His life was calm and halcyon,His manners so exact,His friends proclaimed, “Dear AlgernonHas got suchperfecttact.”
FROM Marble Arch to Holland Park,They liked his gentle ways,A youth who roused no rude remark,But very often praise.
When paying calls at afternoonA careful way he picked;He let the cat ungallèd croon,The poodle drowse unkicked.
He never screamed his hostess down,Or raised a threatening arm,When dining with his friends in town:They marvelled at his charm.
When chatting with another guestA pleasant word he’d pass,Instead of growling, “Perfect pest!”Or, “You’re a silly ass!”
If in the tango’s mazy whirlA vagrant flounce he tore,He suavely smiled, “My fault, dear girl,”And never, “What a bore!”
When at the club the waiter gaveHim change for half-a-crown,He did not dance, or rant, or rave,And rarely knocked him down.
His life was calm and halcyon,His manners so exact,His friends proclaimed, “Dear AlgernonHas got suchperfecttact.”
THE Joyous Comrade comes, and lo,The silence thrills to a hidden song.How changed the world from an hour ago!In spite of man’s hate and the high gods’ wrong,There has come a beautiful hour to meWith mybelle dame avec merci.Ah, she is gallant, debonnaire!Some bold man spirit of her lineCharged at Edgehill, one may aver,With dashing Rupert of the Rhine—And the King still has his own,sansfear,When smiles my Joyous Cavalier.In hose of green and doublet brownThrough Arden’s forest she has strayed(Arden that’s nigh to Stratford town)In dainty, straight-limbed masquerade.And still her fearless walk betraysA Rosalind in city ways.To-night we shall essay the TownWhence Strand leads out from narrow Fleet.Thence Westward, while dim stars look down,We’ll quest Romance by square and street.For, oh, Romance is never deadBy paths which joyous comrades tread.
THE Joyous Comrade comes, and lo,The silence thrills to a hidden song.How changed the world from an hour ago!In spite of man’s hate and the high gods’ wrong,There has come a beautiful hour to meWith mybelle dame avec merci.Ah, she is gallant, debonnaire!Some bold man spirit of her lineCharged at Edgehill, one may aver,With dashing Rupert of the Rhine—And the King still has his own,sansfear,When smiles my Joyous Cavalier.In hose of green and doublet brownThrough Arden’s forest she has strayed(Arden that’s nigh to Stratford town)In dainty, straight-limbed masquerade.And still her fearless walk betraysA Rosalind in city ways.To-night we shall essay the TownWhence Strand leads out from narrow Fleet.Thence Westward, while dim stars look down,We’ll quest Romance by square and street.For, oh, Romance is never deadBy paths which joyous comrades tread.
THE Joyous Comrade comes, and lo,The silence thrills to a hidden song.How changed the world from an hour ago!In spite of man’s hate and the high gods’ wrong,There has come a beautiful hour to meWith mybelle dame avec merci.
Ah, she is gallant, debonnaire!Some bold man spirit of her lineCharged at Edgehill, one may aver,With dashing Rupert of the Rhine—And the King still has his own,sansfear,When smiles my Joyous Cavalier.
In hose of green and doublet brownThrough Arden’s forest she has strayed(Arden that’s nigh to Stratford town)In dainty, straight-limbed masquerade.And still her fearless walk betraysA Rosalind in city ways.
To-night we shall essay the TownWhence Strand leads out from narrow Fleet.Thence Westward, while dim stars look down,We’ll quest Romance by square and street.For, oh, Romance is never deadBy paths which joyous comrades tread.
To face p. 43.
SO still, so still they lie,That neither the dew nor the sunCan stir through the matted grassesThe men who strove by the gun.So still, so still they lie.An imperturbable prideCrowns the day at its closing:Yea; they are satisfied.So still, so still they lie,Stained clay on the blood-stained sod,Sealing in placid covenantThe truce of Man and God.
