Paper, inviolate, white,Shall it be joy or pain?Shall I of fate complain,Or shall I laugh to-night?Shall it be hopes that are bright?Shall it be hopes that are vain?Paper, inviolate, white,Shall it be joy or pain?A dear little hand so light,A moment in mine hath lain;Kind was its pressure again—Ah, but it was so slight!Paper, inviolate, white,Shall it be joy or pain?
Paper, inviolate, white,Shall it be joy or pain?Shall I of fate complain,Or shall I laugh to-night?
Shall it be hopes that are bright?Shall it be hopes that are vain?Paper, inviolate, white,Shall it be joy or pain?
A dear little hand so light,A moment in mine hath lain;Kind was its pressure again—Ah, but it was so slight!
Paper, inviolate, white,Shall it be joy or pain?
Cosmo Monkhouse.
Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is hereAnd Love is Lord of you and me.The blue-bells beckon each passing bee;The wild wood laughs to the flowered year:There is no bird in brake or brere,But to his little mate sings he,"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,And Love is Lord of you and me!"The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear,The missel-thrush upon the treePipes for sheer gladness loud and free;And I go singing to my dear,"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,And Love is Lord of you and me."
Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is hereAnd Love is Lord of you and me.The blue-bells beckon each passing bee;The wild wood laughs to the flowered year:There is no bird in brake or brere,But to his little mate sings he,"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,And Love is Lord of you and me!"
The blue sky laughs out sweet and clear,The missel-thrush upon the treePipes for sheer gladness loud and free;And I go singing to my dear,"Kiss me, sweetheart; the Spring is here,And Love is Lord of you and me."
John Payne.
Before the dawn begins to glow,A ghostly company I keep;Across the silent room they creep,The buried forms of friend and foe.Amid the throng that come and go,There are two eyes that make me weep;Before the dawn begins to glow,A ghostly company I keep.Two dear dead eyes. I love them so!They shine like starlight on the deep;And often when I am asleepThey stoop and kiss me, bending low,Before the dawn begins to glow.
Before the dawn begins to glow,A ghostly company I keep;Across the silent room they creep,The buried forms of friend and foe.Amid the throng that come and go,There are two eyes that make me weep;Before the dawn begins to glow,A ghostly company I keep.
Two dear dead eyes. I love them so!They shine like starlight on the deep;And often when I am asleepThey stoop and kiss me, bending low,Before the dawn begins to glow.
Samuel Minturn Peck.
Oh, say not ye that summer's overWhen birds within the wood stop singing!While hands still touch in desperate clinging,Some ghost of hope in hearts must hover;Though died the dream of loved and lover,While yet the marriage bells were ringing.Oh, say not ye that summer's overWhen birds within the wood stop singing!Their vanished hopes may none recoverIn some new day, new morrow bringing?And shall we see no buds fresh springingUpon the stalks of last year's clover?Oh, say not ye that summer's overWhen birds within the wood stop singing!
Oh, say not ye that summer's overWhen birds within the wood stop singing!While hands still touch in desperate clinging,Some ghost of hope in hearts must hover;Though died the dream of loved and lover,While yet the marriage bells were ringing.Oh, say not ye that summer's overWhen birds within the wood stop singing!
Their vanished hopes may none recoverIn some new day, new morrow bringing?And shall we see no buds fresh springingUpon the stalks of last year's clover?Oh, say not ye that summer's overWhen birds within the wood stop singing!
May Probyn.
We bless the coming of the Night,Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free,Life's clamour and anxietyHer mantle covers out of sight.All eating cares have taken flight,The scented air is wine to me;We bless the coming of the Night,Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free.Rest now, O reader, worn and white,Driven by some divinity,Aloft, like sparkling hoar frost see,A starry ocean throb in light,We bless the coming of the Night.
We bless the coming of the Night,Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free,Life's clamour and anxietyHer mantle covers out of sight.All eating cares have taken flight,The scented air is wine to me;We bless the coming of the Night,Whose cool sweet kiss has set us free.Rest now, O reader, worn and white,Driven by some divinity,Aloft, like sparkling hoar frost see,A starry ocean throb in light,We bless the coming of the Night.
