Poets, the thrones ye raiseAre not a "fleeting show;"Fame lives, though dust decays—For God will have it so!
Poets, the thrones ye raiseAre not a "fleeting show;"Fame lives, though dust decays—For God will have it so!
Clinton Scollard.
Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold,With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow,Who, in the merry days of old,Made light of all but red wine's flow?Where now are cavalier and beauWho joyed with thee in that bright clime?Ah! dust to dust!—and none may know—Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!Where now are they whom gleaming goldLed on to many a bandit blow,Who roamed with thee the widening woldAnd vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe?Where they, who, in the sunset glow,With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime?Ah! they are gone!—and still men go—Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!And where are they, those maids untold,Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe?They too are now but loathsome mould,With earth above and earth below.And she who won, aside to throwThy love, the promise of thy prime,Doth any seek her name? Ah! no—Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold,With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow,Who, in the merry days of old,Made light of all but red wine's flow?Where now are cavalier and beauWho joyed with thee in that bright clime?Ah! dust to dust!—and none may know—Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
Where now are they whom gleaming goldLed on to many a bandit blow,Who roamed with thee the widening woldAnd vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe?Where they, who, in the sunset glow,With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime?Ah! they are gone!—and still men go—Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
And where are they, those maids untold,Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe?They too are now but loathsome mould,With earth above and earth below.And she who won, aside to throwThy love, the promise of thy prime,Doth any seek her name? Ah! no—Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!
Envoy.
Poet of ballade and rondeau,Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme,Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow;Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.
Poet of ballade and rondeau,Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme,Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow;Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.
Clinton Scollard.
Of all the songs that dwellWhere softest speech doth flow,Some love the sweet rondel,And some the bright rondeau,With rhymes that tripping goIn mirthful measures clad;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!O'er some, the villanelle,That sets the heart aglow,Doth its enchanting spellWith lines' recurring throw;Some weighed with wasting woe,Gay triolets make them glad;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!On chant of stately swellWith measured feet and slow,At grave as minster bellAs vesper tolling low,Do some their praise bestow;Some on sestinas sad;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!
Of all the songs that dwellWhere softest speech doth flow,Some love the sweet rondel,And some the bright rondeau,With rhymes that tripping goIn mirthful measures clad;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!
O'er some, the villanelle,That sets the heart aglow,Doth its enchanting spellWith lines' recurring throw;Some weighed with wasting woe,Gay triolets make them glad;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!
On chant of stately swellWith measured feet and slow,At grave as minster bellAs vesper tolling low,Do some their praise bestow;Some on sestinas sad;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!
Envoy.
Prince, to these songs a-rowThe Muse might endless add;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!
Prince, to these songs a-rowThe Muse might endless add;But would I choose them?—no,For me the blithe ballade!
Clinton Scollard.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,The birds are caroling blithe and gayIn the bourgeoning boughs that sway in airO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.The mock-bird pipes to the busy jay:There's a gleam of white on the vines that twineWhere your casement opes to the golden day,O lady mine.O lady mine with the sunlit hair,The rills are glad that the month is May;The dawns are bright and the eves are fairO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.The dales have doffed their gowns of grey,The sending buttercups spill their wine,There is joy in the heart of faun and fay,O lady mine.O lady mine with the sunlit hairThe bees, like ruthless bandits, preyOn the blooms that part their lips in prayerO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.From the sunny shores where the nereids playThe breezes blow o'er the foamy brine,And I dream I hear them softly say,"O lady mine!"
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,The birds are caroling blithe and gayIn the bourgeoning boughs that sway in airO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.The mock-bird pipes to the busy jay:There's a gleam of white on the vines that twineWhere your casement opes to the golden day,O lady mine.
O lady mine with the sunlit hair,The rills are glad that the month is May;The dawns are bright and the eves are fairO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.The dales have doffed their gowns of grey,The sending buttercups spill their wine,There is joy in the heart of faun and fay,O lady mine.
O lady mine with the sunlit hairThe bees, like ruthless bandits, preyOn the blooms that part their lips in prayerO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.From the sunny shores where the nereids playThe breezes blow o'er the foamy brine,And I dream I hear them softly say,"O lady mine!"
Envoy.
O lady mine, wilt thou not strayO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way,And list to Love where the wind-flowers shine,O lady mine?
O lady mine, wilt thou not strayO'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way,And list to Love where the wind-flowers shine,O lady mine?