SO still, so still they lie,That neither the dew nor the sunCan stir through the matted grassesThe men who strove by the gun.So still, so still they lie.An imperturbable prideCrowns the day at its closing:Yea; they are satisfied.So still, so still they lie,Stained clay on the blood-stained sod,Sealing in placid covenantThe truce of Man and God.
SO still, so still they lie,That neither the dew nor the sunCan stir through the matted grassesThe men who strove by the gun.
So still, so still they lie.An imperturbable prideCrowns the day at its closing:Yea; they are satisfied.
So still, so still they lie,Stained clay on the blood-stained sod,Sealing in placid covenantThe truce of Man and God.
WHERE with shudder of surf and splash of sprayThe surge to the curve of the cove advancesThere lingers a memory all the dayOf his random fancies, his quaint romances.The white waves murmur, the light winds moan,The sea-birds call from the reef’s recesses,With rustle of leaves strange scents are blownFrom blooms half veiled by the trailers’ tresses.Surely, indeed, he loved it well,This lustrous speck in a waste of waters,Where with shimmer of weed and sheen of shellThe great Pacific her bounty scatters.Here Nature poured in his listening earHer secrets of earth and sea and skyland,Till the far-off things of Earth seemed nearTo Nature’s child in his Treasure Island.Here, as foam-flakes hurled by the blast,As burning sparks from the anvil beaten,His aspirations found vent at lastIn the bygone years by the locust eaten.Still with shudder of surf and splash of spray,The surge to the curve of the cove advances,And the breeze still sighs to the isle from the bayOf his tender fancies, his gay romances.
WHERE with shudder of surf and splash of sprayThe surge to the curve of the cove advancesThere lingers a memory all the dayOf his random fancies, his quaint romances.The white waves murmur, the light winds moan,The sea-birds call from the reef’s recesses,With rustle of leaves strange scents are blownFrom blooms half veiled by the trailers’ tresses.Surely, indeed, he loved it well,This lustrous speck in a waste of waters,Where with shimmer of weed and sheen of shellThe great Pacific her bounty scatters.Here Nature poured in his listening earHer secrets of earth and sea and skyland,Till the far-off things of Earth seemed nearTo Nature’s child in his Treasure Island.Here, as foam-flakes hurled by the blast,As burning sparks from the anvil beaten,His aspirations found vent at lastIn the bygone years by the locust eaten.Still with shudder of surf and splash of spray,The surge to the curve of the cove advances,And the breeze still sighs to the isle from the bayOf his tender fancies, his gay romances.
WHERE with shudder of surf and splash of sprayThe surge to the curve of the cove advancesThere lingers a memory all the dayOf his random fancies, his quaint romances.
The white waves murmur, the light winds moan,The sea-birds call from the reef’s recesses,With rustle of leaves strange scents are blownFrom blooms half veiled by the trailers’ tresses.
Surely, indeed, he loved it well,This lustrous speck in a waste of waters,Where with shimmer of weed and sheen of shellThe great Pacific her bounty scatters.
Here Nature poured in his listening earHer secrets of earth and sea and skyland,Till the far-off things of Earth seemed nearTo Nature’s child in his Treasure Island.
Here, as foam-flakes hurled by the blast,As burning sparks from the anvil beaten,His aspirations found vent at lastIn the bygone years by the locust eaten.
Still with shudder of surf and splash of spray,The surge to the curve of the cove advances,And the breeze still sighs to the isle from the bayOf his tender fancies, his gay romances.
THE scent of violets,Subtle, fragrant and faint,Breathing a reticence,An unaustere restraint,Finds a nook in my heartAnd wakes an old-time woe—Long, how long, do you ask?Oh, centuries ago.The keening of violins,Tenuous, passionel,Wailing of stark despairs,A madness of farewell,Shadows all my soulWith night of forgotten things,Blood and a passion of tears,The yoke of accursed kings.The ring of a splendid phraseFlung out in the teeth of might,The call of a great lost causeSounds in my ears to-night,Falls on my ears to-night,And the anguish disappears,Swept by exultant defeatInto the night of the years.