The moon, with all her tricksy ways,Is like a careless young coquette,Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet,And flies or follows or delays.By night, along the sand-hills' maze,She leads and mocks you till you fret.The moon with all her tricksy ways,Is like a careless young coquette.As oft she veils herself in haze,A cloak before her splendour set;She is a silly charming pet,We needs must give her love and praise,The moon with all her tricksy ways.
The moon, with all her tricksy ways,Is like a careless young coquette,Who smiles, and then her eyes are wet,And flies or follows or delays.By night, along the sand-hills' maze,She leads and mocks you till you fret.The moon with all her tricksy ways,Is like a careless young coquette.As oft she veils herself in haze,A cloak before her splendour set;She is a silly charming pet,We needs must give her love and praise,The moon with all her tricksy ways.
Arthur Reed Ropes.
Oh, modern singers! ye who voteOur times for song unfit,Your Pegasus is smooth of coat,And patient of the bit;But lost the freedom of his throat,And dulled his prairie wit,Oh, modern singers, ye who voteOur times for song unfit,If kin, fame, critics, age, you quoteAs fain to thwart and twit,Just try to feel your wings, and floatAbove the scornful kit:-Oh, modern singers, ye who voteOur times for song unfit!
Oh, modern singers! ye who voteOur times for song unfit,Your Pegasus is smooth of coat,And patient of the bit;
But lost the freedom of his throat,And dulled his prairie wit,Oh, modern singers, ye who voteOur times for song unfit,
If kin, fame, critics, age, you quoteAs fain to thwart and twit,Just try to feel your wings, and floatAbove the scornful kit:-Oh, modern singers, ye who voteOur times for song unfit!
Emily Pfeiffer.
(Rondel.)
Come, Love, across the sunlit land,As blithe as dryad dancing free,While time slips by like silvery sandWithin the glass of memory.Ere Winter, in his reckless glee,Blights all the bloom with ruthless hand,Come, Love, across the sunlit land,As blithe as dryad dancing free.And all the years of life shall beLike peaceful vales that wide expandTo meet a bright, untroubled seaBy radiant azure arches spanned;Come, Love, across the sunlit landAs blithe as dryad dancing free.
Come, Love, across the sunlit land,As blithe as dryad dancing free,While time slips by like silvery sandWithin the glass of memory.
Ere Winter, in his reckless glee,Blights all the bloom with ruthless hand,Come, Love, across the sunlit land,As blithe as dryad dancing free.
And all the years of life shall beLike peaceful vales that wide expandTo meet a bright, untroubled seaBy radiant azure arches spanned;Come, Love, across the sunlit landAs blithe as dryad dancing free.
Clinton Scollard.
(Rondel.)
Upon the stair I see my lady stand,Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn,And, like the laughing sunbeam on the lawn,The radiant smile by which her lips are spanned.A chiselled marvel seems her slender handWhat time she waves it ere my steps are gone;Upon the stair I see my lady stand,Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.Through the green covert that the breeze has fannedShe fleets as graceful as the flexile fawn;She is the star to which my soul is drawnWhen shadows drive the daylight from the land.Upon the stair I see my lady stand,Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.
Upon the stair I see my lady stand,Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn,And, like the laughing sunbeam on the lawn,The radiant smile by which her lips are spanned.
A chiselled marvel seems her slender handWhat time she waves it ere my steps are gone;Upon the stair I see my lady stand,Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.
Through the green covert that the breeze has fannedShe fleets as graceful as the flexile fawn;She is the star to which my soul is drawnWhen shadows drive the daylight from the land.Upon the stair I see my lady stand,Her hair is like the gleaming gold of dawn.
Clinton Scollard.
(Rondel.)
I heard a maid with her guitarWho played, like Orpheus, to the wind,And sent forth rhythmic notes afarFrom out an arbor vine-entwined.She knew the God of love was blind,And left her white heart-gates ajar—I heard a maid with her guitarWho played, like Orpheus, to the wind.But ah! Love's ears are keen as areThe ears of shy, pool-haunting hind,And when she closed her bosom's barShe found the god was there enshrined;I heard a maid with her guitarWho played, like Orpheus, to the wind.
I heard a maid with her guitarWho played, like Orpheus, to the wind,And sent forth rhythmic notes afarFrom out an arbor vine-entwined.
She knew the God of love was blind,And left her white heart-gates ajar—I heard a maid with her guitarWho played, like Orpheus, to the wind.
