ROSE.

Mon coer s'esbat en oudourant la roseEt s'esjoïst en regardant ma dame.Trop mieulz me vault l'une que l'autre chose,Mon coer s'esbat en oudourant la rose,L'oudour m'est bon, mès dou regart je n'oseJuer trop fort, je le vous jur par m'ameMon coer s'esbat en oudourant la roseEt s'esjoïst en regardant ma dame.

—Froissart.

The weak point of the Triolet being the monotony of its refrain, every attempt, at giving a new accent to the words, short of actual punning, is welcomed as a relief. There is an air composed by Charles Delioux, to which all triolets in the pure form may be sung. De Banville quotes the melody in his "Odes Funnambulesques." Most people who have attempted to make rhymes know that when once a haunting melody gains control the words and sentences will try and fit themselves to it; so perhaps a would-be writer of triolets could secure correct form by learning this tune and writing his triolets to it. It is quite certain that this alone would not ensure a good poem, but it might keep one to the usual rhythm and exact number of syllables, with the correct musical accent, singularly near, if notidentical, with the poetical one, when properly used. A quaint example found by Mr. Dobson in an old French play is given on page214, as it has not hitherto been printed in England.

TheVillanellehas been called "the most ravishing jewel worn by the Muse Erato." The large number of Villanelles in modern English was the most unexpected find that came to light in the course of collecting material for the present volume. Many of these fulfil a condition now held strictly binding, since promulgated by Joseph Boulmier in his own Villanelles—that is, that their length should imitate the example of Jean Passerat's famous model, and be complete in nineteen lines. The rules sound simple, and the result must read easily; but the ease is only to be attained by an elaborate amount of care in production, which those who read only would hardly suspect existed. The accepted model for all to follow will be found on page242. The example that follows is an interesting translation by Boulmier of Mr. Dobson's Villanelle, "When I saw you last, Rose," first printed by his permission inLongman's Magazine(under the heading "At the Sign of the Ship") for July 1887:—

Vous étiez encore petiteRose, la dernière fois...Dieu! que le temps passe vite.Fleur innocente qu'abriteTendrement l'ombre des boisVous étiez encore petite.Et déjà la margueriteVa s'effeuillant sous vos doigts...Dieu! que le temps passe vite!Oh, comme se précipiteLa vie. A peine j'y crois...Vous étiez encor petite.Dans votre sein qui palpiteSe glisse un hôte sournois...Dieu! que le temps passe vite.Chez vous Cupidon s'invite:Adieu la paix d'autrefois!Vous étiez encore petite:Dieu! que le temps passe vite!

Vous étiez encore petiteRose, la dernière fois...Dieu! que le temps passe vite.

Fleur innocente qu'abriteTendrement l'ombre des boisVous étiez encore petite.

Et déjà la margueriteVa s'effeuillant sous vos doigts...Dieu! que le temps passe vite!

Oh, comme se précipiteLa vie. A peine j'y crois...Vous étiez encor petite.

Dans votre sein qui palpiteSe glisse un hôte sournois...Dieu! que le temps passe vite.

Chez vous Cupidon s'invite:Adieu la paix d'autrefois!Vous étiez encore petite:Dieu! que le temps passe vite!

The Villanelle is written in five three-lined stanzas, concluding with one of four lines. It will be seen that the refrain occupies eight of the nineteen lines, and is of paramount importance; taken from the first and third line of the first stanza, the two supply alternately the last lines from the second to the fifth verse, and both conclude the quatrain which ends the villanelle. Two rhymes only are allowed. The refrains must repeat in the order quoted in the example, the first refrain to conclude the second and fifth stanzas, the second refrain for the first, third, and fifth, and both for the sixth.

"The primitiveVillanellewas, in truth, a 'shepherd's song,' and, according to custom, its 'thoughts should be full of sweetness and simplicity,'" a hint given in a "Note on some Foreign Forms of Verse" that has been taken to heart by later writers, who almost invariably select pastoral or idyllic subjects for this most artificial but dainty lyric. Mr. Joseph Boulmier's "Les Villanelles," Paris, 1878, contains a valuable essay on the history and construction of the poem, and a series of forty original Villanelles, with twenty-two other poems, all of singular beauty.