THE scent of violets,Subtle, fragrant and faint,Breathing a reticence,An unaustere restraint,Finds a nook in my heartAnd wakes an old-time woe—Long, how long, do you ask?Oh, centuries ago.The keening of violins,Tenuous, passionel,Wailing of stark despairs,A madness of farewell,Shadows all my soulWith night of forgotten things,Blood and a passion of tears,The yoke of accursed kings.The ring of a splendid phraseFlung out in the teeth of might,The call of a great lost causeSounds in my ears to-night,Falls on my ears to-night,And the anguish disappears,Swept by exultant defeatInto the night of the years.
THE scent of violets,Subtle, fragrant and faint,Breathing a reticence,An unaustere restraint,Finds a nook in my heartAnd wakes an old-time woe—Long, how long, do you ask?Oh, centuries ago.
The keening of violins,Tenuous, passionel,Wailing of stark despairs,A madness of farewell,Shadows all my soulWith night of forgotten things,Blood and a passion of tears,The yoke of accursed kings.
The ring of a splendid phraseFlung out in the teeth of might,The call of a great lost causeSounds in my ears to-night,Falls on my ears to-night,And the anguish disappears,Swept by exultant defeatInto the night of the years.
[“If the Immortals were privileged to revisit the glimpses of the moon their reappearance on earth might cause many bitter disappointments.”—Literary Paper.]
[“If the Immortals were privileged to revisit the glimpses of the moon their reappearance on earth might cause many bitter disappointments.”—Literary Paper.]
IF from out the Happy Valley,Leaving the Olympian Ballet,The Immortals forth should sally,Wings unfurled;Kicking o’er their starry traces,If they sought more mundane spaces,Would they fill their old-time placesIn the world?Would thejeux d’espritof “Sherry,”Monstrous witty, wondrous merry,To the “Vagabonds” seem veryMuch a bore?In the after-dinner Babel,Flashing silver through their sable,Would great “Titmarsh” set the tableIn a roar?Would the world be much indebtedTo the Beau George Regent petted?Would his garments be regretted,Or the rage?Would the Golden Sarah, sprightly,Wear her laurel-crown as lightlyIf the Grander Sarah nightlyQueened the stage?Would the Dictionary Doctor,Sulky as a College proctor.By the “Savages” be mocked, orChaired in state?Would the Commons be elatedIf its bygone shades orated(Say that Fox and Pitt debated),Or irate?Should th’ Immortals hither scurry(Though they’ve got no cause to hurry)Would they waken joy or worry?Who can tell?But they suffer no translationFrom their sphere of elevation,And, in view of complication,It is well.
IF from out the Happy Valley,Leaving the Olympian Ballet,The Immortals forth should sally,Wings unfurled;Kicking o’er their starry traces,If they sought more mundane spaces,Would they fill their old-time placesIn the world?Would thejeux d’espritof “Sherry,”Monstrous witty, wondrous merry,To the “Vagabonds” seem veryMuch a bore?In the after-dinner Babel,Flashing silver through their sable,Would great “Titmarsh” set the tableIn a roar?Would the world be much indebtedTo the Beau George Regent petted?Would his garments be regretted,Or the rage?Would the Golden Sarah, sprightly,Wear her laurel-crown as lightlyIf the Grander Sarah nightlyQueened the stage?Would the Dictionary Doctor,Sulky as a College proctor.By the “Savages” be mocked, orChaired in state?Would the Commons be elatedIf its bygone shades orated(Say that Fox and Pitt debated),Or irate?Should th’ Immortals hither scurry(Though they’ve got no cause to hurry)Would they waken joy or worry?Who can tell?But they suffer no translationFrom their sphere of elevation,And, in view of complication,It is well.
IF from out the Happy Valley,Leaving the Olympian Ballet,The Immortals forth should sally,Wings unfurled;Kicking o’er their starry traces,If they sought more mundane spaces,Would they fill their old-time placesIn the world?
