Fountains that frisk and sprinkleThe moss they overspill;Grass that the breezes crinkle;The wheel beside the mill,With its wet, weedy frill;Wind-shadows in the wheat;A water-cart in the street;The fringe of foam that girdsAn islet's ferneries;A green sky's minor thirds-To live, I think of these!Of ice and glass the tinkle,Pellucid, silver-shrill;Peaches without a wrinkle;Cherries and snow, at willFrom china bowls that fillThe senses with a sweetIncuriousness of heat;A melon's dripping sherds;Cream-clotted strawberries;Dusk dairies set with curds-To live, I think of these!Vale-lily and periwinkle;Wet stone-crop on the sill;The look of leaves a-twinkleWith windlets clear and still;The feel of a forest rillThat wimples fresh and fleetAbout one's naked feet;The muzzles of drinking herds;Lush flags and bulrushes;The chirp of rain-bound birds-To live, I think of these!
Fountains that frisk and sprinkleThe moss they overspill;Grass that the breezes crinkle;The wheel beside the mill,With its wet, weedy frill;Wind-shadows in the wheat;A water-cart in the street;The fringe of foam that girdsAn islet's ferneries;A green sky's minor thirds-To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the tinkle,Pellucid, silver-shrill;Peaches without a wrinkle;Cherries and snow, at willFrom china bowls that fillThe senses with a sweetIncuriousness of heat;A melon's dripping sherds;Cream-clotted strawberries;Dusk dairies set with curds-To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;Wet stone-crop on the sill;The look of leaves a-twinkleWith windlets clear and still;The feel of a forest rillThat wimples fresh and fleetAbout one's naked feet;The muzzles of drinking herds;Lush flags and bulrushes;The chirp of rain-bound birds-To live, I think of these!
Envoy.
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,Dawn dews and starlit seas,White marbles, whiter words—To live, I think of these!
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,Dawn dews and starlit seas,White marbles, whiter words—To live, I think of these!
W. E. Henley.
O to be somewhere by the sea,Far from the city's dust and shine,From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's shrine,From the stony street, and the grim decreeThat over an inkstand crooks my spine,From the books that are and the books to be,And the need that makes of the sacred NineA school of harridans!—sweetheart mine,O to be somewhere by the sea!Under a desk I bend my knee,Whether the morn be foul or fine.I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine,Or footing it over the sunlit lea.But I struggle and write and make no sign,For a labouring ox must earn his fee,And even a journalist has to dine;But O for a breath of the eglantine!O to be somewhere by the sea!Out on the links, where the wind blows free,And the surges gush, and the rounding brineWanders and sparkles, an air like wineFills the senses with pride and glee.In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine,A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee:Life, love, and laziness are a trineWorshipful, wonderful, dear, divine....O to be somewhere by the sea!
O to be somewhere by the sea,Far from the city's dust and shine,From Mammon's priests and from Mammon's shrine,From the stony street, and the grim decreeThat over an inkstand crooks my spine,From the books that are and the books to be,And the need that makes of the sacred NineA school of harridans!—sweetheart mine,O to be somewhere by the sea!
Under a desk I bend my knee,Whether the morn be foul or fine.I envy the tramp, in a ditch supine,Or footing it over the sunlit lea.But I struggle and write and make no sign,For a labouring ox must earn his fee,And even a journalist has to dine;But O for a breath of the eglantine!O to be somewhere by the sea!
Out on the links, where the wind blows free,And the surges gush, and the rounding brineWanders and sparkles, an air like wineFills the senses with pride and glee.In neighbour hedges are flowers to twine,A white sail glimmers, the foamlines flee:Life, love, and laziness are a trineWorshipful, wonderful, dear, divine....O to be somewhere by the sea!
Envoy.
Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne,When I was rich in a certain key—The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine,Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline,O to be somewhere by the Sea!
Out and alas for the sweet Lang Syne,When I was rich in a certain key—The key of the fields; and I hadn't to pine,Or to sigh in vain at the sun's decline,O to be somewhere by the Sea!
