A BALLADE OF DEATH.

When Venus saw Ascanius sleepOn sweet Cythera's snow-white rosesHis face like Adon's made her weep,And long to kiss him where he dozes;But fearing to disturb the boy,She kissed the pallid blooms instead,Which blushed and kept their blush for joy,When Venus kissed white roses red.Straight of these roses she did reapSufficient store of pleasant posies,And coming from Cythera's steepWhere every fragrant flower that grows is,She tossed them for the winds to toyAnd frolic with till they were dead.Heaven taught the earth a fair employWhen Venus kissed white roses red.For each red rose the symbol deepIn its sad, happy heart enclosesOf kisses making love's heart leap,And every summer wind that blows isA prayer that ladies be not coyOf kisses ere brief life be sped.There gleamed more gold in earth's alloyWhen Venus kissed white roses red.

Straight of these roses she did reapSufficient store of pleasant posies,And coming from Cythera's steepWhere every fragrant flower that grows is,She tossed them for the winds to toyAnd frolic with till they were dead.Heaven taught the earth a fair employWhen Venus kissed white roses red.

For each red rose the symbol deepIn its sad, happy heart enclosesOf kisses making love's heart leap,And every summer wind that blows isA prayer that ladies be not coyOf kisses ere brief life be sped.There gleamed more gold in earth's alloyWhen Venus kissed white roses red.

Envoy.

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

Justin Huntly McCarthy.

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

For the good that the future may bring,We strive to exist to-day.With the veering vane we swing,When fate sweeps fortune away:Seldom will misery slay;And ever will hope allure;Yet one thing endureth for aye,For death there is no cure!

Though life be an exquisite thing,Death shatters the curious clay;Though in frenzy we cry and we cling,There is none who can save us that day:So life is devoured as a prey,And in darkness for aye will immure;And silence for ever hath sway:For death there is no cure!

Envoi.

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

Hunter MacCulloch.

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

In time his tastes more dainty are,And delicate. Become a beau,From out the country of the CzarHe brings his cigarettes, and lo!He sips the vintage of Bordeaux.Thus keener relish shall succeedThe baser liking we outgrow:—A slave is each man to the weed.

When age and his own lucky starTo him perfected wisdom show,The schooner glides across the bar,And beer for him shall freely flow,A pipe with genial warmth shall glow;To which he turns in direst need,To seek in smoke surcease of woe:—A slave is each man to the weed.

Envoi.

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

Brander Matthews.

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

For want of plays the stage is sighing,Such is the song the wide world through:The native dramatist is crying—"Behold the comedies I brew!Behold my dramas not a few!On German farces I can prey,And English novels I can hew;Iam the man to write a play!"

There is, indeed, no use denyingThat fashion's turned from old to new:The native dramatist is crying—"Molière, good-bye! Shakespeare adieu!I do not think so much of you.Although not bad, you've had your day,And for the present you won't do.I am the man to write a play!"

Envoi.

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

Brander Matthews.

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

Along the shadeless ways you greetNo damsel fair, no buckramed beau—The solitude is ruled by heat—A sultry, sullen, scorching woe.The blazing sun rides high and slow,As if with laziness to teaseThe melting, sweltering world below—O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

The laggard steed with aching feetMust stagger on; for him is noSurcease of labour, no retreatBefore his stint is done. And soMust man still labour on, althoughHe hopeless longs to take his ease,Or to the ocean fain would go—O for a breath of the salt sea-breeze!

Envoi.

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

Brander Matthews.

(Ballade à double refrain.)

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

As though exulting in its power,The storm beats down with steady strain;Upon the ivy of the towerI hear the pattering of the rain;It swiftly sweeps across the plain.—And then I see the sky refining,And molten with a golden stain.Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

Beneath the storm the cattle cower;It beats upon the growing grain,And as it breaks both bud and flower,I hear the pattering of the rain,—From where the clouds too long have lainThey turn, and show a silver lining,A splendid glory comes again.Behold! the gentle sun is shining!

Envoy.

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

Brander Matthews.