Clinton Scollard.
Hark, how the surges dashOn Tyrian beaches hoar!With far-resounding crash,And unremitting roar,The white foam squadrons pourTheir ranks with sullen ireAlong the sandy floor;"Where are the ships of Tyre?"Within her walls the clashOf arms is heard no more;No supple bough of ashIs hewn for mast or oar;Through no tall temple's doorNow gleams the altar fire,But winds and waves deplore,"Where are the ships of Tyre?"By night no torches flashFrom porches as of yore;'Neath sword or stinging lashNo slave now lies in gore;No voice that men adoreLifts song to lute or lyre;With all the freight they bore,"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
Hark, how the surges dashOn Tyrian beaches hoar!With far-resounding crash,And unremitting roar,The white foam squadrons pourTheir ranks with sullen ireAlong the sandy floor;"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
Within her walls the clashOf arms is heard no more;No supple bough of ashIs hewn for mast or oar;Through no tall temple's doorNow gleams the altar fire,But winds and waves deplore,"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
By night no torches flashFrom porches as of yore;'Neath sword or stinging lashNo slave now lies in gore;No voice that men adoreLifts song to lute or lyre;With all the freight they bore,"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
Envoy.
Prince, with these "gone before,"We, whom these days inspire,Must seek that unknown shore"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
Prince, with these "gone before,"We, whom these days inspire,Must seek that unknown shore"Where are the ships of Tyre?"
Clinton Scollard.
O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that standUpon the marge of yonder shoreWhere by the pale feet-trampled sand(Though none is seen to walk that floor)The Stygian wave flows evermore:We fain would buy what ye can tell,Speak! Speak! And thrill to each heart's core—Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!O spectral Hours that throng this land—Where no sweet floods of sunshine pour,But vast, tenebriously grand,Dense glooms abide, wind-swept or frore—O ye who thus have gone before,Break silence—break your charmëd spell!Heed not our negligence of yore!Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!O sombre, sad-eyed, shadowy band,Speak, speak, and wave not o'er and o'erEach wan phantasmal shadow-hand;O say, if when with battling soreWe cross the flood and hear the roarO' the world like a sighed farewell,What waits beyond the Grave's last door?Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!
O ghosts of Bygone Hours, that standUpon the marge of yonder shoreWhere by the pale feet-trampled sand(Though none is seen to walk that floor)The Stygian wave flows evermore:We fain would buy what ye can tell,Speak! Speak! And thrill to each heart's core—Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!
O spectral Hours that throng this land—Where no sweet floods of sunshine pour,But vast, tenebriously grand,Dense glooms abide, wind-swept or frore—O ye who thus have gone before,Break silence—break your charmëd spell!Heed not our negligence of yore!Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!
O sombre, sad-eyed, shadowy band,Speak, speak, and wave not o'er and o'erEach wan phantasmal shadow-hand;O say, if when with battling soreWe cross the flood and hear the roarO' the world like a sighed farewell,What waits beyond the Grave's last door?Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!
Envoy.
O coming Hours, O unspent store,Yourpromise breathe—as in sea-shellImprison'd Echo sings her lore—Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!
O coming Hours, O unspent store,Yourpromise breathe—as in sea-shellImprison'd Echo sings her lore—Vain Hopes are all we have to sell!
William Sharp.
What is the song the sea-wind sings—The old, old song it singeth for aye?When abroad it stretcheth its mighty wingsAnd driveth the white clouds far away,—What is the song it sings to-day?From fire and tumult the white world came,Where all was a mist of driven sprayAnd the whirling fragments of a frame!What is the song the sea-wind sings—The old, old song it singeth for aye?It seems to breathe a thousand thingsEre the world grew sad and old and grey—Of the dear gods banished far astray—Of strange wild rumours of joy and shame!The Earth is old, so old, To-day—Blind and halt and weary and lame.What is the song the sea-wind sings—The old, old song it singeth for aye?Like a trumpet blast its voice out-rings,The world spins down the darksome way!It crieth aloud in wild dismay,The Earth that from fire and tumult cameDraws swift to her weary end To-day,Her fires are fusing for that last Flame!
What is the song the sea-wind sings—The old, old song it singeth for aye?When abroad it stretcheth its mighty wingsAnd driveth the white clouds far away,—What is the song it sings to-day?From fire and tumult the white world came,Where all was a mist of driven sprayAnd the whirling fragments of a frame!
