THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS.

"Contra vimMortisNon est medicamen in hortis."

He is the despots' Despot. All must bide,Later or soon, the message of his might;Princes and potentates their heads must hide,Touched by the awful sigil of his right;Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth waitAnd pours a potion in his cup of state;The stately Queen his bidding must obey;No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith—"Let be, Sweetheart, to junket and to play...."There is no king more terrible than Death.The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,He draweth down; before the armèd KnightWith jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;He beckons the grave Elder from debate,He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay....There is no king more terrible than Death.All things must bow to him. And woe betideThe Wine-bibber,—the Roisterer by night;Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;Woe to the Thief that like a beast of preyWith creeping tread the traveller hurryeth:—These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay....There is no king more terrible than Death.He hath no pity,—nor will be denied.When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:—He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—In the last furrow,—feels an icy breath,And knows a hand hath turned the team astray....There is no king more terrible than Death.He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;The maid half-won, the Lover passionate;He hath no grace for weakness or decay:The tender Wife, the Widow bent and grey,—The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,—All these he leadeth by the lonely way....There is no king more terrible than Death.

The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,He draweth down; before the armèd KnightWith jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;He beckons the grave Elder from debate,He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay....There is no king more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betideThe Wine-bibber,—the Roisterer by night;Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;Woe to the Thief that like a beast of preyWith creeping tread the traveller hurryeth:—These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay....There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity,—nor will be denied.When the low hearth is garnishèd and bright,Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;He hath no pity for the scorned of fate:—He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may;Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,—In the last furrow,—feels an icy breath,And knows a hand hath turned the team astray....There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;The maid half-won, the Lover passionate;He hath no grace for weakness or decay:The tender Wife, the Widow bent and grey,—The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,—All these he leadeth by the lonely way....There is no king more terrible than Death.

Envoy.

Youth, for whose ear and monishing of late,I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;But know not less that there must come a day,—Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,—When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,—There is no king more terrible than Death.

Austin Dobson.

(Chant Royal.)

Behold, above the mountains there is light,A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire,And the dim East hath suddenly grown brightWith pale aerial flame, that drives up higherThe lurid mists that, of the night aware,Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare;Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose,And down the vales a lyric people flows,Who dance to music, and in dancing flingTheir frantic robes to every wind that blows,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire;Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair,With ivy circling their abundant hair,Onward, with even pace, in stately rows,With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows,And all the while their tribute songs they bring,And newer glories of the past disclose,And deathless praises to their vine-god sing.The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white,And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher,Bathed in an air of infinite delight,Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire,Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare,Leading the van to conquest, on they fare;Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes,These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close,Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring,And forests grim forget their ancient woes,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.And youths are there for whom full many a nightBrought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,And wandered forth through many a scourging briar,And waited shivering in the icy air,And wrapped their leopard-skins about them there,Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze,The time must come, that every poet knows,When he shall rise and feel himself a king,And follow, follow where the ivy grows,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.But oh! within the heart of this great flight,What ivory arms held up the golden lyre?What form is this of more than mortal heightWhat matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire?The brindled panthers know the prize they bear,And harmonise their steps with stately care;Bent to the morning like a living rose,The immortal splendour of his face he shows,And where he glances, leaf and flower and wingTremble with rapture, stirred in their repose,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white,And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher,Bathed in an air of infinite delight,Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire,Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare,Leading the van to conquest, on they fare;Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes,These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close,Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring,And forests grim forget their ancient woes,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

And youths are there for whom full many a nightBrought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,And wandered forth through many a scourging briar,And waited shivering in the icy air,And wrapped their leopard-skins about them there,Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze,The time must come, that every poet knows,When he shall rise and feel himself a king,And follow, follow where the ivy grows,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.But oh! within the heart of this great flight,What ivory arms held up the golden lyre?What form is this of more than mortal heightWhat matchless beauty, what inspirèd ire?The brindled panthers know the prize they bear,And harmonise their steps with stately care;Bent to the morning like a living rose,The immortal splendour of his face he shows,And where he glances, leaf and flower and wingTremble with rapture, stirred in their repose,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

Envoi.

Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foesRecord the bounty that thy grace bestows,But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling;And with no frigid lips our songs compose,And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

Edmund Gosse.