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

She does not care for meditation;Within her bonnet are no bees;She has a gentle animation,She joins in singing simple glees.She tries no trills, no rivalriesWith Lucca (now Baronin Räden),With Nilsson or with Gerster; she'sA frank and free young Yankee maiden.

I'm blessed above the whole creation,Far, far, above all other he's;I ask you for congratulationOn this the best of jubilees:I go with her across the seasUnto what Poe would call an Aiden,—I hope no serpent's there to teaseA frank and free young Yankee maiden.

Envoy.

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

Brander Matthews.

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

Is it not well with him who diesFlushed amid smoke and flash of steel;Stabbed by some traitor's swift surprise;Stricken by doom no signs reveal?Ruin and wrong can no more dealBlows beneath which (man's record saith)Men ask deliverance, while they reel,From battle, murder and sudden death!

Can one so dead be harmed by lies,Tortured by wounds smiles ill conceal?Can love bring loss, or desire deviseVain visions, or grim fate's iron heelBrand both on brow and soul its seal,Till, wretched as He of Nazareth,Man loathes the life he yet prays to stealFrom battle, murder and sudden death?

Envoi.

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

John Moran.

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

Wearily wander by dale and duneFootsteps fettered with clanking chain—Free they were in the days of June,Free they never can be again:Fetters of age, and fetters of pain,Joys that fly, and sorrows that tarry—Youth is over, and hopes were vainUnder the wintry skies to marry.

Now we chant but a desolate rune—Oh to be young and alive again!But never December turns to June,And length of living is length of pain:Winds in the nestless trees complain,Snows of winter about us tarry,And never the birds come back againUnder the wintry skies to marry.

Envoi.

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

Louise Chandler Moulton.

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

She loves a rabbit in a hutch(A fat Aquinas in his cell),She loves an aged cat, whose clutchAt breakfast-time exerts a spell,A most ungracious Florizel.In fact it's easy to be seen,Were she at all averse to tell,My lady-love is just thirteen.

Although she reads the Higher Dutch,On culture's peaks apart to dwell,She feigns not; nor of things 'as such'Does she discourse, nor parallelDante and Dante Gabriel;Yet she has 'views' advanced and keen,On chocolate and caramel,—My lady-love is just thirteen.

Envoy.

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

J. B. B. Nichols.

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

So soft, so strange the light that linedThe ferny moors, the forest maze,Till all the west was smitten blindWith glamour of the golden haze;What time we watch'd the stag upraiseHis lordly brow by linn and lea,To fright the morris of the faysAthwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

O'er the dim passes flung behindThe dying daylight all ablaze,About those dainty tresses twinedOne aureole of dreamy rays,And many a winged lamp that straysDarkling his weird in heaven to dree,Lit the rare eyne downdrops to gazeAthwart the slumberous Severn Sea.

Envoy.

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

F. S. P.

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

Where are the ladies fair and high—Marie and Alice and Maud and MayAnd merry Madge with the laughing eye—And all the gallants of yesterdayThat held us merry—ah, where are they?Under the mould we must look to findSome; and the others are worn and grey.All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

I know of nothing that lasts, not I,Save a heart that is true to its love alway—A love that is won with tear and sighAnd never changes or fades away,In a breast that is oftener sad than gay;A tender look and a constant mind—These are the only things that stay:All else flits past on the wings of the wind.

Envoy.

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

John Payne.

The frost hath spread a shining netWhere late the autumn roses blew,On lake and stream a seal is setWhere floating lilies charmed the view;So silently the wonder grewBeneath pale Dian's mystic light,I know my fancies whisper true,The Pixies are abroad to-night.When at the midnight chime are metTogether elves of every hue,I trow the gazer will regretThat peers upon their retinue;For limb awry and eye askewHave oft proclaimed a fairy's spite-Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue,The Pixies are abroad to-night.'Tis said their forms are tiny, yetAll human ills they can subdue,Or with a wand or amuletCan win a maiden's heart for you;And many a blessing know to strewTo make the way to wedlock bright;Give honour to the dainty crew,The Pixies are abroad to-night.

When at the midnight chime are metTogether elves of every hue,I trow the gazer will regretThat peers upon their retinue;For limb awry and eye askewHave oft proclaimed a fairy's spite-Peep slyly, gallants, lest ye rue,The Pixies are abroad to-night.