But ah! Love's ears are keen as areThe ears of shy, pool-haunting hind,And when she closed her bosom's barShe found the god was there enshrined;I heard a maid with her guitarWho played, like Orpheus, to the wind.
Clinton Scollard.
Awake, awake, O gracious heart,There's some one knocking at the door;The chilling breezes make him smart;His little feet are tired and sore.Arise, and welcome him beforeAdown his cheeks the big tears start:Awake, awake, O gracious heart,There's some one knocking at the door.'Tis Cupid come with loving artTo honour, worship, and implore;And lest, unwelcomed, he departWith all his wise mysterious lore,Awake, awake, O gracious heart,There's some one knocking at the door!
Awake, awake, O gracious heart,There's some one knocking at the door;The chilling breezes make him smart;His little feet are tired and sore.
Arise, and welcome him beforeAdown his cheeks the big tears start:Awake, awake, O gracious heart,There's some one knocking at the door.
'Tis Cupid come with loving artTo honour, worship, and implore;And lest, unwelcomed, he departWith all his wise mysterious lore,Awake, awake, O gracious heart,There's some one knocking at the door!
Frank Dempster Sherman.
I hide her in my heart, my May,And keep my darling captive there!But not because she'd fly awayTo seek for liberty elsewhere,For love is ever free as air!And as with me her love will stay,I hide her in my heart, my May,And keep my darling captive there.Our love is love that lives for ayeEnchained in fetters strong and fair,So evermore, by night and day,That we our prisoned home may share,I hide her in my heart, my May,And keep my darling captive there.
I hide her in my heart, my May,And keep my darling captive there!But not because she'd fly awayTo seek for liberty elsewhere,For love is ever free as air!And as with me her love will stay,I hide her in my heart, my May,And keep my darling captive there.
Our love is love that lives for ayeEnchained in fetters strong and fair,So evermore, by night and day,That we our prisoned home may share,I hide her in my heart, my May,And keep my darling captive there.
C. H. Waring.
Looks that love not are silver-cold—Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes!Hearts are wide as the boundless skiesFull of loves—like the stars—untold!Love by love should be bought and sold.Other payments are shams and lies!Looks that love not are silver-cold—Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes!Many loves will a great heart hold—Foolish often, but often wise;Someof silver, butoneof gold,—Life's great treasure, and crowning prize.Looks that love not are silver-cold—Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes—
Looks that love not are silver-cold—Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes!Hearts are wide as the boundless skiesFull of loves—like the stars—untold!
Love by love should be bought and sold.Other payments are shams and lies!Looks that love not are silver-cold—Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes!
Many loves will a great heart hold—Foolish often, but often wise;Someof silver, butoneof gold,—Life's great treasure, and crowning prize.Looks that love not are silver-cold—Gold the glory of love-sweet eyes—
C. H. Waring.
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string:The warblers now are on the wing.Across the pathless ocean-glooms,Through tender grass and violet blooms,I move along and gaily sing.The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string.Nature with beauteous tints illumesThe fields and groves of budding Spring,Loud voices from afar to bring;And my glad Muse its song resumes—The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string.
The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string:The warblers now are on the wing.Across the pathless ocean-glooms,Through tender grass and violet blooms,I move along and gaily sing.The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string.
Nature with beauteous tints illumesThe fields and groves of budding Spring,Loud voices from afar to bring;And my glad Muse its song resumes—The larch has donned its rosy plumes,And hastes its emerald beads to string.
Richard Wilton.
O all ye Green Things on the Earth,Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade;To whisper praises ye were made,Or wave to Him in solemn mirth.For this the towering pine had birth,For this sprang forth each grassy blade;O all ye Green Things on the Earth,Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade.Ye wayside weeds of little worth,Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade,Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade,Ye steadfast yews of mighty girth:O all ye Green Things on the Earth,Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade!
O all ye Green Things on the Earth,Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade;To whisper praises ye were made,Or wave to Him in solemn mirth.For this the towering pine had birth,For this sprang forth each grassy blade;O all ye Green Things on the Earth,Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade.
Ye wayside weeds of little worth,Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade,Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade,Ye steadfast yews of mighty girth:O all ye Green Things on the Earth,Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade!
Richard Wilton.
"Which way he went?"I know not—how should I go spyWhich way he went?I only know him gone. "Relent?"He never will—unless I die!And then, what will it signifyWhich way he went?Say what you please,But know, I shall not change my mind!Say what you please,Even, if you wish it, on your knees—And, when you hear me next definedAs something lighter than the wind,Say what you please!