What is the song the sea-wind sings—The old, old song it singeth for aye?It seems to breathe a thousand thingsEre the world grew sad and old and grey—Of the dear gods banished far astray—Of strange wild rumours of joy and shame!The Earth is old, so old, To-day—Blind and halt and weary and lame.
What is the song the sea-wind sings—The old, old song it singeth for aye?Like a trumpet blast its voice out-rings,The world spins down the darksome way!It crieth aloud in wild dismay,The Earth that from fire and tumult cameDraws swift to her weary end To-day,Her fires are fusing for that last Flame!
Envoy.
What singeth the sea-wind thus for aye—From fire and tumult the white world came!What is the sea-wind's cry To-day—Her central fires make one vast flame!
What singeth the sea-wind thus for aye—From fire and tumult the white world came!What is the sea-wind's cry To-day—Her central fires make one vast flame!
William Sharp.
Where are the creatures of the deep,That made the sea-world wondrous fair?The dolphins that with royal sweepSped Venus of the golden-hairThrough leagues of summer sea and air?Are they all gone where past things be?The merman in his weedy lair?O sweet wild creatures of the sea!O singing syrens, do ye weepThat now ye hear not anywhereThe swift oars of the seamen leap,See their wild, eager eyes a-stare?O syrens, that no more ensnareThe souls of men that once were free,Are ye not filled with cold despair—O sweet wild creatures of the sea!O Triton, on some coral steepIn green-gloom depths, dost thou forbearWith wreathëd horn to call thy sheep,The wandering sea-waves, to thy care?O mermaids, once so debonnair,Sport ye no more with mirthful glee?The ways of lover-folk forswear?—O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
Where are the creatures of the deep,That made the sea-world wondrous fair?The dolphins that with royal sweepSped Venus of the golden-hairThrough leagues of summer sea and air?Are they all gone where past things be?The merman in his weedy lair?O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
O singing syrens, do ye weepThat now ye hear not anywhereThe swift oars of the seamen leap,See their wild, eager eyes a-stare?O syrens, that no more ensnareThe souls of men that once were free,Are ye not filled with cold despair—O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
O Triton, on some coral steepIn green-gloom depths, dost thou forbearWith wreathëd horn to call thy sheep,The wandering sea-waves, to thy care?O mermaids, once so debonnair,Sport ye no more with mirthful glee?The ways of lover-folk forswear?—O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
Envoy.
Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware!They wait a day that yet must be,When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir—O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
Deep down 'mid coral caves, beware!They wait a day that yet must be,When Ocean shall be earth's sole heir—O sweet wild creatures of the sea!
William Sharp.
From the sunny climes of France,Flying to the west,Came a flock of birds by chance,There to sing and rest:Of some secrets deep in quest,—Justice for their wrongs,—Seeking one to shield their breast,One to write their songs.Melodies of old romance,Joy and gentle jest,Notes that made the dull heart danceWith a merry zest;—Maids in matchless beauty drest,Youths in happy throngs;—These they sang to tempt and testOne to write their songs.In old London's wide expanseBuilt each feathered guest,—Man's small pleasure to entrance,Singing him to rest,—Came, and tenderly confessed,Perched on leafy prongs,Life were sweet if they possessedOne to write their songs.
From the sunny climes of France,Flying to the west,Came a flock of birds by chance,There to sing and rest:Of some secrets deep in quest,—Justice for their wrongs,—Seeking one to shield their breast,One to write their songs.
Melodies of old romance,Joy and gentle jest,Notes that made the dull heart danceWith a merry zest;—Maids in matchless beauty drest,Youths in happy throngs;—These they sang to tempt and testOne to write their songs.
In old London's wide expanseBuilt each feathered guest,—Man's small pleasure to entrance,Singing him to rest,—Came, and tenderly confessed,Perched on leafy prongs,Life were sweet if they possessedOne to write their songs.
Envoy.
Austin, it was you they blest:Fame to you belongs!Time has proven you're the bestOne to write their songs.
Austin, it was you they blest:Fame to you belongs!Time has proven you're the bestOne to write their songs.
Frank Dempster Sherman.