'Tis said their forms are tiny, yetAll human ills they can subdue,Or with a wand or amuletCan win a maiden's heart for you;And many a blessing know to strewTo make the way to wedlock bright;Give honour to the dainty crew,The Pixies are abroad to-night.

Envoy.

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

Samuel Minturn Peck.

Soft on the lake's soft bosom we twainFloat in the haze of a dim delight,While the wavelets cradle the sleepless brain,And the eyes are glad of the lessening light,And the east with a fading glory is bright—The lingering smile of a sun that is set,—And the earth in its tender sorrow is dight,And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.Oh, the mellow beam of the suns that wane,Oh the joys, ah me! that are taking flight,Oh, the sting of a rapture too near to pain,And of love that loveth in death's despite.But the hour is ours, and its beauty's mightSubdues our souls to a still regret,While the Blumlis-alp unveils to the night,And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.Now we set our prow to the land again,And our backs to those splendours ghostly white,But a mirrored star with a watery trainWe hold in our wake as a golden kite;When we near the shore with its darkening height,And its darker shade on the waters set,Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight,And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Oh, the mellow beam of the suns that wane,Oh the joys, ah me! that are taking flight,Oh, the sting of a rapture too near to pain,And of love that loveth in death's despite.But the hour is ours, and its beauty's mightSubdues our souls to a still regret,While the Blumlis-alp unveils to the night,And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Now we set our prow to the land again,And our backs to those splendours ghostly white,But a mirrored star with a watery trainWe hold in our wake as a golden kite;When we near the shore with its darkening height,And its darker shade on the waters set,Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight,And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Envoy.

From the jewelled circles where I inditeThis song which my faithless tears make wet,We trail the light till its gemmed rings smiteThe shadow—that falleth! and spares us yet.

Emily Pfeiffer.

Another new gown, as I declare!How many more is it going to be?And your forehead all hid in a cloud of hair—'Tis nothing but folly, that I can see!The maidens of nowaday make too free;To right and to left is the money flung;Weused to dress as became our degree—But things have altered since I was young.Stuff, in my time, was made to wear;Gowns we had never but two or three;Did we fancy them spoilt, if they chanced to tear?And shrink from a patch, or a darn? not we!For pleasure, a gossiping dish of tea,Or a mushroom hunt, while the dew yet hung,And no need, next day, for the doctor's fee—But things have altered since I was young.The yellow gig, and a drive to the fair;A keepsake bought in a booth on the lea;A sixpence, perhaps, to break and share—That's how your grandfather courted me.Did your grandmother blush, do you think—not she!When he found her, the churn and the pails among?Or your grandfather like her the less? not he!But things have altered since I was young.

Stuff, in my time, was made to wear;Gowns we had never but two or three;Did we fancy them spoilt, if they chanced to tear?And shrink from a patch, or a darn? not we!For pleasure, a gossiping dish of tea,Or a mushroom hunt, while the dew yet hung,And no need, next day, for the doctor's fee—But things have altered since I was young.

The yellow gig, and a drive to the fair;A keepsake bought in a booth on the lea;A sixpence, perhaps, to break and share—That's how your grandfather courted me.Did your grandmother blush, do you think—not she!When he found her, the churn and the pails among?Or your grandfather like her the less? not he!But things have altered since I was young.

Envoi.

Child! you pout, and you urge your plea—Better it were that you held your tongue!Maids should learn at their elders' knee—But things have altered since I was young.

May Probyn.