"Which way he went?"I know not—how should I go spyWhich way he went?I only know him gone. "Relent?"He never will—unless I die!And then, what will it signifyWhich way he went?
Say what you please,But know, I shall not change my mind!Say what you please,Even, if you wish it, on your knees—And, when you hear me next definedAs something lighter than the wind,Say what you please!
May Probyn.
Might Love be bought, I were full fainMy all to give thy love to gain.Yet would such getting profit naught;Possession with keen fears were fraught,Would make even love's blisses vain.For who could tell what god might deignHis golden treasures round thee rain,Till ruin on my hopes were brought,Might Love be bought.Better a pensioner remainOn thy dear grace, since to attainTo worthiness in vain I sought.Thy kindness hath assurance wroughtCould never be between us twainMight Love be bought.
Might Love be bought, I were full fainMy all to give thy love to gain.Yet would such getting profit naught;Possession with keen fears were fraught,Would make even love's blisses vain.
For who could tell what god might deignHis golden treasures round thee rain,Till ruin on my hopes were brought,Might Love be bought.
Better a pensioner remainOn thy dear grace, since to attainTo worthiness in vain I sought.Thy kindness hath assurance wroughtCould never be between us twainMight Love be bought.
Arlo Bates.
In thy clear eyes, fairest, I seeSometimes of love a transient glow;But ere my heart assured may be,With cold disdain thou mockest me:Hope fades as songs to silence flow.Ah! most bewitching, mocking she,Fairer than poet's dream may show,The glance of scorn how can I dreeIn thy clear eyes?Life is so brief, and to and fro,Like thistledown above the lea,Fly on poor days; why then so slowTo bend from pride? Let us bliss knowEre age the light dims ruthlesslyIn thy clear eyes.
In thy clear eyes, fairest, I seeSometimes of love a transient glow;But ere my heart assured may be,With cold disdain thou mockest me:Hope fades as songs to silence flow.
Ah! most bewitching, mocking she,Fairer than poet's dream may show,The glance of scorn how can I dreeIn thy clear eyes?
Life is so brief, and to and fro,Like thistledown above the lea,Fly on poor days; why then so slowTo bend from pride? Let us bliss knowEre age the light dims ruthlesslyIn thy clear eyes.
Arlo Bates.
The sweet sad years; the sun, the rain,Alas! too quickly did they wane,For each some boon, some blessing bore;Of smiles and tears each had its store,Its chequered lot of bliss and pain.Although it idle be and vain,Yet cannot I the wish restrainThat I had held them evermore,The sweet sad years!Like echo of an old refrainThat long within the mind has lain,I keep repeating o'er and o'er,"Nothing can e'er the past restore,Nothing bring back the years again,The sweet sad years!"
The sweet sad years; the sun, the rain,Alas! too quickly did they wane,For each some boon, some blessing bore;Of smiles and tears each had its store,Its chequered lot of bliss and pain.
Although it idle be and vain,Yet cannot I the wish restrainThat I had held them evermore,The sweet sad years!
Like echo of an old refrainThat long within the mind has lain,I keep repeating o'er and o'er,"Nothing can e'er the past restore,Nothing bring back the years again,The sweet sad years!"
Rev. Charles D. Bell, D.D.
Fain would I pass from all the pain,The aching heart and weary brain,From gnawing grief and withering care,And passion rising to despair,From love dissatisfied and vain.From tears that burn the cheeks they stain,And hopes that droop like flowers in rain,From sorrows that turn grey the hair,Fain would I pass!Beyond the silent, soundless main,Where the long lost are found again,Where summer smiles for ever fair,Where skies are pure, divine the air,Where love and joy eternal reign,Fain would I pass!
Fain would I pass from all the pain,The aching heart and weary brain,From gnawing grief and withering care,And passion rising to despair,From love dissatisfied and vain.
From tears that burn the cheeks they stain,And hopes that droop like flowers in rain,From sorrows that turn grey the hair,Fain would I pass!
Beyond the silent, soundless main,Where the long lost are found again,Where summer smiles for ever fair,Where skies are pure, divine the air,Where love and joy eternal reign,Fain would I pass!
Rev. Charles D. Bell, D.D.
