Whywill you haunt my sleep?You know it may not be,The grave is wide and deep,That sunders you and me;In bitter dreams we reapThe sorrow we have sown,And I would I were asleep,Forgotten and alone!
We knew and did not know,We saw and did not see,The nets that long agoFate wove for you and me;The cruel nets that keepThe birds that sob and moan,And I would we were asleep,Forgotten and alone!
‘La Rose qui chante et l’herbe qui égare.’
‘La Rose qui chante et l’herbe qui égare.’
WhiteRose on the grey garden wall,Where now no night-wind whispereth,Call to the far-off flowers,and callWith murmured breath and musicalTill all the Roses hear,and allSing to my Love what the White Rose saith.
White Rose on the grey garden wallThat long ago we sung!Again you come at Summer’s call,—Again beneath my windows allWith trellised flowers is hung,With clusters of the roses whiteLike fragrant stars in a green night.
Once more I hear the sister towersEach unto each reply,The bloom is on those limes of ours,The weak wind shakes the bloom in showers,Snow from a cloudless sky;There is no change this happy dayWithin the College Gardens grey!
St. Mary’s, Merton, Magdalen—stillTheir sweet bells chime and swing,The old years answer them, and thrillA wintry heart against its willWith memories of the Spring—That Spring we sought the gardens throughFor flowers which ne’er in gardens grew!
For we, beside our nurse’s knee,In fairy tales had heardOf that strange Rose which blossoms freeOn boughs of an enchanted tree,And sings like any bird!And of the weed beside the wayThat leadeth lovers’ steps astray!
In vain we sought the Singing RoseWhereof old legends tell,Alas, we found it not mid thoseWithin the grey old College close,That budded, flowered, and fell,—We found that herb called ‘Wandering’And meet no more, no more in Spring!
Yes, unawares the unhappy grassThat leadeth steps astray,We trod, and so it came to passThat never more we twain, alas,Shall walk the self-same way.And each must deem, though neither knows,Thatneitherfound the Singing Rose!
Alittleof Horace, a little of Prior,A sketch of a Milkmaid, a lay of the Squire—These, these are ‘on draught’ ‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’
A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself,A talk of the Books on the Sheraton shelf,A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the Guelph,
Alai, apantoum, aballade, arondeau,A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau,And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go,
A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove,’Neath a dance by Laguerre on the ceiling above,And a dream of the days when the bard was in love,
A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun,A toss of old powder, a glint of the sun,They meet in the volume that Dobson has done!
If there’s more that the heart of a man can desire,He may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire;If he’s wise—he’ll alight ‘At the Sign of the Lyre!’
FOR A SKETCH BY MR. G. LESLIE, R.A.
Franceyour country, as we know;Room enough for guessing yet,What lips now or long ago,Kissed and named you—Colinette.In what fields from sea to sea,By what stream your home was set,Loire or Seine was glad of thee,Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with maidens ten,Fairer maids were never seen,When the young king and his menPassed among the orchards green?Nay, old ballads have a noteMournful, we would fain forget;No such sad old air should floatRound your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you,Shepherdess, to lull his pain,When the court went wandering throughRose pleasances of Touraine?Ronsard and his famous RoseLong are dust the breezes fret;You, within the garden close,You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay,With a patched and perfumed beau,Dancing through the summer day,Misty summer of Watteau?Nay, so sweet a maid as youNever walked a minuetWith the splendid courtly crew;Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze’s canvasesDo you cast a glance, a smile;You are not as one of these,Yours is beauty without guile.Round your maiden brows and hairMaidenhood and Childhood metCrown and kiss you, sweet and fair,New art’s blossom, Colinette.
LUI.
The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake,Arise and tempt the seas;Our ocean is the Palace lake,Our waves the ripples that we makeAmong the mirrored trees.
ELLE.
Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song,And dear the languid dream;The music mingled all day longWith paces of the dancing throng,And murmur of the stream.
An hour ago, an hour ago,We rested in the shade;And now, why should we seek to knowWhat way the wilful waters flow?There is no fairer glade.
LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,And seek him everywhere;Perchance in sunset’s golden paleHe listens to the nightingale,Amid the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you,And I no more am I;Delight is changeful as the hueOf heaven, that is no longer blueIn yonder sunset sky.
ELLE.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find,If we knock none openeth;Nay, see, the sunset fades behindThe mountains, and the cold night windBlows from the house of Death.
‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non.Derrière chez mon pèreIl est un bois taillis,Le rossignol y chanteEt le jour et la nuit.Il chante pour les fillesQui n’ont pas d’ami;Il ne chant pas pour moi,J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—Old French.
‘Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non?Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non.Derrière chez mon pèreIl est un bois taillis,Le rossignol y chanteEt le jour et la nuit.Il chante pour les fillesQui n’ont pas d’ami;Il ne chant pas pour moi,J’en ai un, Dieu merci.’—Old French.
I’llnever be a nun, I trow,While apple bloom is white as snow,But far more fair to see;I’ll never wear nun’s black and whiteWhile nightingales make sweet the nightWithin the apple tree.
Ah, listen! ’tis the nightingale,And in the wood he makes his wail,Within the apple tree;He singeth of the sore distressOf many ladies loverless;Thank God, no song for me.
For when the broad May moon is low,A gold fruit seen where blossoms blowIn the boughs of the apple tree,A step I know is at the gate;Ah love, but it is long to waitUntil night’s noon bring thee!
Between lark’s song and nightingale’sA silent space, while dawning pales,The birds leave still and freeFor words and kisses musical,For silence and for sighs that fallIn the dawn, ’twixt him and me.
‘When last we gathered roses in the gardenI found my wits, but truly you lost yours.’The Broken Heart.
‘When last we gathered roses in the gardenI found my wits, but truly you lost yours.’
The Broken Heart.
Julyand June brought flowers and loveTo you, but I would none thereof,Whose heart kept all through summer timeA flower of frost and winter rime.Yours was true wisdom—was it not?Even love; but I had clean forgot,Till seasons of the falling leaf,All loves, but one that turned to grief.At length at touch of autumn tideWhen roses fell, and summer died,All in a dawning deep with dew,Love flew to me, Love fled from you.The roses drooped their weary heads,I spoke among the garden beds;You would not hear, you could not know,Summer and love seemed long ago,As far, as faint, as dim a dream,As to the dead this world may seem.Ah sweet, in winter’s miseries,Perchance you may remember this,How Wisdom was not justifiedIn summer time or autumn tide,Though for this once below the sun,Wisdom and Love were made at one;But Love was bitter-bought enough,And Wisdom light of wing as Love.
Kissme, and say good-bye;Good-bye, there is no word to say but this,Nor any lips left for my lips to kiss,Nor any tears to shed, when these tears dry;Kiss me, and say, good-bye.
Farewell, be glad, forget;There is no need to say ‘forget,’ I know,For youth is youth, and time will have it so,And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet,Farewell, you must forget.
You shall bring home your sheaves,Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twinedOf memories that go not out of mind;Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leavesWhen you bring home your sheaves.
In garnered loves of thine,The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years,Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears;It grew too near the sea wind, and the brineOf life, this love of mine.
This sheaf was spoiled in spring,And over-long was green, and early sere,And never gathered gold in the late yearFrom autumn suns, and moons of harvesting,But failed in frosts of spring.
Yet was it thine, my sweet,This love, though weak as young corn withered,Whereof no man may gather and make bread;Thine, though it never knew the summer heat;Forget not quite, my sweet.
Χαιρέ μοι, ω βασίλεια, διαμπερες, εις ο κε γηραςΕλθη και θάνατος, τά τ’ επ’ ανθρώποισι πέλονται.Odyssey, XIII.
Χαιρέ μοι, ω βασίλεια, διαμπερες, εις ο κε γηραςΕλθη και θάνατος, τά τ’ επ’ ανθρώποισι πέλονται.
Odyssey, XIII.
Myprayer an old prayer borroweth,Of ancient love and memory—‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death,That come to all men, come to thee.’Gently as winter’s early breath,Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee,To lands whereof no man knowethOf summer, over land and sea;So with thy soul may summer be,Even as the ancient singer saith,‘Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death,That come to all men, come to thee.’