W. E. Henley.
Gold or silver every day,Dies to grey.There are knots in every skein.Hours of work and hours of playFade awayInto one immense Inane.Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,Are as vainAs the foam or as the spray.Life goes crooning, faint and fain,One refrain—"If it could be always May!"Though the earth be green and gay,Though, they say,Man the cup of heaven may drain;Though his little world to sway.He displayHoard on hoard of pith and brain,Autumn brings a mist and rainThat constrainHim and his to know decay,Where undimmed the lights that waneWould remain,If it could be always May.Yea, alas, must turn toNay,Flesh to clay.Chance and Time are ever twain.Men may scoff and men may pray,But they payEvery pleasure with a pain.Life may soar and Fortune deignTo explainWhere her prizes hide and stay;But we lack the lusty trainWe should gainIf it could be always May.
Gold or silver every day,Dies to grey.There are knots in every skein.Hours of work and hours of playFade awayInto one immense Inane.Shadow and substance, chaff and grain,Are as vainAs the foam or as the spray.Life goes crooning, faint and fain,One refrain—"If it could be always May!"
Though the earth be green and gay,Though, they say,Man the cup of heaven may drain;Though his little world to sway.He displayHoard on hoard of pith and brain,Autumn brings a mist and rainThat constrainHim and his to know decay,Where undimmed the lights that waneWould remain,If it could be always May.
Yea, alas, must turn toNay,Flesh to clay.Chance and Time are ever twain.Men may scoff and men may pray,But they payEvery pleasure with a pain.Life may soar and Fortune deignTo explainWhere her prizes hide and stay;But we lack the lusty trainWe should gainIf it could be always May.
Envoy.
Time the pedagogue his caneMight retain,But his charges all would strayTruanting in every lane—Jack with Jane!—If it could be always May.
Time the pedagogue his caneMight retain,But his charges all would strayTruanting in every lane—Jack with Jane!—If it could be always May.
W. E. Henley.
Fools may pine, and sots may swill,Cynics jibe and prophets rail,Moralists may scourge and drill,Preachers prose, and faint hearts quail.Let them whine, or threat, or wail!'Till the touch of CircumstanceDown to darkness sink the scale—Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.What if skies be wan and chill?What if winds be harsh and stale?Presently the East will thrill,And the sad and shrunken sail,Bellying with a kindly gale,Bear you sunwards, while your chanceSends you back the hopeful hail—"Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance."Idle shot or coming bill,Hapless love or broken bail,Gulp it (never chew your pill!)And if Burgundy should fail,Try a humble pot of ale!Over all is heaven's expanse.Gold exists among the shale.Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,Hard Sir Æger dints his mail;And the while, by hill and dale,Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,And his blithe horn tells its tale....Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.Araminta's grand and shrill,Delia's passionate and frail,Doris drives an earnest quill,Athanasia takes the veil;Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,At the heart of all romanceReading, sings to Strephon's flail—Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.Every Jack must have his Jill,(Even Johnson had his Thrale!)Forward, couples—with a will!This, the world, is not a jail.Hear the music, sprat and whale!Hands across, retire, advance!Though the doomsman's on your trail,Fate's a Fiddler, Life's a dance.
Fools may pine, and sots may swill,Cynics jibe and prophets rail,Moralists may scourge and drill,Preachers prose, and faint hearts quail.Let them whine, or threat, or wail!'Till the touch of CircumstanceDown to darkness sink the scale—Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
What if skies be wan and chill?What if winds be harsh and stale?Presently the East will thrill,And the sad and shrunken sail,Bellying with a kindly gale,Bear you sunwards, while your chanceSends you back the hopeful hail—"Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance."
Idle shot or coming bill,Hapless love or broken bail,Gulp it (never chew your pill!)And if Burgundy should fail,Try a humble pot of ale!Over all is heaven's expanse.Gold exists among the shale.Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill,Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail,Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill,Hard Sir Æger dints his mail;And the while, by hill and dale,Tristram's braveries gleam and glance,And his blithe horn tells its tale....Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Araminta's grand and shrill,Delia's passionate and frail,Doris drives an earnest quill,Athanasia takes the veil;Wiser Phyllis o'er her pail,At the heart of all romanceReading, sings to Strephon's flail—Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Every Jack must have his Jill,(Even Johnson had his Thrale!)Forward, couples—with a will!This, the world, is not a jail.Hear the music, sprat and whale!Hands across, retire, advance!Though the doomsman's on your trail,Fate's a Fiddler, Life's a dance.
Envoy.
Boys and girls, at slug and snailAnd their compeers look askance.Pay your footing on the nail:Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
Boys and girls, at slug and snailAnd their compeers look askance.Pay your footing on the nail:Fate's a fiddler, Life's a dance.