(Chant Royal.)

O most fair God, O Love both new and old,That wast before the flowers of morning blew,Before the glad sun in his mail of goldLeapt into light across the first day's dew;That art the first and last of our delight,That in the blue day and the purple nightHoldest the hearts of servant and of king,Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,That in thy hand hast heaven's golden keyAnd Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

What thing rejects thy mastery? who so boldBut at thine altars in the dusk they sue?Even the strait pale goddess, silver-stoled,That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new,To thee did homage in her own despite,When in the shadow of her wings of whiteShe slid down trembling from her moonèd ringTo where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,And in that kiss put off cold chastity.Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string,"Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?"

Master of men and gods, in every foldOf thy wide vans the sorceries that renewThe labouring earth, tranced with the winter's cold,Lie hid—the quintessential charms that wooThe souls of flowers, slain with the sullen mightOf the dead year, and draw them to the light.Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling;Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands flingTheir spells of healing over land and sea,One shout of homage makes the welkin ring,"Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!"

I see thee throned aloft; thy fair hands holdMyrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue:Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue:But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright,The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight.Thou are not only fair and sweet as spring;Terror and beauty, fear and wonderingMeet on thy brow, amazing all that see:All men do praise thee, ay, and everything;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

I fear thee, though I love. Who can beholdThe sheer sun burning in the orbèd blue,What while the noontide over hill and woldFlames like a fire, except his mazèd viewWither and tremble? So thy splendid sightFills me with mingled gladness and affright.Thy visage haunts me in the waveringOf dreams, and in the dawn awakening,I feel thy radiance streaming full on me.Both fear and joy unto thy feet I bring;Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee!

Envoy.

God above Gods, High and Eternal King,To whom the spheral symphonies do sing,I find no whither from thy power to flee,Save in thy pinions vast o'ershadowing.Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

John Payne.

(Chant Royal.)

I waited on a mountain's midmost side,The lifting of a cloud, and standing there,Keeping my soul in patience far and wideBeheld faint shadows wandering, felt the airStirred as with voices which in passing byStill dulled its weary weight with many a sigh.No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they—These children of the mist—who took their way,Each one aloof, perplexed and ponderingWith steps untimed to music grave or gay;—This was a people that had lost its king.In happier days of old it was their prideTo serve him on their knee and some were 'wareE'en of his voice or presence as they pliedTheir daily task, or ate their simple fare.Now in new glory shrouded, far and nighHe had withdrawn himself from ear and eye;Scorning such service as they knew to pay,His ministers were as the golden rayShot from the sun when he would wake the spring,—Swift to perform and pliant to obey—This was a people that had lost its king.Single as beasts, or if allied, alliedBut as the wolf who leaves his dusky lairTo hound for common need, which scarce supplied,He lone returns with his disputed share,—Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,Each man of these pursued his way on high,Still high and higher, seeking through the greyGloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowingShadows continuing never in one stay;—This was a people that had lost its king.Then as the day wore on, and none descriedThe longed-for presence, as the way grew bare,As strength declined, and hope within them diedA sad new birth,—the fruit of their despair,—Stirred in their midst, and with a human cryAwoke a human love, and flushed a drySweet spring of tears, whose fertilising playBroke up the hard cold barriers of their clay,Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to clingIn fealty that was only joined to pray;This was a people that had lost its king.So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,With gathering power and ever lessening care,The veiled beguilements of the way defiedThey cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair;Till lo upon its crown at last they vieIn songs of rapture as they hail the sky,And trace their lost one through the vast arrayOf tuneful suns, which keep not now at bayTheir questing love, but help to waft and wing;And over all a voice which seems to say,This is a people that has found its king!

In happier days of old it was their prideTo serve him on their knee and some were 'wareE'en of his voice or presence as they pliedTheir daily task, or ate their simple fare.Now in new glory shrouded, far and nighHe had withdrawn himself from ear and eye;Scorning such service as they knew to pay,His ministers were as the golden rayShot from the sun when he would wake the spring,—Swift to perform and pliant to obey—This was a people that had lost its king.

Single as beasts, or if allied, alliedBut as the wolf who leaves his dusky lairTo hound for common need, which scarce supplied,He lone returns with his disputed share,—Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,Each man of these pursued his way on high,Still high and higher, seeking through the greyGloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.Dim, serviceless, bereft and sorrowingShadows continuing never in one stay;—This was a people that had lost its king.