AFTER RONSARD.
Moreclosely than the clinging vineAbout the wedded tree,Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine!About the heart of me.Or seem to sleep, and stoop your faceSoft on my sleeping eyes,Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace,Through me, in kissing wise.Bow down, bow down your face, I pray,To me, that swoon to death,Breathe back the life you kissed away,Breathe back your kissing breath.So by your eyes I swear and say,My mighty oath and sure,From your kind arms no maiden mayMy loving heart allure.I’ll bear your yoke, that’s light enough,And to the Elysian plain,When we are dead of love, my love,One boat shall bear us twain.They’ll flock around you, fleet and fair,All true loves that have been,And you of all the shadows there,Shall be the shadow queen.Ah, shadow-loves and shadow-lips!Ah, while ’tis called to-day,Love me, my love, for summer slips,And August ebbs away.
IN MEMORY OF GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
Twoloves there were, and one was bornBetween the sunset and the rain;Her singing voice went through the corn,Her dance was woven ’neath the thorn,On grass the fallen blossoms stain;And suns may set, and moons may wane,But this love comes no more again.
There were two loves and one made white,Thy singing lips, and golden hair;Born of the city’s mire and light,The shame and splendour of the night,She trapped and fled thee unaware;Not through the lamplight and the rainShalt thou behold this love again.
Go forth and seek, by wood and hill,Thine ancient love of dawn and dew;There comes no voice from mere or rill,Her dance is over, fallen stillThe ballad burdens that she knew:And thou must wait for her in vain,Till years bring back thy youth again.
That other love, afield, afarFled the light love, with lighter feet.Nay, though thou seek where gravesteads are,And flit in dreams from star to star,That dead love shalt thou never meet,Till through bleak dawn and blowing rainThy soul shall find her soul again.
Plotinus, the Greek philosopher, had a certain proper mode of ecstasy, whereby, as Porphyry saith, his soul, becoming free from the deathly flesh, was made one with the Spirit that is in the world.
Alas, the path is lost, we cannot leaveOur bright, our clouded life, and pass awayAs through strewn clouds, that stain the quiet eve,To heights remoter of the purer day.The soul may not, returning whence she came,Bathe herself deep in Being, and forgetThe joys that fever, and the cares that fret,Made once more one with the eternal flameThat breathes in all things ever more the same.She would be young again, thus drinking deepOf her old life; and this has been, men say,But this we know not, who have only sleepTo soothe us, sleep more terrible than day,Where dead delights, and fair lost faces stray,To make us weary at our wakening;And of that long lost path to the DivineWe dream, as some Greek shepherd erst might sing,Half credulous, of easy Proserpine,And of the lands that lie ‘beneath the day’s decline.’
Some say that Helen went never to Troy, but abode in Egypt; for the gods, having made in her semblance a woman out of clouds and shadows, sent the same to be wife to Paris. For this shadow then the Greeks and Trojans slew each other.
Whyfrom the quiet hollows of the hills,And extreme meeting place of light and shade,Wherein soft rains fell slowly, and becameClouds among sister clouds, where fair spent beamsAnd dying glories of the sun would dwell,Why have they whom I know not, nor may know,Strange hands, unseen and ruthless, fashioned me,And borne me from the silent shadowy hills,Hither, to noise and glow of alien life,To harsh and clamorous swords, and sound of war?
One speaks unto me words that would be sweet,Made harsh, made keen with love that knows me not,And some strange force, within me or around,Makes answer, kiss for kiss, and sigh for sigh,And somewhere there is fever in the hallsThat troubles me, for no such trouble cameTo vex the cool far hollows of the hills.
The foolish folk crowd round me, and they cry,That house, and wife, and lands, and all Troy town,Are little to lose, if they may keep me here,And see me flit, a pale and silent shade,Among the streets bereft, and helpless shrines.
At other hours another life seems mine,Where one great river runs unswollen of rain,By pyramids of unremembered kings,And homes of men obedient to the Dead.There dark and quiet faces come and goAround me, then again the shriek of arms,And all the turmoil of the Ilian men.