W. E. Henley.
The big teetotum twirls,And epochs wax and waneAs chance subsides or swirls;But of the loss and gainThe sum is always plain.Read on the mighty pall,The weed of funeralThat covers praise and blame,The isms and the anities,Magnificence and shame,"O Vanity of Vanities!"The Fates are subtile girls!They give us chaff for grain;And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,Like bolted death, disdainAt all that heart and brainConceive, or great or small,Upon this earthly ball.Would you be knight and dame?Or woo the sweet humanities?Or illustrate a name?O Vanity of Vanities!We sound the sea for pearls,Or lose them in the drain;We flute it with the merles,Or tug and sweat and strain;We grovel, or we reign;We saunter, or we brawl;We answer, or we call;We search the stars for Fame,Or sink her subterranities;The legend's still the same:—"O Vanity of Vanities!"Here at the wine one birls,There someone clanks a chain.The flag that this man furlsThat man to float is fain.Pleasure gives place to pain:—These in the kennel crawl,While others take the wall.Shehas a glorious aim,Helives for the inanities.What comes of every claim?O Vanity of Vanities!Alike are clods and earls.For sot, and seer, and swain,For emperors and for churls,For antidote and bane,There is but one refrain:But one for king and thrall,For David and for Saul,For fleet of foot and lame,For pieties and profanities,The picture and the frame—"O Vanity of Vanities!"Life is a smoke that curls—Curls in a flickering skein,That winds and whisks and whirls,A figment thin and vain,Into the vast Inane.One end for hut and hall!One end for cell and stall!Burned in one common flameAre wisdoms and insanities.For this alone we came:—"O Vanity of Vanities!"
The big teetotum twirls,And epochs wax and waneAs chance subsides or swirls;But of the loss and gainThe sum is always plain.Read on the mighty pall,The weed of funeralThat covers praise and blame,The isms and the anities,Magnificence and shame,"O Vanity of Vanities!"
The Fates are subtile girls!They give us chaff for grain;And Time, the Thunderer, hurls,Like bolted death, disdainAt all that heart and brainConceive, or great or small,Upon this earthly ball.Would you be knight and dame?Or woo the sweet humanities?Or illustrate a name?O Vanity of Vanities!
We sound the sea for pearls,Or lose them in the drain;We flute it with the merles,Or tug and sweat and strain;We grovel, or we reign;We saunter, or we brawl;We answer, or we call;We search the stars for Fame,Or sink her subterranities;The legend's still the same:—"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Here at the wine one birls,There someone clanks a chain.The flag that this man furlsThat man to float is fain.Pleasure gives place to pain:—These in the kennel crawl,While others take the wall.Shehas a glorious aim,Helives for the inanities.What comes of every claim?O Vanity of Vanities!
Alike are clods and earls.For sot, and seer, and swain,For emperors and for churls,For antidote and bane,There is but one refrain:But one for king and thrall,For David and for Saul,For fleet of foot and lame,For pieties and profanities,The picture and the frame—"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Life is a smoke that curls—Curls in a flickering skein,That winds and whisks and whirls,A figment thin and vain,Into the vast Inane.One end for hut and hall!One end for cell and stall!Burned in one common flameAre wisdoms and insanities.For this alone we came:—"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Envoi.
Prince, pride must have a fall.What is the worth of allYour state's supreme urbanities?Bad at the best's the game.Well might the sage exclaim:—"O Vanity of Vanities!"
Prince, pride must have a fall.What is the worth of allYour state's supreme urbanities?Bad at the best's the game.Well might the sage exclaim:—"O Vanity of Vanities!"