When blossoms born of balmy springBreathe fragrance in the pleasant shadeOf branches where the blue-birds sing,Their hearts with music overweighed;When brooks go babbling through the glade,And over rocks the grasses climbTo greet the sunshine, half-afraid,-How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!When invitations are a-wingFor gay Terpsichore's parade;When dreamy waltzes stir the stringAnd jewels flash on rich brocade,Where Paris dresses are displayed,And slippered feet keep careful time;-In winter, when the roses fade,How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!When by your side, with graceful swing,Some fair-faced, gentle girl has strayed,Willing and glad to have you bringYour claims for love and get them paidIn kisses, smiles, and words that aidThe bells of bliss to better chime;-When Cupid's rules are first obeyed,How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
When blossoms born of balmy springBreathe fragrance in the pleasant shadeOf branches where the blue-birds sing,Their hearts with music overweighed;When brooks go babbling through the glade,And over rocks the grasses climbTo greet the sunshine, half-afraid,-How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
When invitations are a-wingFor gay Terpsichore's parade;When dreamy waltzes stir the stringAnd jewels flash on rich brocade,Where Paris dresses are displayed,And slippered feet keep careful time;-In winter, when the roses fade,How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
When by your side, with graceful swing,Some fair-faced, gentle girl has strayed,Willing and glad to have you bringYour claims for love and get them paidIn kisses, smiles, and words that aidThe bells of bliss to better chime;-When Cupid's rules are first obeyed,How easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
Envoy.
Reader, forgive me, man or maid,Against Calliope this crime;And let this brief ballade persuadeHow easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
Reader, forgive me, man or maid,Against Calliope this crime;And let this brief ballade persuadeHow easy 'tis to write a rhyme!
Frank Dempster Sherman.
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,Under the roses I hid my heart.Why would it sleep not? why should it start,When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?What made sleep flutter his wings and part?Only the song of a secret bird.Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smartDoes the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?Only the song of a secret bird.The green land's name that a charm encloses,It never was writ in the traveller's chart,And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,It never was sold in the merchant's mart.The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,Only the song of a secret bird.
I hid my heart in a nest of roses,Out of the sun's way, hidden apart;In a softer bed than the soft white snow's is,Under the roses I hid my heart.Why would it sleep not? why should it start,When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred?What made sleep flutter his wings and part?Only the song of a secret bird.
Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes,And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart;Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes,And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art.Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smartDoes the fang still fret thee of hope deferred?What bids the lips of thy sleep dispart?Only the song of a secret bird.
The green land's name that a charm encloses,It never was writ in the traveller's chart,And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is,It never was sold in the merchant's mart.The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart,And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard;No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart,Only the song of a secret bird.
Envoi.
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,To sleep for a season and hear no wordOf true love's truth or of light love's art,Only the song of a secret bird.
In the world of dreams I have chosen my part,To sleep for a season and hear no wordOf true love's truth or of light love's art,Only the song of a secret bird.
Algernon Charles Swinburne.
Where are the mighty kings of yoreWhose sword-arm cleft the world in twain?And where are they who won and woreThe empire of the land and main?Where's Alexander, Charlemain?Alone the sky above them bringsTheir tombs the tribute of the rain.Dust in dust are the bones of kings!Where now is Rome's old emperor,Who gazed on burning Rome full fain;And where, at one for evermore,The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain?What of Napoleon's lightning brain,Grim Fritz's iron hammerings,Forging the links of Europe's chain?Dust in dust are the bones of kings!Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore,Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain?Where is the Lion-Heart, who boreThe spears toward Zion's gate again?And can so little space contain,Quiet from all his wanderings,The world-demanding Tamburlaine?Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where are the mighty kings of yoreWhose sword-arm cleft the world in twain?And where are they who won and woreThe empire of the land and main?Where's Alexander, Charlemain?Alone the sky above them bringsTheir tombs the tribute of the rain.Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where now is Rome's old emperor,Who gazed on burning Rome full fain;And where, at one for evermore,The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain?What of Napoleon's lightning brain,Grim Fritz's iron hammerings,Forging the links of Europe's chain?Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore,Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain?Where is the Lion-Heart, who boreThe spears toward Zion's gate again?And can so little space contain,Quiet from all his wanderings,The world-demanding Tamburlaine?Dust in dust are the bones of kings!
Envoy.
O Kings, bethink ye then how vainThe pride and pomp of earthly things:A little pain, a little gain,Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.