Then as the day wore on, and none descriedThe longed-for presence, as the way grew bare,As strength declined, and hope within them diedA sad new birth,—the fruit of their despair,—Stirred in their midst, and with a human cryAwoke a human love, and flushed a drySweet spring of tears, whose fertilising playBroke up the hard cold barriers of their clay,Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to clingIn fealty that was only joined to pray;This was a people that had lost its king.

So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,With gathering power and ever lessening care,The veiled beguilements of the way defiedThey cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair;Till lo upon its crown at last they vieIn songs of rapture as they hail the sky,And trace their lost one through the vast arrayOf tuneful suns, which keep not now at bayTheir questing love, but help to waft and wing;And over all a voice which seems to say,This is a people that has found its king!

Envoy.

Lord of our lives! Thou scorned us that dayWhen at thy feet a scattered host we lay.Behold us ONE! One mighty heart we bring,Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway.This was the people that had lost its king!

Emily Pfeiffer.

(Chant Royal.)

I sit enthroned 'mid icy wastes afar,Beyond the level land of endless snow,For months I see the brilliant polar starShine on a shore, the lonelier none may know.Supreme I rule in monarchy of might,—My realms are boundless as the realms of Night.Proud court I hold, and tremblingly obeyMy many minions from the isles of Day;And when my heralds sound aloud, beholdMy slaves appear with suppliant heads alway!I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.I am the god of the winds that are!I blow where'er I list,—I come, I go.Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped carI rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.The dreary woodlands shudder in affrightTo hear my clarion on the mountain height.The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray,"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?"I am as aged as the earth is old,Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.I loose my chains, and then with awful jarAnd presage of disaster and dire woe,Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow.I bid them haste; they bound in eager flightToward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm lightMakes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray,They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay.They turn green meadows to a desert wold,And naught for rulers of the earth care they;—I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow,When night is perfect, and no cloud doth marThe peace of nature, when the rivers flowIs soft and musical, and when the spriteWhispers to lovers on each breeze bedightWith fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,And seize upon whate'er I will for prey.I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.I am in league with Death. When I unbarMy triple-guarded doors, and there bestowUpon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scarThe brightest dales with summer blooms a-row,They breathe on every bower a deadly blight,And all is sere and withered in their sight.Unheeded now, Apollo's warming rayWakes not the flower, for my chill breezes playWhere once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,—I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am the god of the winds that are!I blow where'er I list,—I come, I go.Athwart the sky upon my cloud-capped carI rein my steeds, swift-prancing to and fro.The dreary woodlands shudder in affrightTo hear my clarion on the mountain height.The sobbing sea doth moan in pain, and pray,"Is there no refuge from the storm-king's sway?"I am as aged as the earth is old,Yet strong am I although my locks are grey;I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I loose my chains, and then with awful jarAnd presage of disaster and dire woe,Out rush the storms and sound the clash of war'Gainst all the earth, and shrill their bugles blow.I bid them haste; they bound in eager flightToward far fair lands, where'er the sun's warm lightMakes mirth and joyance; there, in rude affray,They trample down, despoil, and crush and slay.They turn green meadows to a desert wold,And naught for rulers of the earth care they;—I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

When in the sky, a lambent scimitar,In early eve Endymion's bride doth glow,When night is perfect, and no cloud doth marThe peace of nature, when the rivers flowIs soft and musical, and when the spriteWhispers to lovers on each breeze bedightWith fragrance, then I steal forth, as I may,And seize upon whate'er I will for prey.I see the billows high as hilltops rolled,And clutch and flaunt aloft the snowy spray!I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

I am in league with Death. When I unbarMy triple-guarded doors, and there bestowUpon my frost-fiends freedom, bid them scarThe brightest dales with summer blooms a-row,They breathe on every bower a deadly blight,And all is sere and withered in their sight.Unheeded now, Apollo's warming rayWakes not the flower, for my chill breezes playWhere once soft zephyrs swayed the marigold,And where his jargon piped the noisy jay,—I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

Envoy.