W. E. Henley.
The hours are passing slow,I hear their weary treadClang from the tower, and goBack to their kinsfolk dead.Sleep! death's twin brother dread!Why dost thou scorn me so?The wind's voice overheadLong wakeful here I know,And music from the steep,Where waters fall and flow.Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?All sounds that might bestowRest on the fever'd bed,All slumb'rous sounds and lowAre mingled here and wed,And bring no drowsihed.Shy dreams flit to and froWith shadowy hair dispread;With wistful eyes that glow,And silent robes that sweep.Thou wilt not hear me; no?Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?What cause hast thou to showOf sacrifice unsped?Of all thy slaves belowI most have labourèdWith service sung and said;Have cull'd such buds as blow,Soft poppies white and redWhere thy still gardens growAnd Lethe's waters weep,Why, then, art thou my foe?Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
The hours are passing slow,I hear their weary treadClang from the tower, and goBack to their kinsfolk dead.Sleep! death's twin brother dread!Why dost thou scorn me so?The wind's voice overheadLong wakeful here I know,And music from the steep,Where waters fall and flow.Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestowRest on the fever'd bed,All slumb'rous sounds and lowAre mingled here and wed,And bring no drowsihed.Shy dreams flit to and froWith shadowy hair dispread;With wistful eyes that glow,And silent robes that sweep.Thou wilt not hear me; no?Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
What cause hast thou to showOf sacrifice unsped?Of all thy slaves belowI most have labourèdWith service sung and said;Have cull'd such buds as blow,Soft poppies white and redWhere thy still gardens growAnd Lethe's waters weep,Why, then, art thou my foe?Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Envoi.
Prince, ere the dark be spedBy golden shafts, ere lowAnd long the shadows creep:Lord of the wand of lead,Soft-footed as the snow,Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Prince, ere the dark be spedBy golden shafts, ere lowAnd long the shadows creep:Lord of the wand of lead,Soft-footed as the snow,Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
Andrew Lang.
My days for singing and loving are overAnd stark I lie in my narrow bed,I care not at all if roses coverOr if above me the snow is spread;I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead—Vera and Lily and Annie and May,And my soul is set on the present fray,Its piercing kisses and subtle snares:So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway,My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.O happy moths that now flit and hoverFrom the blossom of white to the blossom of red,Take heed, for I was a lordly loverTill the little day of my life had sped;As straight as a pine tree, a golden head,And eyes as blue as an austral bay.Ladies when loosing your satin array,Reflect, in my years had you lived my prayersMight have won you from weakly lovers away.My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the ploverSweet voices come down through the binding lead;O queens that every age must discoverFor men, that Man's delight may be fed;Oh, sister queens to the queens I wedFor the space of a year, a month, a day,No thirst but mine could your thirst allay;And oh, for an hour of life, my dears,To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay,—My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
My days for singing and loving are overAnd stark I lie in my narrow bed,I care not at all if roses coverOr if above me the snow is spread;I am weary of dreaming of my sweet dead—Vera and Lily and Annie and May,And my soul is set on the present fray,Its piercing kisses and subtle snares:So gallants are conquered, ah wellaway,My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
O happy moths that now flit and hoverFrom the blossom of white to the blossom of red,Take heed, for I was a lordly loverTill the little day of my life had sped;As straight as a pine tree, a golden head,And eyes as blue as an austral bay.Ladies when loosing your satin array,Reflect, in my years had you lived my prayersMight have won you from weakly lovers away.My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
Through the song of the thrush and the pipe of the ploverSweet voices come down through the binding lead;O queens that every age must discoverFor men, that Man's delight may be fed;Oh, sister queens to the queens I wedFor the space of a year, a month, a day,No thirst but mine could your thirst allay;And oh, for an hour of life, my dears,To kiss you, to laugh at your lovers' dismay,—My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
Envoi.
Prince was I ever of festival gay,And time never silvered my locks with grey;The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs,So think of me sometimes dear ladies I pray,My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
Prince was I ever of festival gay,And time never silvered my locks with grey;The love of your lovers is as hope that despairs,So think of me sometimes dear ladies I pray,My love was stronger and fiercer than theirs.
George Moore.
What do we here who, with reverted eyes,Turn back our longing from the modern airTo the dim gold of long-evanished skies,When other songs in other mouths were fair?Why do we stay the load of life to bear,To measure still the weary, worldly ways,Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,That ushers in another waste of days,Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?Why, but because our task is yet undone?