Would thejeux d’espritof “Sherry,”Monstrous witty, wondrous merry,To the “Vagabonds” seem veryMuch a bore?In the after-dinner Babel,Flashing silver through their sable,Would great “Titmarsh” set the tableIn a roar?
Would the world be much indebtedTo the Beau George Regent petted?Would his garments be regretted,Or the rage?Would the Golden Sarah, sprightly,Wear her laurel-crown as lightlyIf the Grander Sarah nightlyQueened the stage?
Would the Dictionary Doctor,Sulky as a College proctor.By the “Savages” be mocked, orChaired in state?Would the Commons be elatedIf its bygone shades orated(Say that Fox and Pitt debated),Or irate?
Should th’ Immortals hither scurry(Though they’ve got no cause to hurry)Would they waken joy or worry?Who can tell?But they suffer no translationFrom their sphere of elevation,And, in view of complication,It is well.
HAUGH the light and the love and the laughter,Half the fruit and the fulness of earth,Have sunk in the gloom that hereafterWill make mute all life’s music and mirth.Lost land of Bohemia, we mourn you,Despond and desire and deplore;Thou the pride of the Philistine scorn you,Lotos-land, what a glamour you bore!Veiled visions of youth, when Love, breathless,In the meshes he wove, was ensnared,We adored you with vows that were deathlessWhile our last crust and penny we shared.Then Fame was the phantom we followed,And Gold was the gain we denied,And Want was the monster that swallowedThe pleasure of Art and its pride.Then we built in the air a cloud palaceFrom the gold that our fancy had spun,And we poured our hearts’ blood in Love’s chaliceIn the dreams of the days that are done.Red lips that were curved to enslave us,White arms that encircled and bound,From your sway bitter-sweet who could save usWhen love in Bohemia was crowned.Old friends and old loves and old pleasures,As spectres you surge through the mistThat envelops our past kingdom’s treasures,That lies chill on the lips that we kissed.Lost land of Bohemia, we mourn you,Despond and desire and deplore;Though the ease of the Philistine scorn you,Lotos-land, what a glamour you bore!
HAUGH the light and the love and the laughter,Half the fruit and the fulness of earth,Have sunk in the gloom that hereafterWill make mute all life’s music and mirth.Lost land of Bohemia, we mourn you,Despond and desire and deplore;Thou the pride of the Philistine scorn you,Lotos-land, what a glamour you bore!Veiled visions of youth, when Love, breathless,In the meshes he wove, was ensnared,We adored you with vows that were deathlessWhile our last crust and penny we shared.Then Fame was the phantom we followed,And Gold was the gain we denied,And Want was the monster that swallowedThe pleasure of Art and its pride.Then we built in the air a cloud palaceFrom the gold that our fancy had spun,And we poured our hearts’ blood in Love’s chaliceIn the dreams of the days that are done.Red lips that were curved to enslave us,White arms that encircled and bound,From your sway bitter-sweet who could save usWhen love in Bohemia was crowned.Old friends and old loves and old pleasures,As spectres you surge through the mistThat envelops our past kingdom’s treasures,That lies chill on the lips that we kissed.Lost land of Bohemia, we mourn you,Despond and desire and deplore;Though the ease of the Philistine scorn you,Lotos-land, what a glamour you bore!
HAUGH the light and the love and the laughter,Half the fruit and the fulness of earth,Have sunk in the gloom that hereafterWill make mute all life’s music and mirth.
Lost land of Bohemia, we mourn you,Despond and desire and deplore;Thou the pride of the Philistine scorn you,Lotos-land, what a glamour you bore!
Veiled visions of youth, when Love, breathless,In the meshes he wove, was ensnared,We adored you with vows that were deathlessWhile our last crust and penny we shared.
Then Fame was the phantom we followed,And Gold was the gain we denied,And Want was the monster that swallowedThe pleasure of Art and its pride.
