BALLADE.—LILITH.

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

John Cameron Grant.

Lady, around thy throatGleameth the one gold hair;And none that hath taken noteOf the first that he looked on fair,The moment his boyish airWas moved by that mystic breeze,But hath felt the spell of thy presence there,Lilith, the first Love sees!We sail in an open boat,'Mid breakers that rage and tear,And ply the oars by roteAs over the waves we fare,But never a moment dareGaze down at the Form by our knees,For her eyes that thro' Self and thro' Soul do stare,Lilith, the first Love sees!Circle of wall and moat,Vain as the thought to wearCunning of knightly coatSteely and tempered rare,Against her mute despair;For none there is who freesHis soul from her spell, who hath all in care,Lilith, the first Love sees!

We sail in an open boat,'Mid breakers that rage and tear,And ply the oars by roteAs over the waves we fare,But never a moment dareGaze down at the Form by our knees,For her eyes that thro' Self and thro' Soul do stare,Lilith, the first Love sees!

Circle of wall and moat,Vain as the thought to wearCunning of knightly coatSteely and tempered rare,Against her mute despair;For none there is who freesHis soul from her spell, who hath all in care,Lilith, the first Love sees!

L' Envoi.

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

John Cameron Grant.

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

The solemn fiddlers touch their kits;The twinkling clavichord o'erflowsWith contrapuntal quirks and hits;And, with all measure and repose,Through figures grave as royal shows,With noble airs and pirouettes,They move, to rhythmsHandelknows,In Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

O Fans and Swords, O Sacques and Mits,That was the better part you chose!You know not how those gamesome chitsWaltz, Polka, and Schottische arose,Or how Quadrille—a kind of dozeIn time and tune—the dance besets;You aired your fashion till the closeIn Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

Envoy.

Muse of the many-twinkling hose,Terpsichore, O teach your petsThe charm that shines, the grace that glowsIn Gigues, Gavottes, and Minuets.

W. E. Henley.

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

Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed?The plumes, the armours—friend and foe?The cloth of gold, the rare brocade,The mantles glittering to and fro?The pomp, the pride, the royal show?The cries of war and festival?The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow?—Into the night go one and all.

The curtain falls, the play is played:The Beggar packs beside the Beau;The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid;The Thunder huddles with the Snow.Where are the revellers high and low?The clashing swords? The lover's call?The dancers gleaming row on row?—Into the night go one and all.

Envoy.

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

W. E. Henley.

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

Lights and shadows in the limeMeet in exquisite disarray.Hark! the rich recurrent rhymeOf the blackbird's roundelay!Where he carols, frank and gay,Fancy no more glooms or proses;Joyously she flits awayWith Sir Love among the roses.

O the cool sea's slumbrous chime!O the links that beach the bay,Tricked with meadow-sweet and thyme,Where the brown bees murmur and stray!Lush the hedgerows, ripe the hay!Many a maiden, binding posies,Finds herself at Yea-and-NayWith Sir Love among the roses.

Envoi.

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

W. E. Henley.

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

Sentiment hallows the vowels of Delia;Sweet simplicity breathes from Rose;Courtly memories glitter in Celia;Rosalind savours of quips and hose,Araminta of wits and beaux,Prue of puddings, and CoralieAll of sawdust and spangled shows;Anna's the name of names for me.

Fie upon Caroline, Madge, Amelia—These I reckon the essence of prose!—Cavalier Katharine, cold Cornelia,Portia's masterful Roman nose,Maud's magnificence, Totty's toes,Poll and Bet with their twang of the sea,Nell's impertinence, Pamela's woes!Anna's the name of names for me.

Envoy.

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

W. E. Henley.

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

Rains are singing, clouds are flowing,Ocean thunders, croons the rill,And the West his clarion's blowing,And the sparrow tunes his quill,And the thrush is fluting shrill,And the skylark's on the wing,And the merles their hautboys fill—'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Lambs are bleating, steers are lowing,Brisk and rhythmic clacks the mill.Kapellmeister April, glowingAnd superb with glee and skill,Comes, his orchestra to drillIn a music that will ringTill the grey world yearn and thrill.'Tis the symphony of Spring!

Envoy.

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

W. E. Henley.

(Double refrain.)

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

The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams,The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams-Midsummer days! midsummer days!In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,All secret shadows and mystic lights,Late lovers murmurous linger and gaze-Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

There's a music of bells from the trampling teams,Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams—Midsummer days! midsummer days!A soul from the honeysuckle strays,And the nightingale as from prophet heights,Sings to the Earth of her million Mays-Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!

Envoy.

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

W. E. Henley.

(Double refrain.)