What do we here who, with reverted eyes,Turn back our longing from the modern airTo the dim gold of long-evanished skies,When other songs in other mouths were fair?Why do we stay the load of life to bear,To measure still the weary, worldly ways,Waiting upon the still-recurring sun,That ushers in another waste of days,Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays?Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Were it not thus, could but our high empriseBe once fulfilled, which of us would forbearTo seek that haven where contentment lies?Who would not doff at once life's load of care,To be at peace amid the silence there?Ah, who alas?—Across the heat and hazeDeath beckons to us in the shadow dun—Favouring and fair—"My rest is sweet," he says;But we reluctantly avert our gaze:Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Were it not thus, could but our high empriseBe once fulfilled, which of us would forbearTo seek that haven where contentment lies?Who would not doff at once life's load of care,To be at peace amid the silence there?Ah, who alas?—Across the heat and hazeDeath beckons to us in the shadow dun—Favouring and fair—"My rest is sweet," he says;But we reluctantly avert our gaze:Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Songs have we sung, and many melodiesHave from our lips had issue rich and rare;But never yet the conquering chant did rise,That should ascend the very heaven's stair,To rescue life from anguish and despair.Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,"Lo!" have we cried, "this is the golden oneThat shall deliver us!"—Alas! Hope's raysDie in the distance, and Life's sadness stays.Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Songs have we sung, and many melodiesHave from our lips had issue rich and rare;But never yet the conquering chant did rise,That should ascend the very heaven's stair,To rescue life from anguish and despair.Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,"Lo!" have we cried, "this is the golden oneThat shall deliver us!"—Alas! Hope's raysDie in the distance, and Life's sadness stays.Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Envoy.
Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,Grant that the aim of rest for us be won;Let the light shine upon our life that straysDisconsolate within the desert maze;Why, but because our task is yet undone?
Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,Grant that the aim of rest for us be won;Let the light shine upon our life that straysDisconsolate within the desert maze;Why, but because our task is yet undone?
John Payne.
Why are our songs like the moan of the main,When the wild winds buffet it to and fro,(Our brothers ask us again and again),A weary burden of hope laid low?Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow?Is life cast down from its fair estate?This I answer them, nothing mo',Songs and singers are out of date.
Why are our songs like the moan of the main,When the wild winds buffet it to and fro,(Our brothers ask us again and again),A weary burden of hope laid low?Have birds ceased singing or flowers to blow?Is life cast down from its fair estate?This I answer them, nothing mo',Songs and singers are out of date.
What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain,Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow.Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gainFor shameful honour, for wealth and woe,Hunger and luxury—weeds that throwUp from one seeding their flowers of hate?Can we tune our lute to these themes? ah no!Songs and singers are out of date.
What shall we sing of? Our hearts are fain,Our bosoms burn with a sterile glow.Shall we sing of the sordid strife for gainFor shameful honour, for wealth and woe,Hunger and luxury—weeds that throwUp from one seeding their flowers of hate?Can we tune our lute to these themes? ah no!Songs and singers are out of date.
Our songs should be of faith without stain,Of haughty honour and deaths that sowThe seeds of life on the battle-plain,Of loves unsullied and eyes that showThe fair white soul in the deeps below.Where are they, these that our songs await,To wake to joyance? Doth any know?Songs and singers are out of date.
Our songs should be of faith without stain,Of haughty honour and deaths that sowThe seeds of life on the battle-plain,Of loves unsullied and eyes that showThe fair white soul in the deeps below.Where are they, these that our songs await,To wake to joyance? Doth any know?Songs and singers are out of date.
What have we done with meadow and lane?Where are the flowers and the hawthorn snow?Acres of brick in the pitiless rain,——These are our gardens for thorpe and stow!Summer has left us long ago,Gone to the lands where the turtles mateAnd the crickets chirp in the wild rose row;Songs and singers are out of date.
What have we done with meadow and lane?Where are the flowers and the hawthorn snow?Acres of brick in the pitiless rain,——These are our gardens for thorpe and stow!Summer has left us long ago,Gone to the lands where the turtles mateAnd the crickets chirp in the wild rose row;Songs and singers are out of date.
We sit and sing to a world in pain,Our heartstrings quiver sadly and slow;But, aye and anon, the murmurous strainSwells up to a clangour of strife and throe,And the folks that hearken, or friend or foe,Are ware that the stress of the time is greatAnd say to themselves, as they come and go,Songs and singers are out of date.
We sit and sing to a world in pain,Our heartstrings quiver sadly and slow;But, aye and anon, the murmurous strainSwells up to a clangour of strife and throe,And the folks that hearken, or friend or foe,Are ware that the stress of the time is greatAnd say to themselves, as they come and go,Songs and singers are out of date.
Winter holds us, body and brain:Ice is over our being's flow;Song is a flower that will droop and wane,If it have no heaven toward which to grow.Faith and beauty are dead, I trowNothing is left but fear and fate:Men are weary of hope; and soSongs and singers are out of date.