O Kings, bethink ye then how vainThe pride and pomp of earthly things:A little pain, a little gain,Then dust in dust are the bones of kings.
Arthur Symons.
Between the Midnight and the Morn,The under-world my soul espied;I saw the shades of men out-worn,The Heroes fallen in their pride;I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide,And many a ghost that strayed thereon;"Still must I roam," a maiden sighed,"The sunless marsh of Acheron.""And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn?""Yea, even so," the shade replied,"For one I wronged in life hath swornIn hatred ever to abide:The lover seeketh not the bride,But aye, with me, his heart dreams on,Asleep in these cold mists that hideThe sunless marsh of Acheron."And still for me will Lacon mourn,And still my pardon be denied:Ah, never shall I cross the bourneThat Dead from Living doth divide;Yet I repent me not!" she cried,"Nay—only that mine hour is gone;One memory hath glorifiedThe sunless marsh of Acheron."
Between the Midnight and the Morn,The under-world my soul espied;I saw the shades of men out-worn,The Heroes fallen in their pride;I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide,And many a ghost that strayed thereon;"Still must I roam," a maiden sighed,"The sunless marsh of Acheron."
"And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn?""Yea, even so," the shade replied,"For one I wronged in life hath swornIn hatred ever to abide:The lover seeketh not the bride,But aye, with me, his heart dreams on,Asleep in these cold mists that hideThe sunless marsh of Acheron.
"And still for me will Lacon mourn,And still my pardon be denied:Ah, never shall I cross the bourneThat Dead from Living doth divide;Yet I repent me not!" she cried,"Nay—only that mine hour is gone;One memory hath glorifiedThe sunless marsh of Acheron."
Envoy.
Ah, Princess! whenthyghost shall glideWhere never star nor sunlight shone,See thou she tarry not besideThe sunless marsh of Acheron.
Ah, Princess! whenthyghost shall glideWhere never star nor sunlight shone,See thou she tarry not besideThe sunless marsh of Acheron.
Graham R. Tomson.
Κατ' ἀσφοδελὸν λειμῶνα.
Now who will thread the winding way,Afar from fervid summer heat,Beyond the sunshafts of the day,Beyond the blast of winter sleet?In the green twilight, dimly sweet,Of poplar shades, the shadows dwell,Who found erewhile a fair retreatAlong the mead of Asphodel.There death and birth are one, they say;Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat;No sound doth rise of mortal fray,Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat:Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat;Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell;But lovers one another greetAlong the mead of Asphodel.I would that there my soul might stray;I would my phantom, fair and fleet,Might cleave the burden of the clay,Might leave the murmur of the street,Nor with half-hearted prayer entreatThe half-believed-in Gods; too welI know the name I shall repeatAlong the mead of Asphodel.
Now who will thread the winding way,Afar from fervid summer heat,Beyond the sunshafts of the day,Beyond the blast of winter sleet?In the green twilight, dimly sweet,Of poplar shades, the shadows dwell,Who found erewhile a fair retreatAlong the mead of Asphodel.
There death and birth are one, they say;Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat;No sound doth rise of mortal fray,Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat:Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat;Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell;But lovers one another greetAlong the mead of Asphodel.
I would that there my soul might stray;I would my phantom, fair and fleet,Might cleave the burden of the clay,Might leave the murmur of the street,Nor with half-hearted prayer entreatThe half-believed-in Gods; too welI know the name I shall repeatAlong the mead of Asphodel.
Envoy.
Queen Proserpine, at whose white feetIn life my love I may not tell,Wilt give me welcome when we meetAlong the mead of Asphodel?
Queen Proserpine, at whose white feetIn life my love I may not tell,Wilt give me welcome when we meetAlong the mead of Asphodel?
Graham R. Tomson.
What goal remains for pilgrim feetNow all our gods are banishèd?Afar, where sea and sunrise meet,Tall portals bathed in gold and red,From either door a carven headSmiles down on men full drowsilie'Mid mystic forms of wings outspreadBetween the Gates of Ivorie.Now if beyond lie town or streetI know not nor hath any said,Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet;Some say that there men meet the dead,Or filmy phantoms in their stead,And some "it leads to Arcadie,"In sooth I know not, yet would treadBetween the Gates of Ivorie.For surely there sounds music sweetWith fair delights and perfumes shed,And all things broken made complete,And found again things forfeited;All this for him who scorning dreadShall read the wreathen fantasie,And pass, where no base soul had spedBetween the Gates of Ivorie.