Why are you sad when the sky is blue?Why, when the sun shines bright for you,And the birds are singing, and all the airSo sweet with the flowers everywhere?If life hath thorns, it has roses too.Be wise and be merry. 'Tis half untrueYour doleful song. You have work to do.If the work be good, and the world so fair,Why are you sad?Life's sorrows are many, its joys so few!Ah! sing of the joys! Let the dismal crewOf black thoughts bide in their doleful lair,Give us glad songs; sing us free from care.Gladness maketh the world anew,Why are you sad?
Why are you sad when the sky is blue?Why, when the sun shines bright for you,And the birds are singing, and all the airSo sweet with the flowers everywhere?If life hath thorns, it has roses too.
Be wise and be merry. 'Tis half untrueYour doleful song. You have work to do.If the work be good, and the world so fair,Why are you sad?
Life's sorrows are many, its joys so few!Ah! sing of the joys! Let the dismal crewOf black thoughts bide in their doleful lair,Give us glad songs; sing us free from care.Gladness maketh the world anew,Why are you sad?
Why am I sad when the sky is blue,You ask, O friend, and I answer you—I love the sun and balmy air,The flowers and glad things everywhere.But if life is merry, 'tis earnest too.And the earnest hour, if hope be true,Must be solemn or sad; for the work we doIs little and weak. Ask the world so fairWhy I am sad.For me glad hours are nowise few,But life is so serious-ship and crewBound such a voyage to death's dark lair.My work is my happy song: but careStill steals on the quiet hour anewAnd makes it sad.
Why am I sad when the sky is blue,You ask, O friend, and I answer you—I love the sun and balmy air,The flowers and glad things everywhere.But if life is merry, 'tis earnest too.
And the earnest hour, if hope be true,Must be solemn or sad; for the work we doIs little and weak. Ask the world so fairWhy I am sad.
For me glad hours are nowise few,But life is so serious-ship and crewBound such a voyage to death's dark lair.My work is my happy song: but careStill steals on the quiet hour anewAnd makes it sad.
H. Courthope Bowen.
His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dipsIn juice of plants that no bee sips,He takes, and with his bow renown'dGoes out upon his hunting ground,Hanging his quiver at his hips.He draws them one by one, and clipsTheir heads between his finger tips,And looses with a twanging soundHis poisoned shafts.But if a maiden with her lipsSuck from his wound the blood that drips,And drink the poison from the wound,The simple remedy is foundThat of their deadly terror stripsHis poisoned shafts.
His poisoned shafts, that fresh he dipsIn juice of plants that no bee sips,He takes, and with his bow renown'dGoes out upon his hunting ground,Hanging his quiver at his hips.
He draws them one by one, and clipsTheir heads between his finger tips,And looses with a twanging soundHis poisoned shafts.
But if a maiden with her lipsSuck from his wound the blood that drips,And drink the poison from the wound,The simple remedy is foundThat of their deadly terror stripsHis poisoned shafts.
Robert Bridges.
All down the years thy tale has rolled—A brilliant streak of burnished goldOld Homer, near we seem to thee,As roving over vale and seaThou tellest of thy hero bold!For we too wonder, as of oldThy hero did. The fates are doledTo us the same, both serf and free,All down the years.None other yet has ever toldSo sweet a tale; as we unfoldThy mystic page we find the keyOf human sorrow, guilt and glee,Which ever comes our souls to mouldAll down the years.
All down the years thy tale has rolled—A brilliant streak of burnished goldOld Homer, near we seem to thee,As roving over vale and seaThou tellest of thy hero bold!
For we too wonder, as of oldThy hero did. The fates are doledTo us the same, both serf and free,All down the years.
None other yet has ever toldSo sweet a tale; as we unfoldThy mystic page we find the keyOf human sorrow, guilt and glee,Which ever comes our souls to mouldAll down the years.
John Malcolm Bulloch.
The Summer's gone—how did it go?And where has gone the dogwood's show?The air is sharp upon the hill,And with a tinkle sharp and chillThe icy little brooklets flow.What is it in the season, though,Brings back the days of old, and soSets memory recalling stillThe Summer's gone?Why are my days so dark? for lo!The maples with fresh glory glow,Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill,The keen air sets the blood a-thrill-Ah! now thatyouare gone, I knowThe Summer's gone.