Winter holds us, body and brain:Ice is over our being's flow;Song is a flower that will droop and wane,If it have no heaven toward which to grow.Faith and beauty are dead, I trowNothing is left but fear and fate:Men are weary of hope; and soSongs and singers are out of date.
John Payne.
Beyond the end of ParadiseWhere never mortal may repair,A phantom-haunted forest liesWith twisted branches always bare,And here unhappy lovers fareAnd ever more complain their lot,Ah! pity them that wander there,Half-remembered and half-forgot.There Orpheus leaves his lute and criesNo more on Eurydice the fair,There silent Sappho sits and sighs,Sad as the violets in her hair,And pale Francesca's heart-strings stir(She knows not why) if LauncelotLook round, and dead days call to herHalf-remembered and half-forgot.There Jason walks with coward eyesBent down yet seeing everywhereHow fiery vested Glaucé dies,And white Medea's wild despair,Fair Rosamond and French Heaulmière,And he who sang the queenly Scot,Meet many another wanderer,Half-remembered and half-forgot.Alas! they never shall ariseNor leave this lonely limbo whereThey share not in our common skies,And know not of our sunlit air;They had their time for work and prayer,For hope and help, but used them not,Or if they dreamed that such things were,Half-remembered and half-forgot.
Beyond the end of ParadiseWhere never mortal may repair,A phantom-haunted forest liesWith twisted branches always bare,And here unhappy lovers fareAnd ever more complain their lot,Ah! pity them that wander there,Half-remembered and half-forgot.
There Orpheus leaves his lute and criesNo more on Eurydice the fair,There silent Sappho sits and sighs,Sad as the violets in her hair,And pale Francesca's heart-strings stir(She knows not why) if LauncelotLook round, and dead days call to herHalf-remembered and half-forgot.
There Jason walks with coward eyesBent down yet seeing everywhereHow fiery vested Glaucé dies,And white Medea's wild despair,Fair Rosamond and French Heaulmière,And he who sang the queenly Scot,Meet many another wanderer,Half-remembered and half-forgot.
Alas! they never shall ariseNor leave this lonely limbo whereThey share not in our common skies,And know not of our sunlit air;They had their time for work and prayer,For hope and help, but used them not,Or if they dreamed that such things were,Half-remembered and half-forgot.
Envoy.
Lovers, I pray ye mind whene'erYour youth is proud and passion-hot,How Love itself may turn a careHalf-remembered and half-forgot.
Lovers, I pray ye mind whene'erYour youth is proud and passion-hot,How Love itself may turn a careHalf-remembered and half-forgot.
A. Mary F. Robinson.
O conquerors and heroes, say-Great Kings and Captains tell me this,Now that you rest beneath the clayWhat profit lies in victories?Do softer flower-roots twine and kissThe whiter bones of Charlemain?Our crownless heads sleep sweet as his,Now all your victories are in vain.All ye who fell that summer's dayWhen Athens lost Amphipolis,Who blinded by the briny sprayFell dead i' the sea at Salamis,You captors of Thyreatis,Who bear yourselves a heavier chain,With your young brother, Bozzaris,Now all your victories are in vain.And never Roman armies mayRouse Hannibal where now he is,When Cæsar makes no king obey,And fast asleep lies Lascaris;Who fears the Goths or Khan-Yenghiz?Not one of all the paynim trainCan taunt us with Nicopolis,Now all your victories are in vain.What reck you Spartan heroes, pray,Of Arcady or Argolis?When one barbarian boy to-dayWould fain be king of all of Greece.Brave knights, you would not stir I wis,Altho' the very Cross were ta'en;Not Rome itself doth Cæsar miss,Now all your victories are in vain.
O conquerors and heroes, say-Great Kings and Captains tell me this,Now that you rest beneath the clayWhat profit lies in victories?Do softer flower-roots twine and kissThe whiter bones of Charlemain?Our crownless heads sleep sweet as his,Now all your victories are in vain.
All ye who fell that summer's dayWhen Athens lost Amphipolis,Who blinded by the briny sprayFell dead i' the sea at Salamis,You captors of Thyreatis,Who bear yourselves a heavier chain,With your young brother, Bozzaris,Now all your victories are in vain.