From gab of jay and chatter of crakeThe dusk wood covered me utterly.And here the tongue of the thrush was awake.Flame floods out of the low bright skyLighted the gloom with gold-brown dye,Before dark; and a manifold chorussingArose of thrushes remote and nigh,—For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.Midmost a close green covert of brakeA brown bird listening silentlySat; and I thought—"She grieves for the sakeOf Itylus,—for the stains that lieIn her heritage of sad memory."But the thrushes were hushed at evening.Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,—For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.And I said—"The thought of the thrushes will shakeWith rapture remembered her heart; and her shyTongue of the dear times dead will takeTo make her a living song, when sighThe soft night winds disburthened by.Hark now!" for the upraised quivering wing,The throat exultant, I could descry,—For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

Midmost a close green covert of brakeA brown bird listening silentlySat; and I thought—"She grieves for the sakeOf Itylus,—for the stains that lieIn her heritage of sad memory."But the thrushes were hushed at evening.Then I waited to hear the brown bird try,—For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

And I said—"The thought of the thrushes will shakeWith rapture remembered her heart; and her shyTongue of the dear times dead will takeTo make her a living song, when sighThe soft night winds disburthened by.Hark now!" for the upraised quivering wing,The throat exultant, I could descry,—For the tongue of the singer needs must sing.

L'Envoi.

But the bird dropped dead with only a cry:I found its tongue was withered, poor thing!Then I no whit wondered, for well knew IThat the heart of the singer will break or sing.

Charles G. D. Roberts.

The loud black flight of the storm divergesOver a spot in the loud mouthed main,Where, crowned with summer and sun, emergesAn isle unbeaten of wind or rain.And here, of its sweet queen grown full fain,By whose kisses the whole broad earth seems poor,Tarries the wave-worn prince, Troy's bane,In the green Ogygian Isle secure.To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges.She gives him all things, counting it gain.Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges,How could Fate dissever these twain?But him no loves nor delights retain;New knowledge, new lands, new loves allure;Forgotten the perils, and toils, and pain,In the green Ogygian Isle secure.So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urgesHis weak skiff over the wind-vext plain,Till the grey of the sky in the grey sea merges,And nights reel round, and waver and wane.He sits once more in his own domain.No more the remote sea-walls immure.-But ah, for the love he shall clasp not againIn the green Ogygian Isle secure.

To her voice our sweetest songs are dirges.She gives him all things, counting it gain.Ringed with the rocks and ancient surges,How could Fate dissever these twain?But him no loves nor delights retain;New knowledge, new lands, new loves allure;Forgotten the perils, and toils, and pain,In the green Ogygian Isle secure.

So he spurns her kisses and gifts, and urgesHis weak skiff over the wind-vext plain,Till the grey of the sky in the grey sea merges,And nights reel round, and waver and wane.He sits once more in his own domain.No more the remote sea-walls immure.-But ah, for the love he shall clasp not againIn the green Ogygian Isle secure.

L'Envoi.

Princes, and ye whose delights remain,To the one good gift of the gods hold sure,Lest ye, too, mourn, in vain, in vain,Your green Ogygian Isle secure.

Charles G. D. Roberts.

To V. L.

Forgotten seers of lost reputeThat haunt the banks of Acheron,Where have you dropped the broken luteYou played in Troy or Calydon?O ye that sang in BabylonBy foreign willows cold and grey,Fall'n are the harps ye hanged thereon,Dead are the tunes of yesterday!De Coucy, is your music mute,The quaint old plain-chant woe-begoneThat served so many a lover's suit?Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron!Then, sweet De Caurroy, try uponYour virginals a virelay;Or play Orlando, one pavonne—Dead are the tunes of yesterday!But ye whose praises none refute,Who have the immortal laurel won;Trill me your quavering close acute,Astorga, dear unhappy Don!One air, Galuppi! Sarti oneSo many fingers used to play!-Dead as the ladies of Villon,Dead are the tunes of yesterday!

De Coucy, is your music mute,The quaint old plain-chant woe-begoneThat served so many a lover's suit?Oh, dead as Adam or Guédron!Then, sweet De Caurroy, try uponYour virginals a virelay;Or play Orlando, one pavonne—Dead are the tunes of yesterday!

But ye whose praises none refute,Who have the immortal laurel won;Trill me your quavering close acute,Astorga, dear unhappy Don!One air, Galuppi! Sarti oneSo many fingers used to play!-Dead as the ladies of Villon,Dead are the tunes of yesterday!

Envoy.

Vernon, in vain you stoop to conThe slender, faded notes to-day-The Soul that dwelt in them is gone:Dead are the tunes of yesterday!