O Princes, hearken what my trumpets say!—"Man's life is naught, no mortal lives for aye;His might hath empire only of the mold,"Boast not yourselves, ye fragile forms of clay!I am great Boreas, King of wind and cold.

Clinton Scollard.

(Chant Royal.)

Awake, awake, nay, slumber not, nor sleep!Forth from the dreamland and black dome of night,From chaos and thick darkness, from the deepOf formless being, comes a gracious light,Gilding the crystal seas, and casting roundA golden glory on the enchanted ground;—Awake, O souls of harmony, and yeThat greet the dayspring with your jubileeOf lute and harp! Awake, awake, and bringYour well-tuned cymbals, and go forth with glee,Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheepEspied their shepherd, and with eager flightGone forth to meet him on the craggy steep;Hasting the while his summoning notes inviteWhere riper grasses and green herbs abound:—But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound!He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he!Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly fleeTo him who makes once more new growths upspring;Oh, quit your ancient glebes,—oh, joyfullyGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.Too long ye till exhausted lands and reapThin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite:Too long your laggard oxen labouring creepUp the wide furrows, and full idly smiteThe weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound:Will ye not quit these fields now barren found?Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to beBrave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary;—Then each, let each his robe around him fling,And with his little one, his child, set free,Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweepTheir creamy ripples up the sandy bight,Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap,The faery infant of the infinite!Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crownedHe'll turn to thee to fathom and expound;Asking, enquiring, looking unto theeTo solve the universe, its destiny;—And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling,Asking, enquiring,—whispering, may not weGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weepO'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite;Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keepWatch on this guiding star that beams so brightAround your brows be this phylacter bound,—Let Truth be king and let his praise resound!Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea,To sound his praises let all hearts agree;Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring,Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancyGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Far o'er the hills have not the watchful sheepEspied their shepherd, and with eager flightGone forth to meet him on the craggy steep;Hasting the while his summoning notes inviteWhere riper grasses and green herbs abound:—But ye! your shepherd calls, thrice happy sound!He comes, he comes, your shepherd king, 'tis he!Oh, quit these close-cropped meads, and gladly fleeTo him who makes once more new growths upspring;Oh, quit your ancient glebes,—oh, joyfullyGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Too long ye till exhausted lands and reapThin crops that ne'er your weary toil requite:Too long your laggard oxen labouring creepUp the wide furrows, and full idly smiteThe weed-encircled ridge, the rocky mound:Will ye not quit these fields now barren found?Ah! ye are old, yet not too old to beBrave travellers o'er bald custom's boundary;—Then each, let each his robe around him fling,And with his little one, his child, set free,Go forth, and welcome the eternal king.

See, on the strand, watching the waves that sweepTheir creamy ripples up the sandy bight,Your child waits, leaping as the wavelets leap,The faery infant of the infinite!Ah! happy child, with what new wonders crownedHe'll turn to thee to fathom and expound;Asking, enquiring, looking unto theeTo solve the universe, its destiny;—And still unto thy vestment's hem will cling,Asking, enquiring,—whispering, may not weGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Oh, linger not, no longer vainly weepO'er vanished hopes, but with new strength unite;Oh, linger not! But let your glad eyes keepWatch on this guiding star that beams so brightAround your brows be this phylacter bound,—Let Truth be king and let his praise resound!Oh, linger not! Let earth, and sky, and sea,To sound his praises let all hearts agree;Still loud, and louder, let your pæans ring,Go forth, go forth, in glad exultancyGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Envoy.

Thou art the king, O Truth! we bend the kneeTo thee; we own thy wondrous sovranty;And still thy praises in our songs we'll sing,Bidding all people with blithe minstrelsyGo forth, and welcome the eternal king.

Samuel Waddington.