Then we built in the air a cloud palaceFrom the gold that our fancy had spun,And we poured our hearts’ blood in Love’s chaliceIn the dreams of the days that are done.
Red lips that were curved to enslave us,White arms that encircled and bound,From your sway bitter-sweet who could save usWhen love in Bohemia was crowned.
Old friends and old loves and old pleasures,As spectres you surge through the mistThat envelops our past kingdom’s treasures,That lies chill on the lips that we kissed.
Lost land of Bohemia, we mourn you,Despond and desire and deplore;Though the ease of the Philistine scorn you,Lotos-land, what a glamour you bore!
TO toy with Amaryllis in the shadeBecomes a thing one ceases to enjoy,To pat Nærea’s tresses (Clarkson-made)As ecstasy admits of some alloy.The fairy bloom forsakes the peach. The toy,Stripped of its paint, mocks at delight’s long done.The little duck results a dear decoy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.The World, the Flesh, the Devil all arrayedIn vain with gauds deck out their gross charoy.Weary senility rejects the maid;Gout lurks within the bubbles of “the Boy.”Satan (in sulphur baths) we may employ—A healing gift denied to Tomlinson(Kipling as sponsor made Mephisto coy)—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.Hazard’s the only game that now is played.Death holds the Ace of Spades, so Clubs must cloy,Hearts slower beat, Diamonds’ flashes fade.Leaden despair succeeds the hopes that buoy.Doomward the broken gamesters’ ranks deploy;Le jeu est fait—the Table’s made its run.Time’s croupier wields his rake but to destroy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
TO toy with Amaryllis in the shadeBecomes a thing one ceases to enjoy,To pat Nærea’s tresses (Clarkson-made)As ecstasy admits of some alloy.The fairy bloom forsakes the peach. The toy,Stripped of its paint, mocks at delight’s long done.The little duck results a dear decoy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.The World, the Flesh, the Devil all arrayedIn vain with gauds deck out their gross charoy.Weary senility rejects the maid;Gout lurks within the bubbles of “the Boy.”Satan (in sulphur baths) we may employ—A healing gift denied to Tomlinson(Kipling as sponsor made Mephisto coy)—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.Hazard’s the only game that now is played.Death holds the Ace of Spades, so Clubs must cloy,Hearts slower beat, Diamonds’ flashes fade.Leaden despair succeeds the hopes that buoy.Doomward the broken gamesters’ ranks deploy;Le jeu est fait—the Table’s made its run.Time’s croupier wields his rake but to destroy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
TO toy with Amaryllis in the shadeBecomes a thing one ceases to enjoy,To pat Nærea’s tresses (Clarkson-made)As ecstasy admits of some alloy.The fairy bloom forsakes the peach. The toy,Stripped of its paint, mocks at delight’s long done.The little duck results a dear decoy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
The World, the Flesh, the Devil all arrayedIn vain with gauds deck out their gross charoy.Weary senility rejects the maid;Gout lurks within the bubbles of “the Boy.”Satan (in sulphur baths) we may employ—A healing gift denied to Tomlinson(Kipling as sponsor made Mephisto coy)—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
Hazard’s the only game that now is played.Death holds the Ace of Spades, so Clubs must cloy,Hearts slower beat, Diamonds’ flashes fade.Leaden despair succeeds the hopes that buoy.Doomward the broken gamesters’ ranks deploy;Le jeu est fait—the Table’s made its run.Time’s croupier wields his rake but to destroy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
L’Envoi
PRINCE, when the creeping shades of age annoy,When Life’s kaleidoscope grows dark and dun,Hearken our plaint ere Charon grounds his hoy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
PRINCE, when the creeping shades of age annoy,When Life’s kaleidoscope grows dark and dun,Hearken our plaint ere Charon grounds his hoy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
PRINCE, when the creeping shades of age annoy,When Life’s kaleidoscope grows dark and dun,Hearken our plaint ere Charon grounds his hoy—Oh! the brave days when we were twenty-one.