TheLaiand theVirelaiare so nearly related that they must be considered together. De Gramont says, that thelaihas been unused since the earliest days in French poetry, but as it is invariably quoted in all treatises on the art, he prints a seventeenth century one, evidently written as a specimen to illustrate itslaws. De Banville cites the following by Pere Mourgues, from hisTraité de la Poesie:—

Sur l'appui du MondeQue faut-il qu'on fondeD'espoir?Cette mer profondeEt débris fécondeFait voirCalme au matin l'onde;Et l'orage y grondeLe Soir.

As no examples of the Lai are included in this volume, by the courtesy of the author I am allowed to quote the following:—

From oversea—Violets, for memories,I send to thee.Let them bear thought of me,With pleasant memoriesTo touch the heart of thee,Far oversea.A little way it is for love to flee,Love wing'd with memories,Hither to thither oversea.

From oversea—Violets, for memories,I send to thee.

Let them bear thought of me,With pleasant memoriesTo touch the heart of thee,Far oversea.

A little way it is for love to flee,Love wing'd with memories,Hither to thither oversea.

—William Sharp.

In the French example the form is seen to be composed of couplets of five syllable lines, all on the same rhyme, separated by single lines of two syllables, also on one rhyme throughout the stanza, which therefore employs but two rhymes. The number of lines in each verse was not fixed, nor the number of verses in the complete poem. TheLaihas preserved a curious old traditionin the form it appears either in writing or print. As in the verse quoted, the first letter of each line begins exactly under the preceding one; not with the short line indented—that is coming under the middle of the larger ones—usual in other poems composed of lines of irregular length. This detail was calledArbre fourchu(a forked tree), from the fanciful resemblance of a trunk with bare branches projecting, found by imaginative persons in its appearance on paper.

In the Lai each fresh stanza of the poem has its own two rhyme sounds, without reference to the preceding ones. By curtailing this liberty, and compelling each succeeding stanza to take the rhyme for its longer lines, from the short line of the preceding verse the Virelai is produced.

TheVirelai(ancien) is a lai that preserves a sequence of rhymes throughout. For example, in a twelve-line stanza the rhymes areA.A.b.A.A.b.A.A.b.A.A.b. (the long lines being marked by capital letters, and the shorter by small ones). Therefore, to follow the rules of the virelai, the next verse must have its rhymesB.B.c.B.B.c.B.B.c.B.B.c., and the nextC.C.d.C.C.d., and so on until the last verse (taking seven verses for an example) would haveG.G.a.G.G.a.G.G.a.G.G.a., its short lines rhyming with the two first lines of the poem. Thus each rhyme appears twice, once in its longer couplets, once in the short single lines. In the English examples this rule is preserved, but the length of the lines are frequently varied.

TheVirelai(Rhythme d'Alain Chartier) by Boulmier may be quoted as a form yet unused (I believe) in England.

Triste remembrance!Hé! Dieu! quand i'y penseCe m'est grand penance:Las! de ma iouuenceA passé la flour.Sanz doubter meschance,Bercé d'esperancePlain de desiranceAuecq OublianceAy faict long seiour.Nice troubadourAssoty pastourSerf ie feus d' AmourMais de ma folourIe n' ay repentance.Ouyl, maugré DoulourBel Aage engignourEn moy fay retour,Ne fust-ce qu'vng iour...Et ie recommence.

Triste remembrance!Hé! Dieu! quand i'y penseCe m'est grand penance:Las! de ma iouuenceA passé la flour.

Sanz doubter meschance,Bercé d'esperancePlain de desiranceAuecq OublianceAy faict long seiour.

Nice troubadourAssoty pastourSerf ie feus d' AmourMais de ma folourIe n' ay repentance.

Ouyl, maugré DoulourBel Aage engignourEn moy fay retour,Ne fust-ce qu'vng iour...Et ie recommence.

The rhymes are a, a, a, a, b; a, a, a, b; b, b, b, b, a; b, b, b, b, a. As but one example has come to notice, so it must speak for itself, for it would be unfair to deduce rules from a single specimen. Before leaving this heading there is another form, theVirelai nouveau, singularly unlike its name. It is curious that both the Rondeau Redoublé and this one, masquerading under the names of well-known forms, should be each unlike their unqualified title, and yet so nearly akin to the other.