When Spring came softly breathing o'er the land,With warmer sunshine and sweet April shower;Bidding the silken willow leaves expand;Calling to hill and meadow, bee and flower,Bright with new life and beauty; on light wingBringing the birds again to love and sing;And waking in the heart its joy amain,With old fond hopes and memories in its train;Childishly glad mid universal cheer,How oft we sang the half-forgotten strain:"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned,With footstep free and proud in restless power,With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned,In blooming loveliness came to her bower,Her golden tresses loosely wanderingIn wild luxuriance,—then pretty SpringSeemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain.How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign!How day by day our empress grew more dear!"Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain?Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous handPoured round our feet the riches of her dower:The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland,The largess free to gleaner and to plower,And all the Summer sought in vain to bring;When stood the hills in glorious garmenting;Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain,No more could our ennobled thoughts sustainRegretful memory of Summer sere,—"What of the past!" we cried in quick disdain;"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"Then before mighty Winter, stern and grand,We saw defenceless Autumn shivering, cower,Changed to Duessa by his potent wand,Shorn of her loveliness, in Fortune's lowerNaked for Winter's scourge to smite and sting.How godlike came the world's new sceptered King!He fettered fast her torrents with his chain,Bound with his manacles the moaning main,Yea, wrought his will with all things far and near."At last," we said, "what more can Time attain?Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"Neglected Spring, despised, insulted, banned!Poor weakling! came again one April hour,The tyrant struck his tent at her command;She laughed,—down tumbling fell his frosty tower;At one light finger-touch his captives flingTheir shackles off and make the valleys ringWith praises to the conqueror of pain.All the lost lives that languishing have lain,Leaves, grasses, buds, and birds again appear,"O now!" we cried again and yet again,"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"Prince, while Spring sports with sunbeam, flower, and rain,—While wanton Summer riots on the plain,—'Neath Autumn's calm, or Winter's frown severe,Change only clearer chants the old refrain,"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"

When Summer by her fervid breezes fanned,With footstep free and proud in restless power,With plump, round cheek to ruddy beauty tanned,In blooming loveliness came to her bower,Her golden tresses loosely wanderingIn wild luxuriance,—then pretty SpringSeemed but a playful sister, pettish, vain.How well we loved the passionate Summer's reign!How day by day our empress grew more dear!"Beyond," we asked, "what fairer can remain?Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"

But when grave Autumn's ever bounteous handPoured round our feet the riches of her dower:The pulpy fruit, the nut's sweet ripened gland,The largess free to gleaner and to plower,And all the Summer sought in vain to bring;When stood the hills in glorious garmenting;Shadowed by low-hung skies of sober grain,No more could our ennobled thoughts sustainRegretful memory of Summer sere,—"What of the past!" we cried in quick disdain;"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"

Then before mighty Winter, stern and grand,We saw defenceless Autumn shivering, cower,Changed to Duessa by his potent wand,Shorn of her loveliness, in Fortune's lowerNaked for Winter's scourge to smite and sting.How godlike came the world's new sceptered King!He fettered fast her torrents with his chain,Bound with his manacles the moaning main,Yea, wrought his will with all things far and near."At last," we said, "what more can Time attain?Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"

Neglected Spring, despised, insulted, banned!Poor weakling! came again one April hour,The tyrant struck his tent at her command;She laughed,—down tumbling fell his frosty tower;At one light finger-touch his captives flingTheir shackles off and make the valleys ringWith praises to the conqueror of pain.All the lost lives that languishing have lain,Leaves, grasses, buds, and birds again appear,"O now!" we cried again and yet again,"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"

Prince, while Spring sports with sunbeam, flower, and rain,—While wanton Summer riots on the plain,—'Neath Autumn's calm, or Winter's frown severe,Change only clearer chants the old refrain,"Nowwe behold the glory of the year!"

Ernest Whitney.

Qui voudra sçavoir la pratiqueDe cette rime juridique,Je dis que bien mise en effetLa Kyrielle ainsi se fait.De plante de sillabes huitUsez en donc si bien vous duit;Pour faire le couplet parfaitLa Kirielle ainsi si fait.

—Theodore de Banville.

A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine,A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,A fly in the sunshine,—such is man.All things must end, as all began.A little pain, a little pleasure,A little heaping up of treasure;Then no more gazing upon the sun.All things must end that have begun.Where is the time for hope or doubt?A puff of the wind, and life is out;A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.All things must end that have begun.Golden morning and purple night,Life that fails with the failing light;Death is the only deathless one.All things must end that have begun.Ending waits on the brief beginning;Is the prize worth the stress of winning?E'en in the dawning the day is done.All things must end that have begun.Weary waiting and weary striving,Glad outsetting and sad arriving;What is it worth when the goal is won?All things must end that have begun.Speedily fades the morning glitter;Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter.Two are parted from what was one.All things must end that have begun.Toil and pain and the evening rest;Joy is weary and sleep is best;Fair and softly the day is done.All things must end that have begun.