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

Bells that clash in a gorgeous chime,Swords that clatter in outsets tall,The words that ring and the fames that climb-Youth is the sign of them, one and all.Old hymnals prone in a dusty stall,A bald blind bird in a crazy cage,The scene of a faded festival-These are a type of the world of Age.

Hours that strut as the heirs of time,Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,Songs where the singers their souls sublime-Youth is the sign of them, one and all.A staff that rests in a nook of wall,A reeling battle, a rusted gage,The chant of a nearing funeral-These are a type of the world of Age.

Envoy.

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

W. E. Henley.

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

Beneath the hedge with May-bloom whiteAn old man and a child, whose feetIn cadence move to love's fond might;In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;Like op'ning flowers in morn's soft heat.A youth and maid whose beaming eyesFlash forth the thought their hearts secrete,'Where true love dwells is Paradise.'

Within the minster's fane the riteIs breathed; down-pours His own to meetThe glory of the Infinite:In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;Faith falls before the mercy-seat,And knows, though veiled to mortal eyes,There, there in loveliness complete,Where True Love dwells is Paradise.

Past sounding brass are love's tones sweet,Than gold or gems more rare its price;In its warm gleam the shadows fleet;Where true love dwells is Paradise.

W. H. Jewitt.

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

These wretched folk wave overhead,With such strange thoughts as none may say;A moment still, then sudden sped,They swing in a ring and waste away.The morning smites them with her ray;They toss with every breeze that blows,They dance where fires of dawning play:This is King Louis' orchard close.

All hanged and dead, they've summoned(With Hell to aid that hears them pray)New legions of an army dread,Now down the blue sky flames the day;The dew dries off; the foul arrayOf obscene ravens gathers and goes,With wings that flaps and beaks that flay:This is King Louis' orchard close.

Envoi.

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

Andrew Lang.

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

The spring-time raised her drowsy head,Besprent with drifted snow,"I'll send an April Day," she said,"To lands of wintry woe."He came; wan winter's overthrowWith showers that sing and shinePied daisies round your path to strow,To be your Valentine.

Where sands of Egypt swart and red'Neath suns Egyptian glow,In places of the princely deadBy the Nile's overflow,The swallow preened her wings to go,And for the North did pine,And fain would brave the frost, her foe,To be your Valentine.

Envoy.

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even soTheir various voice combine,But that they crave on me bestowTo be your Valentine.

Andrew Lang.

(To J. A. Farrer.)

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

He worshipp'd the rain and the breeze,He worshipped the river that flows,And the Dawn, and the Moon, and the trees,And bogies, and serpents, and crows;He buried his dead with their toesTucked up, an original plan,Till their knees came right under their nose,'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

His communal wives, at his ease,He would curb with occasional blows;Or his State had a queen, like the bees(As another philosopher trows):When he spoke it was never in prose,But he sang in a strain that would scan,For (to doubt it, perchance, were morose)'Twas the manner of Primitive Man!

Envoy.

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

Andrew Lang.

(To Constance Arkcoll.)

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

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep,Mingles with musical plash of the weir,Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,Then comes in the sweet o' the year!And better a crust and a beaker of beer,With rose-hung hedges on either hand,Than a palace in town and a prince's cheer,When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When big trout late in the twilight leap,When cuckoo clamoureth far and near,When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,Then comes in the sweet o' the year!And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,Where kine knee-deep in the water stand,On a Highland loch, or a Lowland mere,When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand.

Envoi.

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

Andrew Lang.

"Heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly."

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

Though some are dead and some are fledTo lands of summer over sea,The holly berry keeps his red,The merry children keep their glee;They hoard with artless secresy,This gift for Maude, and that for Molly,And Santa Claus he turns the keyOn Christmas Eve,Heigh-ho, the Holly!

Amid the snow the birds are fed,The snow lies deep on lawn and lea,The skies are shining overhead,The robin's tame that was so free.Far North, at home, the "barley bree"They brew; they give the hour to folly.How "Rab and Allen cam' to prie"They sing; we singHeigh-ho, the Holly!

Envoi.

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

Andrew Lang.

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

Oh! foolish youth, untimely wise!Oh! phantoms of the sickly mind!What? not content with seas and skies,With rainy clouds and southern wind,With common cares and faces kind,With pains and joys each morning brought?Ah, old and worn, and tired we findLife's more amusing than we thought!

Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies,"To mourn for youth we're not inclined;We set our souls on salmon-flies,We whistle where we once repined.Confound the woes of human-kind!By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot;Who hum, contented or resigned,"Life's more amusing than we thought!"

Envoy.

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

Andrew Lang.

(After Theodore de Banville.)