TheVirelai nouveauis written throughout in two rhymes. Like therondeau redoublé, its first stanza serves as refrain for the later ones, but its initial verse is but a couplet, and the two lines close each stanza alternately until the last, where they appear both together, but in inverse order. Unfortunately, space forbids an example being quoted in its complete length. The one usually chosen is "Le Rimeur Rebuté;" this commences with the couplet—

Adieu vous dy, triste Lyre,C'est trop apprêter à rire.

Then follows a five-line stanza, rhyming a, a, b, a, a, with "Adieu vous dy," etc., for its last line; then an eight-lined one rhymed a, b, a, a, b, a, b, a, the last line being "C'est trop," etc.; that is followed by a four-line one closing with first line; then a sixteen-line one, using the second line for its refrain; then a seventeen-line one, with first line ending it; and finally a five-line stanza, its last lines being—

C'est trop apprêter à rire,Adieu vous dy, triste lyre.

If this description conveys its intended meaning, it will be seen that the verses are singularly irregular in form, and choose both the order of the rhymes and the length of the verses exactly at the will of the poet; but each paragraph must not only use its proper refrain to close with, but must bring it in naturally and easily as an inherent part of the verse. The last two lines in the inverted order must also be worked in with equal skill. Excepting one by Mr. Austin Dobson, that appeared inEvening Hoursabout 1878, this form has been unused, or at least unpublished, in English verse.

The poems in the following collections have been chosen for several reasons—some for their intrinsic excellence, some as examples of pure form, some for their bold attempts to produce variations from the typical models. There has been no limit to the subjects, since the purpose was to give a representative group of the rhythms, treated in the most diverse ways. Even burlesque and diatribe of the use of the forms, masquerading in guise of the enemy they professed to attack, have been welcomed, as the points of the construction of the verse are often seen more clearly in such examples. For similar reasons the parody of the pioneer Ballade, Mr. Austin Dobson'sProdigals, is quoted, since the doubtfulhonour of parody is at least a proof of wide popularity, the only others marked in this way being Mr. Swinburne's 'Dreamland' and Mr. Lang's 'Primitive Man.' Here, too, in default of a better place, it may be noted that Mr. Henley's 'Villonism' is not an imitation of the incomprehensible ballades in 'Jargon' or 'Jobelin,' but a paraphrase in thieves' patter of to-day of Villon'sBallade of Good Counsel.

It may be that such a medley of themes handled in so many different ways, was never of set purpose grouped side by side before, but is to be hoped that a method in the madness will be found. While conscious of a few noteworthy examples, Rossetti'sTranslations from Villonto wit, being not included for reasons beyond my control, so it may be that one or two here inserted would have been replaced by later comers, had they not gone to the printer's eternity of stereotype. Started as a collection, but turned perforce to a selection, from the increasing number available, they yet do not aim so much at being a selection of the best work solely, as of the best and least-accessible examples. This explanation of the progress and purpose of the volume is offered in common fairness both to its readers and to those authors who have permitted their works to be included, also to those who by oversight or too late discovery on my part have no examples of their poetry included herein.

[Note to pagexxxvi.—For Wyatt's Rondeaus, and alteration of the same into Sonnets by Tottel, in hisMiscellany, 1557, see Mr. Austin Dobson's Note in theAthenæum.]

En ce beau mois delicieux,Arbres, fleurs et agriculture,Qui, durant l' yver soucieux,Avez esté en sepulture,Sortez pour servir de pastureAux troupeaux du plus grand Pasteur:Chacun de vous en sa nature,Louez le nom de Createur.Les servans d' amour furieuxParlent de l' amour vaine et dure,Où vous, vrays amans curieuxParlez de l' amour sans laidure.Allez aux champs sur la verdureOuir l' oyseau, parfait chanteur;Mais du plaisir, si peu qu'il dureLouez le nom de Createur.Quand vous verrez rire les CieuxEt la terre en sa floriture,Quand vous verrez devant vos yeuxLes eaux lui bailler nourriture,Sur peine de grand forfaitureEt d' estre larron et menteur,N' en louez nulle creature,Louez le nom de Createur.