WHEN London burns, the Iron DukeWill tremble ’neath his pall,In dread of the Mailèd Fist’s rebukeAnd the Huns’ red carnival.When London burns, our Admiral HighWill drop from his pillar tall,And the Death’s Head riders trampling byWill mock him in his fall.When London burns—in a madman’s brainSuch dreams alone befall;But England flames on the land, on the main,To the Duke and the Admiral’s call.
WHEN London burns, the Iron DukeWill tremble ’neath his pall,In dread of the Mailèd Fist’s rebukeAnd the Huns’ red carnival.When London burns, our Admiral HighWill drop from his pillar tall,And the Death’s Head riders trampling byWill mock him in his fall.When London burns—in a madman’s brainSuch dreams alone befall;But England flames on the land, on the main,To the Duke and the Admiral’s call.
WHEN London burns, the Iron DukeWill tremble ’neath his pall,In dread of the Mailèd Fist’s rebukeAnd the Huns’ red carnival.
When London burns, our Admiral HighWill drop from his pillar tall,And the Death’s Head riders trampling byWill mock him in his fall.
When London burns—in a madman’s brainSuch dreams alone befall;But England flames on the land, on the main,To the Duke and the Admiral’s call.
THE day we rowed to MortlakeThe skies were all of blue;The dainty house-boats mocked us,But we didn’t care a sou;For you had a new frock, pet,And Bertha, I had you.The eve we rowed from MortlakeThe air was all a-tune.’Twas reaping time for kissesBeneath the harvest moon,And you were sweeter far, dear,Than roses plucked in June.The night we rowed from MortlakeIs far away as Spain.Brown fog is on the river,And the wind beats up for rain;But we shall row to MortlakeWhen the summer comes again.
THE day we rowed to MortlakeThe skies were all of blue;The dainty house-boats mocked us,But we didn’t care a sou;For you had a new frock, pet,And Bertha, I had you.The eve we rowed from MortlakeThe air was all a-tune.’Twas reaping time for kissesBeneath the harvest moon,And you were sweeter far, dear,Than roses plucked in June.The night we rowed from MortlakeIs far away as Spain.Brown fog is on the river,And the wind beats up for rain;But we shall row to MortlakeWhen the summer comes again.
THE day we rowed to MortlakeThe skies were all of blue;The dainty house-boats mocked us,But we didn’t care a sou;For you had a new frock, pet,And Bertha, I had you.
The eve we rowed from MortlakeThe air was all a-tune.’Twas reaping time for kissesBeneath the harvest moon,And you were sweeter far, dear,Than roses plucked in June.
The night we rowed from MortlakeIs far away as Spain.Brown fog is on the river,And the wind beats up for rain;But we shall row to MortlakeWhen the summer comes again.
THE street is dark and drear to-night,The rain comes rushing down;In gusty red the lamplight flaresWithin a nimbus brown.God pity now the homeless onesWithin the cruel town!So dense the gloom, so dark the night,So thick the driving rain,No star compassionate can viewThe city in its pain;Yet, lulled within the firelight’s glow,My vision comes again.* * *White sails across the harbour-barSpeed, speed me fast to sea.Know ye not in the Blessèd IsleMy comrades wait for me?And I would greet in old, old trystThe golden company.O’er the great waters crystallineSo speedily we sail,The red gold of the living sun,The dead moon’s silvery pale,Flash on mine eyes from hour to hourTill lo! the Isle I hail.I stand upon its shining sands,My comrades round me press.After the years of sordid care,The cark of fate’s duress,I come into my own againIn life’s young eagerness.Once more I meet the men I lovedIn the dear days long syne,The tried and chosen brotherhoodWho once were kith of mine.The oath of the old fraternityIs still a pledge divine.We talk again of ardent days,The glow of sparkling nights,Tourney of wits in revelryAnd jousts of smiling fights,Grasping with grave-eyed happinessThe zest of past delights.Night blooms with many a myriad starsOver the Blessèd Isle;The haunting scent of its orange-grovesExhales for mile on mile;The sapphired pearl of its sleeping bayIs rippled with a smile.The feast is laid in the banquet-hall,The guests are summoned there,Joyous but low the minstrelsyThrills in the rose-tinged air;The wine is red as the Flame of Life,In the days when the world was fair.With laughter and song we find againThe heart of the Secret Rose:We rise to the toast of the Brotherhood:The Gates of Pearl unclose.* * *The fire is out, the dawn has come,How chill the morning blows!