And never Roman armies mayRouse Hannibal where now he is,When Cæsar makes no king obey,And fast asleep lies Lascaris;Who fears the Goths or Khan-Yenghiz?Not one of all the paynim trainCan taunt us with Nicopolis,Now all your victories are in vain.
What reck you Spartan heroes, pray,Of Arcady or Argolis?When one barbarian boy to-dayWould fain be king of all of Greece.Brave knights, you would not stir I wis,Altho' the very Cross were ta'en;Not Rome itself doth Cæsar miss,Now all your victories are in vain.
Envoy.
O kings, bethink how little isThe good of battles or the gain—Death conquers all things with his peaceNow all your victories are in vain.
O kings, bethink how little isThe good of battles or the gain—Death conquers all things with his peaceNow all your victories are in vain.
A. Mary F. Robinson.
Prince of all Ballad-makers.
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden mornScarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer bornWhose far shrill note the world of new men hearsCleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire,Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn,That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for cornAnd plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peersTill death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wireCould buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn!Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn,That rings athwart the sea whence no man steersLike joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tireOn that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Bird of the bitter bright grey golden mornScarce risen upon the dusk of dolorous years,First of us all and sweetest singer bornWhose far shrill note the world of new men hearsCleave the cold shuddering shade as twilight clears;When song new-born put off the old world's attireAnd felt its tune on her changed lips expire,Writ foremost on the roll of them that cameFresh girt for service of the latter lyre,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Alas the joy, the sorrow, and the scorn,That clothed thy life with hopes and sins and fears,And gave thee stones for bread and tares for cornAnd plume-plucked gaol-birds for thy starveling peersTill death clipt close their flight with shameful shears;Till shifts came short and loves were hard to hire,When lilt of song nor twitch of twangling wireCould buy thee bread or kisses; when light fameSpurned like a ball and haled through brake and briar,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name!
Poor splendid wings so frayed and soiled and torn!Poor kind wild eyes so dashed with light quick tears!Poor perfect voice, most blithe when most forlorn,That rings athwart the sea whence no man steersLike joy-bells crossed with death-bells in our ears!What far delight has cooled the fierce desireThat like some ravenous bird was strong to tireOn that frail flesh and soul consumed with flame,But left more sweet than roses to respire,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name?
Envoi.
Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire;Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame.But from thy feet now death has washed the mire,Love reads out first at head of all our quire,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.
Prince of sweet songs made out of tears and fire,A harlot was thy nurse, a God thy sire;Shame soiled thy song, and song assoiled thy shame.But from thy feet now death has washed the mire,Love reads out first at head of all our quire,Villon, our sad bad glad mad brother's name.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Which Villon made for himself and his comrades, expecting to be hanged along with them.
Which Villon made for himself and his comrades, expecting to be hanged along with them.
Men, brother men, that after us yet live,Let not your hearts too hard against us be;For if some pity of us poor men ye give,The sooner God shall take of you pity.Here are we five or six strung up, you see,And here the flesh that all too well we fedBit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;Let no man laugh at us discomforted,But pray to God that he forgive us all.If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though weWere slain by law; ye know that all aliveHave not wit alway to walk righteously;Make therefore intercession heartilyWith him that of a virgin's womb was bred,That his grace be not as a dry well-headFor us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,But pray to God that he forgive us all.The rain has washed and laundered us all five,And the sun dried and blackened; yea, per die,Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive,Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for feeOur beards and eyebrows; never are we free,Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led,More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall.Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,But pray to God that he forgive us all.Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;We have nought to do in such a master's hall.Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Men, brother men, that after us yet live,Let not your hearts too hard against us be;For if some pity of us poor men ye give,The sooner God shall take of you pity.Here are we five or six strung up, you see,And here the flesh that all too well we fedBit by bit eaten and rotten, rent and shred,And we the bones grow dust and ash withal;Let no man laugh at us discomforted,But pray to God that he forgive us all.
If we call on you, brothers, to forgive,Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though weWere slain by law; ye know that all aliveHave not wit alway to walk righteously;Make therefore intercession heartilyWith him that of a virgin's womb was bred,That his grace be not as a dry well-headFor us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall;We are dead, let no man harry or vex us dead,But pray to God that he forgive us all.