Les servans d' amour furieuxParlent de l' amour vaine et dure,Où vous, vrays amans curieuxParlez de l' amour sans laidure.Allez aux champs sur la verdureOuir l' oyseau, parfait chanteur;Mais du plaisir, si peu qu'il dureLouez le nom de Createur.

Quand vous verrez rire les CieuxEt la terre en sa floriture,Quand vous verrez devant vos yeuxLes eaux lui bailler nourriture,Sur peine de grand forfaitureEt d' estre larron et menteur,N' en louez nulle creature,Louez le nom de Createur.

Envoy.

Prince, pensez, veu la facture,Combien est puissant le facteur;Et vous aussi, mon escriture,Louez le nom de Createur.

—Clement Marot.

In these prosaic daysOf politics and trade,Where seldom fancy laysHer touch on man or maid,The sounds are fled that strayedAlong sweet streams that ran;Of song the world's afraid;Where are the Pipes of Pan?Within the busy mazeWherein our feet are stayed,There roam no gleesome faysLike those which once repaidHis sight who first essayedThe stream of song to span,Those spirits are all laid.Where are the Pipes of Pan?Dry now the poet's bays;Of song-robes disarrayedHe hears not now the praiseWhich erst those won who playedOn pipes of rushes made,Before dull days beganAnd love of song decayed.Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Within the busy mazeWherein our feet are stayed,There roam no gleesome faysLike those which once repaidHis sight who first essayedThe stream of song to span,Those spirits are all laid.Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Dry now the poet's bays;Of song-robes disarrayedHe hears not now the praiseWhich erst those won who playedOn pipes of rushes made,Before dull days beganAnd love of song decayed.Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Envoy.

Prince, all our pleasures fade;Vain all the toils of man;And fancy cries dismayed,Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Oscar Fay Adams.

In the mud of the Cambrian mainDid our earliest ancestor dive:From a shapeless albuminous grainWe mortals our being derive.He could split himself up into five,Or roll himself round like a ball;For the fittest will always survive,While the weakliest go to the wall.As an active ascidian againFresh forms he began to contrive,Till he grew to a fish with a brain,And brought forth a mammal alive.With his rivals he next had to strive,To woo him a mate and a thrall;So the handsomest managed to wiveWhile the ugliest went to the wall.At length as an ape he was fainThe nuts of the forest to rive;Till he took to the low-lying plain,And proceeded his fellow to knive.Thus did cannibal men first arrive,One another to swallow and maul;And the strongest continued to thriveWhile the weakliest went to the wall.

As an active ascidian againFresh forms he began to contrive,Till he grew to a fish with a brain,And brought forth a mammal alive.With his rivals he next had to strive,To woo him a mate and a thrall;So the handsomest managed to wiveWhile the ugliest went to the wall.

At length as an ape he was fainThe nuts of the forest to rive;Till he took to the low-lying plain,And proceeded his fellow to knive.Thus did cannibal men first arrive,One another to swallow and maul;And the strongest continued to thriveWhile the weakliest went to the wall.

Envoy.

Prince, in our civilised hiveNow money's the measure of all;And the wealthy in coaches can driveWhile the needier go to the wall.

Grant Allen.

Thank Heaven, in these despondent days,I have at least one faithful friend,Who meekly listens to my lays,As o'er the darkened downs we wend.Nay, naught of mine may him offend;In sooth he is a courteous wight,His constancy needs no amend—My shadow on a moonlight night.Too proud to give me perjured praise,He hearkens as we onward tend,And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase,Nor says he cannot comprehend.Might God such critics always send!He turns not to the left or right,But patient follows to the end—My shadow on a moonlight night.And if the public grant me bays,On him no jealousies descend;But through the midnight woodland ways,He velvet-footed will attend;Or where the chalk cliffs downward bendTo meet the sea all silver-bright,There will he come, most reverend—My shadow on a moonlight night.

Too proud to give me perjured praise,He hearkens as we onward tend,And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase,Nor says he cannot comprehend.Might God such critics always send!He turns not to the left or right,But patient follows to the end—My shadow on a moonlight night.

And if the public grant me bays,On him no jealousies descend;But through the midnight woodland ways,He velvet-footed will attend;Or where the chalk cliffs downward bendTo meet the sea all silver-bright,There will he come, most reverend—My shadow on a moonlight night.