What goal remains for pilgrim feetNow all our gods are banishèd?Afar, where sea and sunrise meet,Tall portals bathed in gold and red,From either door a carven headSmiles down on men full drowsilie'Mid mystic forms of wings outspreadBetween the Gates of Ivorie.
Now if beyond lie town or streetI know not nor hath any said,Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet;Some say that there men meet the dead,Or filmy phantoms in their stead,And some "it leads to Arcadie,"In sooth I know not, yet would treadBetween the Gates of Ivorie.
For surely there sounds music sweetWith fair delights and perfumes shed,And all things broken made complete,And found again things forfeited;All this for him who scorning dreadShall read the wreathen fantasie,And pass, where no base soul had spedBetween the Gates of Ivorie.
Envoy.
Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread,Rise up and follow fearlesslie,By high desire and longing ledBetween the Gates of Ivorie.
Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread,Rise up and follow fearlesslie,By high desire and longing ledBetween the Gates of Ivorie.
Graham R. Tomson.
A goblin trapped in netted skein,Did bruise his wings with vain essay;"Now who will rend this hempen chain?Let that man ask me what he may,I shall not, surely, say him nay:The shadows wane, the day grows old,Meseems this mesh will keep for ayeThe sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!"These echoes of the creature's pain,As in the fowler's net he lay,Drew soon anigh a surly swainWho cut the cords and freed the fay:"Now what fair gift shall well repayThy service done?—for words are cold—Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?""The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.""Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain,Lo! here is treasure good and gay:"The goat-herd grasped his golden gainAnd bore the shining store away;He oped his chest, at break of day,To find—no talents, bright and cold,But soft, dead cowslips—nowhere layThe sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!
A goblin trapped in netted skein,Did bruise his wings with vain essay;"Now who will rend this hempen chain?Let that man ask me what he may,I shall not, surely, say him nay:The shadows wane, the day grows old,Meseems this mesh will keep for ayeThe sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!"
These echoes of the creature's pain,As in the fowler's net he lay,Drew soon anigh a surly swainWho cut the cords and freed the fay:"Now what fair gift shall well repayThy service done?—for words are cold—Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?""The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold."
"Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain,Lo! here is treasure good and gay:"The goat-herd grasped his golden gainAnd bore the shining store away;He oped his chest, at break of day,To find—no talents, bright and cold,But soft, dead cowslips—nowhere layThe sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold!
Envoy.
Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray,We twain, where nought is bought or sold,And find in every woodland way,The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.
Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray,We twain, where nought is bought or sold,And find in every woodland way,The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold.
Graham R. Tomson.
Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing,Full fast he flies for woe or weal,And some do bear his grievous stingToo deep for any leech to heal;I scorn to swell their sad appeal,False phantom, fled from our embrace!And yet—I doubt me I might kneelShould you but chance to turn your face.Of days long done our praises ringRight loud and full, a valorous peal,For life was then a lusty thing:Ah! then were mighty blows to deal.Brave days, my masters!—still, I feelIn sooth I could not deem him baseWho'd shun your stare, O age of steel!Should you but chance to turn your face."Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing,"That sorrow sets unbroken sealOn saint and sinner, clown and king."They beg death's boon with busy zeal.They'll do you homage warm and leal,Death! while you pass their dwelling-placeBut lips would gape and senses reel,Should you but chance to turn your face.
Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing,Full fast he flies for woe or weal,And some do bear his grievous stingToo deep for any leech to heal;I scorn to swell their sad appeal,False phantom, fled from our embrace!And yet—I doubt me I might kneelShould you but chance to turn your face.
Of days long done our praises ringRight loud and full, a valorous peal,For life was then a lusty thing:Ah! then were mighty blows to deal.Brave days, my masters!—still, I feelIn sooth I could not deem him baseWho'd shun your stare, O age of steel!Should you but chance to turn your face.
"Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing,"That sorrow sets unbroken sealOn saint and sinner, clown and king."They beg death's boon with busy zeal.They'll do you homage warm and leal,Death! while you pass their dwelling-placeBut lips would gape and senses reel,Should you but chance to turn your face.
Envoy.
Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel,We bow to find you full of grace,We would not turn on sullen heelShouldyoubut chance to turn your face.
Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel,We bow to find you full of grace,We would not turn on sullen heelShouldyoubut chance to turn your face.
Graham R. Tomson.
Heed not the folk who sing or sayIn sonnet sad or sermon chill,"Alas, alack, and well-a-day,This round world's but a bitter pill."Poor porcupines of fretful quill!Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:We, too, are sad and careful; stillWe'd rather be alive than not.What though we wish the cats at playWould some one else's garden till;Though Sophonisba drop the trayAnd all our worshipped Worcester spill,Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill,Though May be cold and June be hot,Though April freeze and August grill,We'd rather be alive than not.And, sometimes, on a summer's dayTo self and every mortal illWe give the slip, we steal away,To lie beside some sedgy rill;The darkening years, the cares that kill,A little while are well forgot;Deep in the broom upon the hillWe'd rather be alive than not.Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfilThe task thy braggart tongue begot.We eat our leek with better will,We'd rather be alive than not.
Heed not the folk who sing or sayIn sonnet sad or sermon chill,"Alas, alack, and well-a-day,This round world's but a bitter pill."Poor porcupines of fretful quill!Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:We, too, are sad and careful; stillWe'd rather be alive than not.
What though we wish the cats at playWould some one else's garden till;Though Sophonisba drop the trayAnd all our worshipped Worcester spill,Though neighbours "practise" loud and shrill,Though May be cold and June be hot,Though April freeze and August grill,We'd rather be alive than not.
And, sometimes, on a summer's dayTo self and every mortal illWe give the slip, we steal away,To lie beside some sedgy rill;The darkening years, the cares that kill,A little while are well forgot;Deep in the broom upon the hillWe'd rather be alive than not.
Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfilThe task thy braggart tongue begot.We eat our leek with better will,We'd rather be alive than not.
Graham R. Tomson.
So quaintly sadly mute they hang,We ask in vain what fingers played,What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,What songs in life's brief masquerade,—What old-world catch or serenade,What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairsFound voice when maid or ruffling bladeSang long-forgot familiar airs.We only know that once they rangIn oaken room and forest glade,Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;When earth and heaven itself were madeFor roistering off a Spanish raid,To drown in such life's shallower cares,Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,To long-forgot familiar airs.Dead all—a pun for every pang(So Shakespeare then the race portrayedThat fought and revelled, danced and sprangHalf-way to meet death undismayed);About them gather mist and shade,Yet Time ironically sparesThese strings on which their fingers strayedTo long-forgot familiar airs.
So quaintly sadly mute they hang,We ask in vain what fingers played,What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,What songs in life's brief masquerade,—What old-world catch or serenade,What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairsFound voice when maid or ruffling bladeSang long-forgot familiar airs.
We only know that once they rangIn oaken room and forest glade,Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;When earth and heaven itself were madeFor roistering off a Spanish raid,To drown in such life's shallower cares,Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,To long-forgot familiar airs.
Dead all—a pun for every pang(So Shakespeare then the race portrayedThat fought and revelled, danced and sprangHalf-way to meet death undismayed);About them gather mist and shade,Yet Time ironically sparesThese strings on which their fingers strayedTo long-forgot familiar airs.
Envoy.
Ah! child, so soon the colours fadeFrom Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs,You yet may seek in notes decayedOurlong-forgot familiar airs.
Ah! child, so soon the colours fadeFrom Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs,You yet may seek in notes decayedOurlong-forgot familiar airs.
Mortimer Wheeler.
Sink, sun, in crimson far away,Float out, pale moon, above the roar,While brown and silver, flame and grey,Round rock and sand, the waters pour;For night hath clue to all the store,Of wild wave-harmony that rings,And earth hath not in all her lore,The legends that sea-music brings.Here singing silver shallows frayThe ruby-tufted golden floor,Here wondrous twilight forests swayRound coral porch and corridorWhere lurk——but ah; why yet imploreThe splendid dream that round them clings?...Where lie the dead who heard of yoreThe legends that sea-music brings.This is the sea that could not stay,The tides of men that evermoreRolled westward still and cleft its spray,With hollowed trunk, and dauntless oar.Here Grecian trireme reeled before,Rome's purple galley; here sea kings,Left red on wave and blackened shoreThe legends that sea-music brings.
Sink, sun, in crimson far away,Float out, pale moon, above the roar,While brown and silver, flame and grey,Round rock and sand, the waters pour;For night hath clue to all the store,Of wild wave-harmony that rings,And earth hath not in all her lore,The legends that sea-music brings.