THE street is dark and drear to-night,The rain comes rushing down;In gusty red the lamplight flaresWithin a nimbus brown.God pity now the homeless onesWithin the cruel town!So dense the gloom, so dark the night,So thick the driving rain,No star compassionate can viewThe city in its pain;Yet, lulled within the firelight’s glow,My vision comes again.* * *White sails across the harbour-barSpeed, speed me fast to sea.Know ye not in the Blessèd IsleMy comrades wait for me?And I would greet in old, old trystThe golden company.O’er the great waters crystallineSo speedily we sail,The red gold of the living sun,The dead moon’s silvery pale,Flash on mine eyes from hour to hourTill lo! the Isle I hail.I stand upon its shining sands,My comrades round me press.After the years of sordid care,The cark of fate’s duress,I come into my own againIn life’s young eagerness.Once more I meet the men I lovedIn the dear days long syne,The tried and chosen brotherhoodWho once were kith of mine.The oath of the old fraternityIs still a pledge divine.We talk again of ardent days,The glow of sparkling nights,Tourney of wits in revelryAnd jousts of smiling fights,Grasping with grave-eyed happinessThe zest of past delights.Night blooms with many a myriad starsOver the Blessèd Isle;The haunting scent of its orange-grovesExhales for mile on mile;The sapphired pearl of its sleeping bayIs rippled with a smile.The feast is laid in the banquet-hall,The guests are summoned there,Joyous but low the minstrelsyThrills in the rose-tinged air;The wine is red as the Flame of Life,In the days when the world was fair.With laughter and song we find againThe heart of the Secret Rose:We rise to the toast of the Brotherhood:The Gates of Pearl unclose.* * *The fire is out, the dawn has come,How chill the morning blows!
THE street is dark and drear to-night,The rain comes rushing down;In gusty red the lamplight flaresWithin a nimbus brown.God pity now the homeless onesWithin the cruel town!
So dense the gloom, so dark the night,So thick the driving rain,No star compassionate can viewThe city in its pain;Yet, lulled within the firelight’s glow,My vision comes again.
* * *
White sails across the harbour-barSpeed, speed me fast to sea.Know ye not in the Blessèd IsleMy comrades wait for me?And I would greet in old, old trystThe golden company.
O’er the great waters crystallineSo speedily we sail,The red gold of the living sun,The dead moon’s silvery pale,Flash on mine eyes from hour to hourTill lo! the Isle I hail.
I stand upon its shining sands,My comrades round me press.After the years of sordid care,The cark of fate’s duress,I come into my own againIn life’s young eagerness.
Once more I meet the men I lovedIn the dear days long syne,The tried and chosen brotherhoodWho once were kith of mine.The oath of the old fraternityIs still a pledge divine.
We talk again of ardent days,The glow of sparkling nights,Tourney of wits in revelryAnd jousts of smiling fights,Grasping with grave-eyed happinessThe zest of past delights.
Night blooms with many a myriad starsOver the Blessèd Isle;The haunting scent of its orange-grovesExhales for mile on mile;The sapphired pearl of its sleeping bayIs rippled with a smile.
The feast is laid in the banquet-hall,The guests are summoned there,Joyous but low the minstrelsyThrills in the rose-tinged air;The wine is red as the Flame of Life,In the days when the world was fair.
With laughter and song we find againThe heart of the Secret Rose:We rise to the toast of the Brotherhood:The Gates of Pearl unclose.
* * *
The fire is out, the dawn has come,How chill the morning blows!