Envoy.

O wise companion, I commendYour grace in being silent quite;And envy with approval blend—My shadow on a moonlight night.

William Black.

From country, from coast and from city,From nowhere and goodness knows where,The visitors come without pity,There is not a corner to spare;And students with work to prepareMust charter a captive balloonAnd study aloft in the air,For the May Week has fallen in June.The grinding of feet that are grittySo ceaseless on landing and stair;The notes of some drawing-room dittyDisturb the recluse in his lairAnd cause him to clutch at his hairAs he toils in the hot afternoon;But nobody hears if he swear,For the May Week has fallen in June.Then the damsels supposing its prettyTheir art-curtain patterns to wear,And the youths who conceive they are witty,Came round to be stared at, and stare.And amateur buglers that blare,And singers that howl to the moon,Are more than the system can bear;For the May Week has fallen in June.

The grinding of feet that are grittySo ceaseless on landing and stair;The notes of some drawing-room dittyDisturb the recluse in his lairAnd cause him to clutch at his hairAs he toils in the hot afternoon;But nobody hears if he swear,For the May Week has fallen in June.

Then the damsels supposing its prettyTheir art-curtain patterns to wear,And the youths who conceive they are witty,Came round to be stared at, and stare.And amateur buglers that blare,And singers that howl to the moon,Are more than the system can bear;For the May Week has fallen in June.

Envoi.

Friend, do not be caught in the snare,And strive not to sing or to spoon,Your tripos is all your affair,For the May Week has fallen in June.

From the 'Cambridge Meteor.'

Says Herbert: Pray, list to my notion,All ye who the truth would invite;Be Agnostics, and spurn the emotionThat ghosts and the gospels excite.In th' Unknown do I find all delight,And in Infinite Energy seeAll casual cravings unite—And that's the religion for me.Says Frederic: Pray list tomynotion,Away with Impersonal Might,To Humanity tender promotion,And worship the idëal wight.Though from stock that is Simian hightHe may trace out a pure pedigree,Yet to Man will I anthems recite—And that's the religion for me.Says Wilfrid: Pray, list tomynotion,On the hip I will infidels smite;'Tis only through Christian devotionThat virtues with vices can fight.Whate'er may Theology write,Whatever the Church may decree,My soul shall acknowledge as right—And that's the religion for me.

Says Frederic: Pray list tomynotion,Away with Impersonal Might,To Humanity tender promotion,And worship the idëal wight.Though from stock that is Simian hightHe may trace out a pure pedigree,Yet to Man will I anthems recite—And that's the religion for me.

Says Wilfrid: Pray, list tomynotion,On the hip I will infidels smite;'Tis only through Christian devotionThat virtues with vices can fight.Whate'er may Theology write,Whatever the Church may decree,My soul shall acknowledge as right—And that's the religion for me.

Envoi.

(Voice of the bewildered one.)

O faith full of riddle and rite,O philosophies deep as the sea,In this posse of problems polite,Prithee, where's the religion for me?

Cotsford Dick.

The sunlight sways the summer sky,Quivers with breath each quicken'd blade,The birds with one another vieTo move to mirth the grove and glade,While yonder solemn cavalcadeWinds o'er the glebe in gloom august,Chanting a dead man's serenade,Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.A smile is mated to a sigh,One flashes ere the other fade,Farce arm-in-arm with tragedy,So struts the motley masquerade.Youth deems for joy the world is made,Till disappointment deals disgust,Disease defiles the last decade,Ashes to ashes, dust to dast.Within the grave our earnest eyeBeholds a brother's body laid,Around us sombre hirelings plyThe unctuous usage of their trade.Beneath the hedgerow laughs a maid,Held in a lover's arm robust;One day for her it shall be said,Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

A smile is mated to a sigh,One flashes ere the other fade,Farce arm-in-arm with tragedy,So struts the motley masquerade.Youth deems for joy the world is made,Till disappointment deals disgust,Disease defiles the last decade,Ashes to ashes, dust to dast.

Within the grave our earnest eyeBeholds a brother's body laid,Around us sombre hirelings plyThe unctuous usage of their trade.Beneath the hedgerow laughs a maid,Held in a lover's arm robust;One day for her it shall be said,Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

Envoi.