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

Like Otus some, with giant rage,But scarcely with a giant's might,Ossa on Pelion engageTo pile, and scale Parnassus' height!And some, with subtle nets and slight,Entangle rhymes exceeding vile,[8]And wond'rous adjectives unite—The master's yonder in the Isle!

Alas, the Muse they cannot cageThese poets in a sorry plight!Vain is the weary war they wage,In vain they curse the Critic's spite!While grammar some neglect outright,While others polish with the file,The Fates contrive their toil to blight—The master's yonder in the Isle!

Envoy.

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

Andrew Lang.

[8]For example 'dawning' and 'warning.'

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

Aye,wemust dwindle and decrease,Such fates the ruthless years unfold;And yet we shall not wholly cease,We shall not perish unconsoled;Nay, still shall Freedom keep her holdWithin the sea's inviolate fosse,And boast her sons of English mould,Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

All empires tumble—Rome and Greece—Their swords are rust, their altars cold!For us, the Children of the Seas,Who ruled where'er the waves have rolled,For us, in Fortune's books enscrolled,I read no runes of hopeless loss;Nor—whileyelast—our knell is tolled,Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

Envoy.

Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold,When o'er thy grave has grown the moss,StillRule Australiashall be trolledIn Islands of the Southern Cross!

Andrew Lang.

(To M. C.)

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

Ah! me for a breath of those morning hoursWhen Alice and I went awanderingThrough the shining fields, and it still was oursTo kiss and to feel we were shuddering—Ah! me, when a kiss was a holy thing.—How sweet were a smile from Maud, and oh!With Phyllis once more to be whispering.—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

But it cannot be that old Time devoursSuch loves as was Annie's and mine we sing,And surely beneficent heavenly powersSave Muriel's beauty from perishing;And if in some golden eveningTo a quaint old garden I chance to go,Shall Marion no more by the wicket sing?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

In these lives of ours do the new years bringOld loves as old flowers again to blow?Or do new lips kiss and new bosoms cling?—Ah! lost are the loves of the long ago.

R. Le Gallienne.

O Love, whom I have never seen,Yet ever hope to see;The memory that might have beenThe hope that yet may be;The passion that persistentlyMakes all my pulses beatWith unassuaged desire that weSome day may come to meet:This August night outspread serene,The scent of flower and tree,The fall of water that unseenMoans on incessantly,That line of fire, where breaks the seaIn ripples at my feet;What mean they all, if not that weSome day may come to meet?About your window bowered in greenThe night wind wanders free,While out into the night you lean,And dream, but not of me,As now I dream of you who fleeBefore my dream completeThe shadow of the day when weSome day may come to meet.

This August night outspread serene,The scent of flower and tree,The fall of water that unseenMoans on incessantly,That line of fire, where breaks the seaIn ripples at my feet;What mean they all, if not that weSome day may come to meet?

About your window bowered in greenThe night wind wanders free,While out into the night you lean,And dream, but not of me,As now I dream of you who fleeBefore my dream completeThe shadow of the day when weSome day may come to meet.

Envoy.

Princess, while yet on lawn and leaThe harvest moon is sweet,Ere August die, who knows but weSome day may come to meet?

"Love in Idleness."

Where'sHeraclitusand his FluxOf Sense that never maketh stay?OrThales, with whom water sucksInto itself both Clod and Clay?Or He, who in an evil DayΝόμος and φύσις first employ'd;And of the Sum of Things doth say,They all are Atoms in the Void?Where's graveParmenides? Death plucksHis Beard: and by theVelianBaySleepsZeno;Plato'sPen their CruxOfOne and Manydoth portray.Empedoclestoo, well-away,His taste for climbing, unalloy'dBy Prudence, led him far astray:They all are Atoms in the Void.Where'sSocrateshimself, who chucksUpPhysics, makes ofSophistshay,IntoInductionbriskly tucks,AndDefinitionsframes alway?The goodAthenianshim did slay,HisDialecticthem annoy'd;And his Disciples, where are they?They all are Atoms in the Void.

Where's graveParmenides? Death plucksHis Beard: and by theVelianBaySleepsZeno;Plato'sPen their CruxOfOne and Manydoth portray.Empedoclestoo, well-away,His taste for climbing, unalloy'dBy Prudence, led him far astray:They all are Atoms in the Void.

Where'sSocrateshimself, who chucksUpPhysics, makes ofSophistshay,IntoInductionbriskly tucks,AndDefinitionsframes alway?The goodAthenianshim did slay,HisDialecticthem annoy'd;And his Disciples, where are they?They all are Atoms in the Void.

Envoy.

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

"Love in Idleness."

Τὸ ῥόδον τὸ τῶν ἐρώτων.

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