The Summer's gone—how did it go?And where has gone the dogwood's show?The air is sharp upon the hill,And with a tinkle sharp and chillThe icy little brooklets flow.
What is it in the season, though,Brings back the days of old, and soSets memory recalling stillThe Summer's gone?
Why are my days so dark? for lo!The maples with fresh glory glow,Fair shimmering mists the valleys fill,The keen air sets the blood a-thrill-Ah! now thatyouare gone, I knowThe Summer's gone.
H. C. Bunner.
Les morts vont vite!Ay for a little spaceWe miss and mourn them, fallen from their place;To take our portion in their rest are fain;But by-and-by, having wept, press on again,Perchance to win their laurels in the race.What man would find the old in the new love's face?Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace,For withered roses newer blooms disdain?Les morts vont vite!But when disease brings thee in piteous case,Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill graceTo them for whom remembrance plead in vain.Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow PainClasp thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace:Les morts vont vite!
Les morts vont vite!Ay for a little spaceWe miss and mourn them, fallen from their place;To take our portion in their rest are fain;But by-and-by, having wept, press on again,Perchance to win their laurels in the race.
What man would find the old in the new love's face?Seek on the fresher lips the old kisses' trace,For withered roses newer blooms disdain?Les morts vont vite!
But when disease brings thee in piteous case,Thou shalt thy dead recall, and thy ill graceTo them for whom remembrance plead in vain.Then, shuddering, think, while thy bedfellow PainClasp thee with arms that cling like Death's embrace:Les morts vont vite!
H. C. Bunner.
In love's disport, gay bubbles blownOn summer winds light-freighted flown:A child intent upon delightThe painted spheres would keep in sight,Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown.Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grownFair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone,Clear globes where fate may read arightIn love's disport.O frail as fair! though in the whiteOf flameful heat with force to fight,Art thou by careless hands cast downOr killed, when frozen hearts disownThe children born of love and lightIn love's disport.
In love's disport, gay bubbles blownOn summer winds light-freighted flown:A child intent upon delightThe painted spheres would keep in sight,Dissolved too soon in worlds unknown.
Lo! from the furnace mouth hath grownFair shapes, as frail; with jewelled zone,Clear globes where fate may read arightIn love's disport.
O frail as fair! though in the whiteOf flameful heat with force to fight,Art thou by careless hands cast downOr killed, when frozen hearts disownThe children born of love and lightIn love's disport.
Walter Crane.
What makes the world, Sweetheart, reply?A space of lawn, a strip of sky,The bread and wine of fellowship,The cup of life for love to sip,A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eyeSo let the days and hours go by,Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny,With feathered heel shall fancy trip—What makes the world?The wealth that never in the gripOf blighting greed shall heedless slip,—When bought and sold is liberty,With worth of life and love gone by—What makes the world?
What makes the world, Sweetheart, reply?A space of lawn, a strip of sky,The bread and wine of fellowship,The cup of life for love to sip,A glass of dreams in Hope's blue eye
So let the days and hours go by,Let Fortune flout, and Fame deny,With feathered heel shall fancy trip—What makes the world?
The wealth that never in the gripOf blighting greed shall heedless slip,—When bought and sold is liberty,With worth of life and love gone by—What makes the world?
Walter Crane.
O babbling Spring, than glass more clear,Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,To-morrow shall a kid be thineWith swelled and sprouting brows for sign,—Sure sign!—of loves and battles near.Child of the race that butt and rear!Not less, alas! his life-blood dearMust tinge thy cold wave crystalline,O babbling Spring!Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheerWith pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—The wandering flock. This verse of mineWill rank thee one with founts divine;Men shall thy rock and tree revere,O babbling Spring!
O babbling Spring, than glass more clear,Worthy of wreath and cup sincere,To-morrow shall a kid be thineWith swelled and sprouting brows for sign,—Sure sign!—of loves and battles near.
Child of the race that butt and rear!Not less, alas! his life-blood dearMust tinge thy cold wave crystalline,O babbling Spring!
Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheerWith pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,—The wandering flock. This verse of mineWill rank thee one with founts divine;Men shall thy rock and tree revere,O babbling Spring!
Austin Dobson.