Life, dost thou still possess the shadeOf him in earth so rudely thrust?Canst thou the sentence yet evade,Ashes to ashes, dust to dust?

Cotsford Dick.

King Philip had vaunted his claims;He had sworn for a year he would sack us;With an army of heathenish namesHe was coming to fagot and stack us;Like the thieves of the sea he would track us,And shatter our ships on the main;But we had bold Neptune to back us,—And where are the galleons of Spain?His carackes were christened of damesTo the kirtles whereof he would tack us;With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us:Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,And Drake to his Devon again,And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—For where are the galleons of Spain?Let his Majesty hang to St. JamesThe axe that he whetted to hack us;He must play at some lustier gamesOr at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;To his mines of Peru he would pack usTo tug at his bullet and chain;Alas that his Greatness should lack us!—But where are the galleons of Spain?

His carackes were christened of damesTo the kirtles whereof he would tack us;With his saints and his gilded stern-frames,He had thought like an egg-shell to crack us:Now Howard may get to his Flaccus,And Drake to his Devon again,And Hawkins bowl rubbers to Bacchus,—For where are the galleons of Spain?

Let his Majesty hang to St. JamesThe axe that he whetted to hack us;He must play at some lustier gamesOr at sea he can hope to out-thwack us;To his mines of Peru he would pack usTo tug at his bullet and chain;Alas that his Greatness should lack us!—But where are the galleons of Spain?

Envoy.

Gloriana!—the Don may attack usWhenever his stomach be fain;He must reach us before he can rack us, ...And where are the galleons of Spain?

Austin Dobson.

Chicken-skin, delicate, white,Painted by Carlo Vanloo,Loves in a riot of light,Roses and vaporous blue;Hark to the daintyfrou-frou!Picture above if you can,Eyes that could melt as the dew,—This was the Pompadour's fan!See how they rise at the sight,Thronging theŒil de Bœufthrough,Courtiers as butterflies bright,Beauties that Fragonard drew,Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,Eager to sigh or to sue,—This was the Pompadour's fan!Ah! but things more than politeHung on this toy,voyez vous!Matters of state and of might,Things that great ministers do;Things that, maybe, overthrewThose in whose brains they began;Here was the sign and the cue,—This was the Pompadour's fan!

See how they rise at the sight,Thronging theŒil de Bœufthrough,Courtiers as butterflies bright,Beauties that Fragonard drew,Talon-rouge, falbala, queue,Cardinal, Duke,—to a man,Eager to sigh or to sue,—This was the Pompadour's fan!

Ah! but things more than politeHung on this toy,voyez vous!Matters of state and of might,Things that great ministers do;Things that, maybe, overthrewThose in whose brains they began;Here was the sign and the cue,—This was the Pompadour's fan!

Envoy.

Where are the secrets it knew?Weavings of plot and of plan?—But where is the Pompadour, too?Thiswas the Pompadour'sFan!

Austin Dobson.

"C'est imiter quelqu'un que de planter des choux."

—Alfred de Musset.

If they hint, O Musician, the piece that you playedIs nought but a copy of Chopin or Spohr;That the ballad you sing is but merely "conveyed"From the stock of the Arnes and the Purcells of yore;That there's nothing, in short, in the words or the score,That is not as out-worn as the "Wandering Jew;"Make answer—Beethoven could scarcely do more—That the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shadeAre simply "adapted" from other men's lore;That—plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"—You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;That (however the writer the truth may deplore),Twas Gainsborough paintedyour"Little Boy Blue;"Smile only serenely—though cut to the core—For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!And you too, my Poet, be never dismayedIf they whisper your Epic—"Sir Eperon d' Or"—Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayedIn a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;That no one, in fact, but a child could ignoreThat you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;Take heart—though your Pegasus' withers be sore—For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!Postscriptum.—And you, whom we all so adore,Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!—One word in your ear. There were Critics before ...And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

If they tell you, Sir Artist, your light and your shadeAre simply "adapted" from other men's lore;That—plainly to speak of a "spade" as a "spade"—You've "stolen" your grouping from three or from four;That (however the writer the truth may deplore),Twas Gainsborough paintedyour"Little Boy Blue;"Smile only serenely—though cut to the core—For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

And you too, my Poet, be never dismayedIf they whisper your Epic—"Sir Eperon d' Or"—Is nothing but Tennyson thinly arrayedIn a tissue that's taken from Morris's store;That no one, in fact, but a child could ignoreThat you "lift" or "accommodate" all that you do;Take heart—though your Pegasus' withers be sore—For the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Postscriptum.—And you, whom we all so adore,Dear Critics, whose verdicts are always so new!—One word in your ear. There were Critics before ...And the man who plants cabbages imitates, too!