A lark in the mesh of the tangled vine,A bee that drowns in the flower-cup's wine,A fly in the sunshine,—such is man.All things must end, as all began.

A little pain, a little pleasure,A little heaping up of treasure;Then no more gazing upon the sun.All things must end that have begun.

Where is the time for hope or doubt?A puff of the wind, and life is out;A turn of the wheel, and rest is won.All things must end that have begun.

Golden morning and purple night,Life that fails with the failing light;Death is the only deathless one.All things must end that have begun.

Ending waits on the brief beginning;Is the prize worth the stress of winning?E'en in the dawning the day is done.All things must end that have begun.

Weary waiting and weary striving,Glad outsetting and sad arriving;What is it worth when the goal is won?All things must end that have begun.

Speedily fades the morning glitter;Love grows irksome and wine grows bitter.Two are parted from what was one.All things must end that have begun.

Toil and pain and the evening rest;Joy is weary and sleep is best;Fair and softly the day is done.All things must end that have begun.

John Payne.

In the tent the lamps were bright;Out beyond the summer nightThrilled and quivered like a star:We beneath were left so far.From the depths of blue profoundNever any sight or soundCame our loneliness to mar:We beneath were left so far.But against the summer skyOnly you stood out and I;From all other things that areWe beneath were left so far.

In the tent the lamps were bright;Out beyond the summer nightThrilled and quivered like a star:We beneath were left so far.

From the depths of blue profoundNever any sight or soundCame our loneliness to mar:We beneath were left so far.

But against the summer skyOnly you stood out and I;From all other things that areWe beneath were left so far.

A. Mary F. Robinson.

In spring Love came, a welcome guest,And tarried long at my behest;Now autumn wanes, the skies are greyBut loyal Love flees not away.I charmed him with melodious laysThrough long rose-scented summer days;My songs no more are clear and gayBut loyal Love flees not away.We plucked and twined the myrtle flowers,Made joyance in the sylvan bowers;The blooms have died, wild winds hold sway,But loyal Love flees not away.Gone are the fifing crickets, goneThe feathered harbingers of dawn,And gone the woodland's bright display,But loyal Love flees not away.With intermingled light and shadeThe shifting seasons come and fade;Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray,But loyal Love flees not away!

In spring Love came, a welcome guest,And tarried long at my behest;Now autumn wanes, the skies are greyBut loyal Love flees not away.

I charmed him with melodious laysThrough long rose-scented summer days;My songs no more are clear and gayBut loyal Love flees not away.

We plucked and twined the myrtle flowers,Made joyance in the sylvan bowers;The blooms have died, wild winds hold sway,But loyal Love flees not away.

Gone are the fifing crickets, goneThe feathered harbingers of dawn,And gone the woodland's bright display,But loyal Love flees not away.

With intermingled light and shadeThe shifting seasons come and fade;Our fond hopes fail, false friends betray,But loyal Love flees not away!

Clinton Scollard.

"The blue fly sung in the pane."—Tennyson.

Toiling in Town now is "horrid"(There is that woman again!)—June in the zenith is torrid,Thought gets dry in the brain.There is that woman again:"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Thought gets dry in the brain;Ink gets dry in the bottle."Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Oh for the green of a lane!—Ink gets dry in the bottle;"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!Oh for the green of a lane,Where one might lie and be lazy!"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;Bluebottles drive me crazy!Where one might lie and be lazy,Careless of Town and all in it!—Bluebottles drive me crazy:I shall go mad in a minute!Careless of Town and all in it,With some one to soothe and to still you;I shall go mad in a minute,Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!With some one to soothe and to still you,As only one's feminine kin do,—Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:There now! I've broken the window!As only one's feminine kin do,—Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!—There now! I've broken the window!Bluebottle's off and away!Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,To dash one with eau de Cologne;—Bluebottle's off and away,And why should I stay here alone?To dash one with eau de Cologne,All over one's eminent forehead;And why should I stay here alone?Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

Toiling in Town now is "horrid"(There is that woman again!)—June in the zenith is torrid,Thought gets dry in the brain.