The rain has washed and laundered us all five,And the sun dried and blackened; yea, per die,Ravens and pies with beaks that rend and rive,Have dug our eyes out, and plucked off for feeOur beards and eyebrows; never are we free,Not once, to rest; but here and there still sped,Drive at its wild will by the wind's change led,More pecked of birds than fruits on garden-wall.Men, for God's love, let no gibe here be said,But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head,Keep us, that hell be not our bitter bed;We have nought to do in such a master's hall.Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead,But pray to God that he forgive us all.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep,Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours,Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creepSoft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep,Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers.Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers,Touch thee not, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears,Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace,Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres:Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap,Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers;Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steepWhence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs leap,Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian powers.Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres,All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears;Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace,Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears,Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep:Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers,Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep,Here than memory whispers of days our memories keepFast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours.Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endearsStill the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears,Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we traceStill the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers:Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years,Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers;Only love and lovely remembrance here have place.Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears;Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Like a queen enchanted who may not laugh or weep,Glad at heart and guarded from change and care like ours,Girt about with beauty by days and nights that creepSoft as breathless ripples that softly shoreward sweep,Lies the lovely city whose grace no grief deflowers.Age and grey forgetfulness, time that shifts and veers,Touch thee not, our fairest, whose charm no rival nears,Hailed as England's Florence of one whose praise gives grace,Landor, once thy lover, a name that love reveres:Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Dawn whereof we know not, and noon whose fruit we reap,Garnered up in record of years that fell like flowers;Sunset liker sunrise along the shining steepWhence thy fair face lightens, and where thy soft springs leap,Crown at once and gird thee with grace of guardian powers.Loved of men beloved of us, souls that fame inspheres,All thine air hath music for him who dreams and hears;Voices mixed of multitudes, feet of friends that pace,Witness why for ever, if heaven's face clouds or clears,Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Peace hath here found harbourage mild as very sleep:Not the hills and waters, the fields and wildwood bowers,Smile or speak more tenderly, clothed with peace more deep,Here than memory whispers of days our memories keepFast with love and laughter and dreams of withered hours.Bright were these as blossom of old, and thought endearsStill the fair soft phantoms that pass with smiles or tears,Sweet as roseleaves hoarded and dried wherein we traceStill the soul and spirit of sense that lives and cheers:Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
City lulled asleep by the chime of passing years,Sweeter smiles thy rest than the radiance round thy peers;Only love and lovely remembrance here have place.Time on thee lies lighter than music on men's ears;Dawn and noon and sunset are one before thy face.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
High beyond the granite portal arched across,Like the gateway of some godlike giant's holdSweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and mossEast and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold.Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold.Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the larkFill with joy the rapturous island, as an arkFull of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree,None would dream that grief even here may disembarkOn the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal bossTake the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.None would dream that all this moorland's glow and glossCould be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold,Even in eyes that opened here, and here beholdNow no sun relume from hope's belated spark,Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners harkThough the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded barkOn the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs tossOn the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter lossRaise the bride-song through the graveyard on the woldWhere the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of SarkOn the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
High beyond the granite portal arched across,Like the gateway of some godlike giant's holdSweep and swell the billowy breasts of moor and mossEast and westward, and the dell their slopes enfold.Basks in purple, glows in green, exults in gold.Glens that know the dove and fells that hear the larkFill with joy the rapturous island, as an arkFull of spicery wrought from herb and flower and tree,None would dream that grief even here may disembarkOn the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Rocks emblazoned like the mid shield's royal bossTake the sun with all their blossom broad and bold.None would dream that all this moorland's glow and glossCould be dark as tombs that strike the spirit acold,Even in eyes that opened here, and here beholdNow no sun relume from hope's belated spark,Any comfort, nor may ears of mourners harkThough the ripe woods ring with golden-throated glee,While the soul lies shattered, like a stranded barkOn the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Death and doom are they whose crested triumphs tossOn the proud plumed waves whence mourning notes are tolled.Wail of perfect woe and moan for utter lossRaise the bride-song through the graveyard on the woldWhere the bride-bed keeps the bridegroom fast in mould,Where the bride, with death for priest and doom for clerk,Hears for choir the throats of waves like wolves that bark,Sore anhungered, off the drear Eperquerie,Fain to spoil the strongholds of the strength of SarkOn the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Prince of storm and tempest, lord whose ways are dark,Wind whose wings are spread for flight that none may mark,Lightly dies the joy that lives by grace of thee.Love through thee lies bleeding, hope lies cold and stark,On the wrathful woful marge of earth and sea.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
(Chant Royal, after Holbein.)