IN Egypt where the strange kings lieThe queens of love are queens no more;Old Rome has seen white Eros die;Bright Eros wings from Hellas’ shore.Lutetias’s amorists deploreHer siren voices spent and dumb;By Thames the light ones’ reign is o’er—To what complexion have they come?Salome’s dance is ended night,With all the witcheries she bore;Faustina’s laugh gives no replyTo Christian’s wail or lion’s roar.Aspasia with charms ten score,Phryne with sins a countless sum,Poor specks of dust ’neath heaven’s floor—To what complexion have they come?Naught can Du Barry’s kisses buy.The golden-lilied PompadourCan shake no kingdom with a sigh,For all the vows her lovers swore.These ate kings’ bread in days of yore;To-day they crave not bite nor crumb,With frolic Nell and Mistress Shore—To what complexion have they come?
IN Egypt where the strange kings lieThe queens of love are queens no more;Old Rome has seen white Eros die;Bright Eros wings from Hellas’ shore.Lutetias’s amorists deploreHer siren voices spent and dumb;By Thames the light ones’ reign is o’er—To what complexion have they come?Salome’s dance is ended night,With all the witcheries she bore;Faustina’s laugh gives no replyTo Christian’s wail or lion’s roar.Aspasia with charms ten score,Phryne with sins a countless sum,Poor specks of dust ’neath heaven’s floor—To what complexion have they come?Naught can Du Barry’s kisses buy.The golden-lilied PompadourCan shake no kingdom with a sigh,For all the vows her lovers swore.These ate kings’ bread in days of yore;To-day they crave not bite nor crumb,With frolic Nell and Mistress Shore—To what complexion have they come?
IN Egypt where the strange kings lieThe queens of love are queens no more;Old Rome has seen white Eros die;Bright Eros wings from Hellas’ shore.Lutetias’s amorists deploreHer siren voices spent and dumb;By Thames the light ones’ reign is o’er—To what complexion have they come?
Salome’s dance is ended night,With all the witcheries she bore;Faustina’s laugh gives no replyTo Christian’s wail or lion’s roar.Aspasia with charms ten score,Phryne with sins a countless sum,Poor specks of dust ’neath heaven’s floor—To what complexion have they come?
Naught can Du Barry’s kisses buy.The golden-lilied PompadourCan shake no kingdom with a sigh,For all the vows her lovers swore.These ate kings’ bread in days of yore;To-day they crave not bite nor crumb,With frolic Nell and Mistress Shore—To what complexion have they come?
L’Envoi
LADIES, of frail degree and high,When Mors turns down a callous thumb,Sanscharm,sansbloom,sanslustrous eye—Tothiscomplexion must ye come.
LADIES, of frail degree and high,When Mors turns down a callous thumb,Sanscharm,sansbloom,sanslustrous eye—Tothiscomplexion must ye come.
LADIES, of frail degree and high,When Mors turns down a callous thumb,Sanscharm,sansbloom,sanslustrous eye—Tothiscomplexion must ye come.
To face p. 57.
ADOWN the silent streetWhere burns no vigil light,With thunder of flying feetA horseman rides in the night.A rider, whip in hand,Beats on a sleeper’s door,Warning, perchance command?But this, and nothing more.A dreamer awakes within,Chilled with a vague affright.Through a world of Fear and SinA horseman rides in the night.
ADOWN the silent streetWhere burns no vigil light,With thunder of flying feetA horseman rides in the night.A rider, whip in hand,Beats on a sleeper’s door,Warning, perchance command?But this, and nothing more.A dreamer awakes within,Chilled with a vague affright.Through a world of Fear and SinA horseman rides in the night.
ADOWN the silent streetWhere burns no vigil light,With thunder of flying feetA horseman rides in the night.
A rider, whip in hand,Beats on a sleeper’s door,Warning, perchance command?But this, and nothing more.
A dreamer awakes within,Chilled with a vague affright.Through a world of Fear and SinA horseman rides in the night.