Here singing silver shallows frayThe ruby-tufted golden floor,Here wondrous twilight forests swayRound coral porch and corridorWhere lurk——but ah; why yet imploreThe splendid dream that round them clings?...Where lie the dead who heard of yoreThe legends that sea-music brings.
This is the sea that could not stay,The tides of men that evermoreRolled westward still and cleft its spray,With hollowed trunk, and dauntless oar.Here Grecian trireme reeled before,Rome's purple galley; here sea kings,Left red on wave and blackened shoreThe legends that sea-music brings.
Envoy.
Earth keeps not now the face she woreThe smoke-trails dusk the wide white wings;No longer as of old shall soar,The legends that sea-music brings.
Earth keeps not now the face she woreThe smoke-trails dusk the wide white wings;No longer as of old shall soar,The legends that sea-music brings.
Mortimer Wheeler.
When the fairies are all for their dances drest,When day's discords in the distance fail,When the robin and wren are asleep in the nest,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale,When star-fires are fading spark by spark,And the little birds all the dawning hail,O hark to the song of the merry lark!When over the hills the silver crestIs pouring enchantment on mere and vale,And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But when the bright sun dight in golden mailFlames over the tree-tops in the park,And the world goes again on its busy trail,O hark to the song of the merry lark!When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast,And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale,As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale,And Phillis is met where no one may mark,And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale,O hark to the song of the merry lark!
When the fairies are all for their dances drest,When day's discords in the distance fail,When the robin and wren are asleep in the nest,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But when diamonds glint on the dewy swale,When star-fires are fading spark by spark,And the little birds all the dawning hail,O hark to the song of the merry lark!
When over the hills the silver crestIs pouring enchantment on mere and vale,And the world lies hushed in a dreamy rest,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But when the bright sun dight in golden mailFlames over the tree-tops in the park,And the world goes again on its busy trail,O hark to the song of the merry lark!
When the young heart flutters in Mabel's breast,And Algernon's cheek for once only is pale,As the secret, half guessed, is at last confessed,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But when Corydon hides in a turn o' the dale,And Phillis is met where no one may mark,And the sudden blush and the kiss tell the tale,O hark to the song of the merry lark!
Envoi.
If Il Penseroso's mood prevail,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But whenever L'Allegro woos, then hark,O hark to the song of the merry lark!
If Il Penseroso's mood prevail,Then list to the note of the nightingale!But whenever L'Allegro woos, then hark,O hark to the song of the merry lark!
Ernest Whitney.
Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue,And serious Dickie, brave as fair,Crossing to Church you oft may viewWhen no one but myself is there:First to the belfry they repair,And while to the large ropes they cling,And make believe to call to prayer,For angels' ears the bells they ring!Next seated gravely in a pew,A pulpit homily they share,Meet for my little flock of two,Pointed and plain as they can bear:Then venture up the pulpit's stair,Pray at the desk or gaily sing:O sweet Child-life without a care-For angels' ears the bells they ring!Dear little ones, the early dewOf holy infancy they wear,And lift to Heaven a face as trueAs flowers that breathe the morning air:Whate'er they do, where'er they fare,They can command an angel's wingTheir voices have a music rare,For angels' ears the bells they ring!O parents, of your charge beware:Their angels stand before the King:In work, play, sleep, and everywhereFor angels' ears the bells they ring!
Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue,And serious Dickie, brave as fair,Crossing to Church you oft may viewWhen no one but myself is there:First to the belfry they repair,And while to the large ropes they cling,And make believe to call to prayer,For angels' ears the bells they ring!
Next seated gravely in a pew,A pulpit homily they share,Meet for my little flock of two,Pointed and plain as they can bear:Then venture up the pulpit's stair,Pray at the desk or gaily sing:O sweet Child-life without a care-For angels' ears the bells they ring!
Dear little ones, the early dewOf holy infancy they wear,And lift to Heaven a face as trueAs flowers that breathe the morning air:Whate'er they do, where'er they fare,They can command an angel's wingTheir voices have a music rare,For angels' ears the bells they ring!
O parents, of your charge beware:Their angels stand before the King:In work, play, sleep, and everywhereFor angels' ears the bells they ring!
Richard Wilton.