There is that woman again:"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Thought gets dry in the brain;Ink gets dry in the bottle.

"Strawberries! fourpence a pottle!"Oh for the green of a lane!—Ink gets dry in the bottle;"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane!

Oh for the green of a lane,Where one might lie and be lazy!"Buzz" goes a fly in the pane;Bluebottles drive me crazy!

Where one might lie and be lazy,Careless of Town and all in it!—Bluebottles drive me crazy:I shall go mad in a minute!

Careless of Town and all in it,With some one to soothe and to still you;I shall go mad in a minute,Bluebottle, then I shall kill you!

With some one to soothe and to still you,As only one's feminine kin do,—Bluebottle, then I shall kill you:There now! I've broken the window!

As only one's feminine kin do,—Some muslin-clad Mabel or May!—There now! I've broken the window!Bluebottle's off and away!

Some muslin-clad Mabel or May,To dash one with eau de Cologne;—Bluebottle's off and away,And why should I stay here alone?

To dash one with eau de Cologne,All over one's eminent forehead;And why should I stay here alone?Toiling in Town now is "horrid."

Austin Dobson.

(Pantoum.)

Morn and noon and night,Here I lie in the ground;No faintest glimmer of light,No lightest whisper of sound.Here I lie in the ground;The worms glide out and in;No lightest whisper of sound,After a life-long din.The worms glide out and in;They are fruitful and multiply;After a life-long din,I watch them quietly.They are fruitful and multiply,My body dwindles the while;I watch them quietly;I can scarce forbear a smile.My body dwindles the while,I shall soon be a skeleton;I can scarce forbear a smileThey have had such glorious fun.I shall soon be a skeleton,The worms are wriggling away;They have had such glorious fun,They will fertilise my clay.The worms are wriggling away,They are what I have been,They will fertilise my clay.The grass will grow more green.They are what I have been.I shall change, but what of that?The grass will grow more green,The parson's sheep grow fat.I shall change, but what of that?All flesh is grass, one says,The parson's sheep grow fat,The parson grows in grace.All flesh is grass, one says,Grass becomes flesh, one knows,The parson grows in grace;I am the grace he grows.Grass becomes flesh, one knows,He grows like a bull of Bashan.I am the grace he grows;I startle his congregation.He grows like a bull of Bashan,One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,I startle his congregation:One day I shall preach to the Q—n.One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,One of those science-haters;One day I shall preach to the Q—n.To think of my going in gaiters!One of those science-haters,Blind as a mole or bat;To think of my going in gaiters,And wearing a shovel hat!Blind as a mole or bat,No faintest glimmer of light,And wearing a shovel hat,Morning and noon and night.

Morn and noon and night,Here I lie in the ground;No faintest glimmer of light,No lightest whisper of sound.

Here I lie in the ground;The worms glide out and in;No lightest whisper of sound,After a life-long din.

The worms glide out and in;They are fruitful and multiply;After a life-long din,I watch them quietly.

They are fruitful and multiply,My body dwindles the while;I watch them quietly;I can scarce forbear a smile.

My body dwindles the while,I shall soon be a skeleton;I can scarce forbear a smileThey have had such glorious fun.

I shall soon be a skeleton,The worms are wriggling away;They have had such glorious fun,They will fertilise my clay.

The worms are wriggling away,They are what I have been,They will fertilise my clay.The grass will grow more green.

They are what I have been.I shall change, but what of that?The grass will grow more green,The parson's sheep grow fat.

I shall change, but what of that?All flesh is grass, one says,The parson's sheep grow fat,The parson grows in grace.

All flesh is grass, one says,Grass becomes flesh, one knows,The parson grows in grace;I am the grace he grows.

Grass becomes flesh, one knows,He grows like a bull of Bashan.I am the grace he grows;I startle his congregation.

He grows like a bull of Bashan,One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,I startle his congregation:One day I shall preach to the Q—n.

One day he'll be Bishop or Dean,One of those science-haters;One day I shall preach to the Q—n.To think of my going in gaiters!

One of those science-haters,Blind as a mole or bat;To think of my going in gaiters,And wearing a shovel hat!

Blind as a mole or bat,No faintest glimmer of light,And wearing a shovel hat,Morning and noon and night.

"Love in Idleness."

(Song in the Malay manner.)

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