On London stones I sometimes sighFor wider green and bluer sky;—Too oft the trembling note is drownedIn this huge city's varied sound;—"Pure song is country-born,"—I cry.Then comes the spring,—the months go by,The last stray swallows seaward fly;And I—I too!—no more am foundOn London stones!In vain! the woods, the fields denyThat clearer strain I fain would try;Mine is an urban Muse, and boundBy some strange law to paven ground;Abroad she pouts;—she is not shyOn London stones!
On London stones I sometimes sighFor wider green and bluer sky;—Too oft the trembling note is drownedIn this huge city's varied sound;—"Pure song is country-born,"—I cry.
Then comes the spring,—the months go by,The last stray swallows seaward fly;And I—I too!—no more am foundOn London stones!
In vain! the woods, the fields denyThat clearer strain I fain would try;Mine is an urban Muse, and boundBy some strange law to paven ground;Abroad she pouts;—she is not shyOn London stones!
Austin Dobson.
"In teacup-times!" The style of dressWould suit your beauty, I confess;Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;I picture you with powdered hair,—You'd make a charming Shepherdess!And I—no doubt—could well expressSir Plume'scomplete conceitedness,—Could poise a clouded cane with care"In teacup-times!"The parts would fit precisely—yes:We should achieve a huge success!You should disdain and I despair,With quite the true Augustan air;But ... could I love you more, or less,—"In teacup-times?"
"In teacup-times!" The style of dressWould suit your beauty, I confess;Belinda-like, the patch you'd wear;I picture you with powdered hair,—You'd make a charming Shepherdess!
And I—no doubt—could well expressSir Plume'scomplete conceitedness,—Could poise a clouded cane with care"In teacup-times!"
The parts would fit precisely—yes:We should achieve a huge success!You should disdain and I despair,With quite the true Augustan air;But ... could I love you more, or less,—"In teacup-times?"
Austin Dobson.
O royal Rose! the Roman dress'dHis feast with thee; thy petals press'dAugustan brows; thine odour fine,Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine,Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.What marvel then, if host and guestBy Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd,Half-trembled on the half-divine,O royal Rose!And yet—and yet—I love thee bestIn our old gardens of the West,Whether about my thatch thou twine,Or Her's, that brown-eyed maid of mine,Who lulls thee on her lawny breast,O royal Rose!
O royal Rose! the Roman dress'dHis feast with thee; thy petals press'dAugustan brows; thine odour fine,Mix'd with the three-times-mingled wine,Lent the long Thracian draught its zest.
What marvel then, if host and guestBy Song, by Joy, by Thee caress'd,Half-trembled on the half-divine,O royal Rose!
And yet—and yet—I love thee bestIn our old gardens of the West,Whether about my thatch thou twine,Or Her's, that brown-eyed maid of mine,Who lulls thee on her lawny breast,O royal Rose!
Austin Dobson.
With pipe and flute the rustic PanOf old made music sweet for man;And wonder hushed the warbling bird,And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,—The rolling river slowlier ran.Ah! would,—ah! would, a little span,Some air of Arcady could fanThis age of ours, too seldom stirredWith pipe and flute!But now for gold we plot and plan;And from Beersheba unto Dan,Apollo's self might pass unheard,Or find the night-jar's note preferred ...Not so it fared, when time beganWith pipe and flute!
With pipe and flute the rustic PanOf old made music sweet for man;And wonder hushed the warbling bird,And closer drew the calm-eyed herd,—The rolling river slowlier ran.
Ah! would,—ah! would, a little span,Some air of Arcady could fanThis age of ours, too seldom stirredWith pipe and flute!
But now for gold we plot and plan;And from Beersheba unto Dan,Apollo's self might pass unheard,Or find the night-jar's note preferred ...Not so it fared, when time beganWith pipe and flute!
Austin Dobson.
In after days, when grasses highO'er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honoured dust,I shall not question nor reply.I shall not see the morning sky,I shall not hear the night-wind sigh,I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!But yet, now living, fain were IThat some one then should testify,Saying—He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust.Will none?... Then let my memory dieIn after days!
In after days, when grasses highO'er-top the stone where I shall lie,Though ill or well the world adjustMy slender claim to honoured dust,I shall not question nor reply.
I shall not see the morning sky,I shall not hear the night-wind sigh,I shall be mute, as all men mustIn after days!
But yet, now living, fain were IThat some one then should testify,Saying—He held his pen in trustTo Art, not serving shame or lust.Will none?... Then let my memory dieIn after days!
Austin Dobson.