Austin Dobson.

(Ballade à double refrain.)

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut,In November fogs, in December snows,When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows,And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb,And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,When the reason stands on its squarest toes,When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"—And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strutIn a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—But whenever a soft glance softer grows,And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,And the secret is told "that no one knows,"Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut,When the reason stands on its squarest toes,When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut,"There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows,And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"—And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strutIn a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,"In a starched procession of "If" and "But,"There is place and enough for the pains of prose;—But whenever a soft glance softer grows,And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,And the secret is told "that no one knows,"Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

Envoy.

In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes,There is place and enough for the pains of prose;But whenever the May-bells clash and chime,Then hey!—for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

Austin Dobson.

To A. L.

Where are the cities of the plain?And where the shrines of rapt Bethel?And Calah built of Tubal-Cain?And Shinar whence King AmraphelCame out in arms, and fought, and fell,Decoyed into the pits of slimeBy Siddim, and sent sheer to hell;Where are the cities of old time?Where now is Karnak, that great faneWith granite built, a miracle?And Luxor smooth without a stain,Whose graven scriptures still we spell?The jackal and the owl may tell,Dark snakes around their ruins climb,They fade like echo in a shell;Where are the cities of old time?And where is white Shusan, again,Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell,And all the Jewish oil and grainWere brought to Mithridath to sell,Where Nehemiah would not dwell,Because another town sublimeDecoyed him with her oracle?Where are the cities of old time?

Where now is Karnak, that great faneWith granite built, a miracle?And Luxor smooth without a stain,Whose graven scriptures still we spell?The jackal and the owl may tell,Dark snakes around their ruins climb,They fade like echo in a shell;Where are the cities of old time?

And where is white Shusan, again,Where Vashti's beauty bore the bell,And all the Jewish oil and grainWere brought to Mithridath to sell,Where Nehemiah would not dwell,Because another town sublimeDecoyed him with her oracle?Where are the cities of old time?

Envoi.

Prince, with a dolorous, ceaseless knell,Above their wasted toil and crimeThe waters of oblivion swell:Where are the cities of old time?

Edmund Gosse.

Love thou art sweet in the spring-time of sowingBitter in reaping and salt as the seas,Lovely and soft when the young buds are growingHarsh when the fruitage is ripe on the trees:Yet who that hath plucked him thy blossom e'er fleesWho that hath drunk of thy sweetness can part,Tho' he find when thy chalice is drained to the leesAshes and dust in the place of a heart?'Tis myself that I curse at, the wild thoughts flowingAgainst myself built up of the breezeLike mountainous waves to my own o'erthrowingStrike and I tremble, my shivering kneesSink thro' the quicksands that round them freeze,From their treacherous hold I am loth to start:—In my breast laid bare, had you only the keys,Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.The world wide over young hearts are glowingWith high held hopes we believed with ease,And have them still, but the saddest knowingIs the knowledge of how by slow degreesThey slip from our side like a swarm of beesBearing their sweetness away, and departLeaving their stings in our bosom, with theseAshes and dust in the place of a heart.

'Tis myself that I curse at, the wild thoughts flowingAgainst myself built up of the breezeLike mountainous waves to my own o'erthrowingStrike and I tremble, my shivering kneesSink thro' the quicksands that round them freeze,From their treacherous hold I am loth to start:—In my breast laid bare, had you only the keys,Ashes and dust in the place of a heart.

The world wide over young hearts are glowingWith high held hopes we believed with ease,And have them still, but the saddest knowingIs the knowledge of how by slow degreesThey slip from our side like a swarm of beesBearing their sweetness away, and departLeaving their stings in our bosom, with theseAshes and dust in the place of a heart.

Envoi.

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