A. Mary F. Robinson.

With plash of the light oars swiftly plying,The sharp prow furrows the watery way;The ripples' reach as the bank is dying,And soft shades slender, and long lights playIn the still dead heat of the drowsy day,As on I sweep with the stream that flowsBy sleeping lilies that lie astrayIn the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.There ever a whispering wind goes sighing,Filled with the scent of the new-mown hay,Over the flower hedge peering and prying,Wooing the rose as with words that pray;And the waves from the broad bright river baySlide through clear channels to dream and doze,Or rise in a fountain's silver sprayIn the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.The sweet white rose with the red rose dying,Blooms where the summer follows the May,Till the streams be hid by the lost leaves lying,That autumn shakes where the lilies lay.But now all bowers and beds are gayAnd no rain ruffles the flower that blows,And still on the water soft dreams stayIn the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

There ever a whispering wind goes sighing,Filled with the scent of the new-mown hay,Over the flower hedge peering and prying,Wooing the rose as with words that pray;And the waves from the broad bright river baySlide through clear channels to dream and doze,Or rise in a fountain's silver sprayIn the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

The sweet white rose with the red rose dying,Blooms where the summer follows the May,Till the streams be hid by the lost leaves lying,That autumn shakes where the lilies lay.But now all bowers and beds are gayAnd no rain ruffles the flower that blows,And still on the water soft dreams stayIn the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

Envoi.

Before the blue of the sky grows greyAnd the frayed leaves fall from the faded rose,Love's lips shall sing what the day-dreams sayIn the Garden of Grace whose name none knows.

Arthur Reed Ropes.

Though through the cloudy ranks of mornThe Sun-god sends no golden ray,Though swift along the air are borneThe feathery shafts that none may stay;Though wrathful storm-blasts pangless slay,And wan the patient plodder ruesHis lonely lot each dagging day-He's gay who courts the merry muse!When down the fields the tender cornUpsprings, and sees blue skies in May,When budding blooms the boughs adorn,And flowers bespangle sprig and spray,When torrid summer's regnant swayHas dimmed the foliage's fairest hues,And bronzèd reapers house the hay—He's gay who courts the merry muse!And when the hollow harvest hornO'erflows with autumn's rich display,When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn,Is piled each lofty granary,When, like dark moons amid the grayOf cornfields, where the red ear woos,The pumpkins lie in long array-He's gay who courts the merry muse!

When down the fields the tender cornUpsprings, and sees blue skies in May,When budding blooms the boughs adorn,And flowers bespangle sprig and spray,When torrid summer's regnant swayHas dimmed the foliage's fairest hues,And bronzèd reapers house the hay—He's gay who courts the merry muse!

And when the hollow harvest hornO'erflows with autumn's rich display,When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn,Is piled each lofty granary,When, like dark moons amid the grayOf cornfields, where the red ear woos,The pumpkins lie in long array-He's gay who courts the merry muse!

Envoy.

Prince, e'en though Fortune go astrayAnd lost is wealth's bright-shining cruse,Though dark and drear the weary way-He's gay who courts the merry muse.

Clinton Scollard.

Theocritus, who boreThe lyre where sleek herds grazeOn the Sicilian shore,(There yet the shepherd strays)—And Horace, crowned with bays,Who dwelt by Tiber's flow,Sleep through the silent days—For God will have it so!The bard, whose requiem o'erAnd o'er the sad sea plays,Who sang of classic lore,Of Mab, the queen of fays—And Keats, fair Adonais,The child of song and woe,No longer thread life's maze—For God will have it so!Your voices, sweet of yore,With honied word and phrase,Are heard by men no more,They list to other lays—New poets now have praise,But all in turn must goTo follow in your ways—For God will have it so!

The bard, whose requiem o'erAnd o'er the sad sea plays,Who sang of classic lore,Of Mab, the queen of fays—And Keats, fair Adonais,The child of song and woe,No longer thread life's maze—For God will have it so!

Your voices, sweet of yore,With honied word and phrase,Are heard by men no more,They list to other lays—New poets now have praise,But all in turn must goTo follow in your ways—For God will have it so!

Envoy.

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