In vain to-day I scrape and blot:The nimble words, the phrases neat,Decline to mingle and to meet;My skill is all forgone, forgot.He will not canter, walk, or trot,My Pegasus; I spur, I beatIn vain to-day.And yet 'twere sure the saddest lotThat I should fail to leave completeOne poor ... the rhyme suggests "conceit!"Alas! 'tis all too clear I'm notIn vein to-day.
In vain to-day I scrape and blot:The nimble words, the phrases neat,Decline to mingle and to meet;My skill is all forgone, forgot.
He will not canter, walk, or trot,My Pegasus; I spur, I beatIn vain to-day.
And yet 'twere sure the saddest lotThat I should fail to leave completeOne poor ... the rhyme suggests "conceit!"Alas! 'tis all too clear I'm notIn vein to-day.
Austin Dobson.
When Burbadge played, the stage was bareOf fount and temple, tower and stair;Two backswords eked a battle out;Two supers made a rabble rout;The Throne of Denmark was a chair!And yet, no less, the audience thereThrilled through all changes of Despair,Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt,When Burbadge played!This is the Actor's gift; to shareAll moods, all passions, nor to careOne whit for scene, so he withoutCan lead men's minds the roundabout,Stirred as of old those hearers were,When Burbadge played!
When Burbadge played, the stage was bareOf fount and temple, tower and stair;Two backswords eked a battle out;Two supers made a rabble rout;The Throne of Denmark was a chair!
And yet, no less, the audience thereThrilled through all changes of Despair,Hope, Anger, Fear, Delight, and Doubt,When Burbadge played!
This is the Actor's gift; to shareAll moods, all passions, nor to careOne whit for scene, so he withoutCan lead men's minds the roundabout,Stirred as of old those hearers were,When Burbadge played!
Austin Dobson.
(To J. H. P.)
Old books are best! With what delightDoes "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight;On frontispiece or title-pageOf that old time, when on the stage"Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!And you, O friend, to whom I write,Must not deny, e'en though you might,Through fear of modern pirates' rage,Old books are best.What though the print be not so bright,The paper dark, the binding slight?Our author, be he dull or sage,Returning from that distant ageSo lives again, we say of right:Old books are best.
Old books are best! With what delightDoes "Faithorne fecit" greet our sight;On frontispiece or title-pageOf that old time, when on the stage"Sweet Nell" set "Rowley's" heart alight!
And you, O friend, to whom I write,Must not deny, e'en though you might,Through fear of modern pirates' rage,Old books are best.
What though the print be not so bright,The paper dark, the binding slight?Our author, be he dull or sage,Returning from that distant ageSo lives again, we say of right:Old books are best.
Beverly Chew.
A coward still: I've longed to flingMy arms about you, and to bringMy beating heart so near to thine,That it might learn all thought of mine,And closer to me cling.But ere I dared do anything,My trembling courage took to wing,And left its bold design,A coward still.Poor heart: these words for ever ring,Fair dame wins not the faint fearing;Tho' secretly it may repineThe loss that would make life divine,Yet it must be content to sing,A coward still.
A coward still: I've longed to flingMy arms about you, and to bringMy beating heart so near to thine,That it might learn all thought of mine,And closer to me cling.
But ere I dared do anything,My trembling courage took to wing,And left its bold design,A coward still.
Poor heart: these words for ever ring,Fair dame wins not the faint fearing;Tho' secretly it may repineThe loss that would make life divine,Yet it must be content to sing,A coward still.
John Cameron Grant.
A cultured mind! Before I speakThe words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheekWith blushes of the nodding roseThat on thy breast in beauty blows,I prithee satisfy my freak.Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek?Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak?Hast thou, in short, as I suppose,A cultured mind.Some men require a maiden meekEnough to eat at need the leek;Some lovers crave a classic nose,A liquid eye, or faultless pose;I none of these, I only seekA cultured mind.
A cultured mind! Before I speakThe words, sweet maid, to tinge thy cheekWith blushes of the nodding roseThat on thy breast in beauty blows,I prithee satisfy my freak.
Canst thou read Latin and eke Greek?Dost thou for knowledge pine and peak?Hast thou, in short, as I suppose,A cultured mind.
Some men require a maiden meekEnough to eat at need the leek;Some lovers crave a classic nose,A liquid eye, or faultless pose;I none of these, I only seekA cultured mind.