What are they? even shadows such as I.What make they? Even this—the sport of gods—The sport of gods, however free they seem.Ah, would the game were ended, and the light,The blinding light, and all too mighty suns,Withdrawn, and I once more with sister shades,Unloved, forgotten, mingled with the mist,Dwelt in the hollows of the shadowy hills.
To H. R. H.
Notin the waste beyond the swamps and sand,The fever-haunted forest and lagoon,Mysterious Kôr thy walls forsaken stand,Thy lonely towers beneath the lonely moon,Not there doth Ayesha linger, rune by runeSpelling strange scriptures of a people banned.The world is disenchanted; over soonShall Europe send her spies through all the land.
Nay, not in Kôr, but in whatever spot,In town or field, or by the insatiate sea,Men brood on buried loves, and unforgot,Or break themselves on some divine decree,Or would o’erleap the limits of their lot,There, in the tombs and deathless, dwelleth SHE!
Heleft the land of youth, he left the young,The smiling gods of Greece; he passed the isleWhere Jason loitered, and where Sappho sung,He sought the secret-founted wave of Nile,And of their old world, dead a weary while,Heard the priests murmur in their mystic tongue,And through the fanes went voyaging, amongDark tribes that worshipped Cat and Crocodile.
He learned the tales of death Divine and birth,Strange loves of Hawk and Serpent, Sky and Earth,The marriage, and the slaying of the Sun.The shrines of gods and beasts he wandered through,And mocked not at their godhead, for he knewBehind all creeds the Spirit that is One.
Ofall that were thy prisons—ah, untamed,Ah, light and sacred soul!—none holds thee now;No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thouArt free and happy in the lands unnamed,Within whose gates, on weary wings and maimed,Thou still would’st bear that mystic golden boughThe Sibyl doth to singing men allow,Yet thy report folk heeded not, but blamed.And they would smile and wonder, seeing whereThou stood’st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind,Dreamily murmuring a ballad air,Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou findA new life gladder than the old times were,A love more fair than Sylvie, and as kind?
Master, I see thee with the locks of grey,Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath;I see the roses hiding underneath,Cassandra’s gift; she was less dear than they.Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay,The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath,Hast sung thine answer to the lays that breatheThrough ages, and through ages far away.
And thou hast heard the pulse of Pindar beat,Known Horace by the fount Bandusian!Their deathless line thy living strains repeat,But ah, thy voice is sad, thy roses wan,But ah, thy honey is not honey-sweet,Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian!
Withother helpless folk about the gate,The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyesThat take no pleasure in the summer skies,Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait;So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fateMakes her with dull experience early wise,And in the dawning and the sunset, sighsThat all hath been, and shall be, desolate.
Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live,And know herself the fairest of fair things,Ah, if he have no healing gift to give,Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings,Or if at least Love’s shadow in passing byTouch not and heal her, surely she must die.
Hespake not truth, however wise, who saidThat happy, and that hapless men in sleepHave equal fortune, fallen from care as deepAs countless, careless, races of the dead.Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread,And one beholds the faces that he sighsIn vain to bring before his daylit eyes,And waking, he remembers on his bed;
And one with fainting heart and feeble handFights a dim battle in a doubtful landWhere strength and courage were of no avail;And one is borne on fairy breezes farTo the bright harbours of a golden starDown fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.
‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort.’Pontus de Tyard, 1570
‘Les Sirènes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu’elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deul de la perte de leur chère compagne, et enuyées jusques au desepoir, elles s’arrestèrent à la mer Sicilienne, où par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l’unique fin de la volupté de leur musique est la Mort.’
Pontus de Tyard, 1570
TheSirens once were maidens innocentThat through the water-meads with ProserpinePlucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were contentCool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine,With lilies woven and with wet woodbine;Till once they sought the bright Ætnæan flowers,And their glad mistress fled from summer hoursWith Hades, far from olive, corn, and vine.And they have sought her all the wide world throughTill many years, and wisdom, and much wrongHave filled and changed their song, and o’er the blueRings deadly sweet the magic of the song,And whoso hears must listen till he dieFar on the flowery shores of Sicily.
So is it with this singing art of ours,That once with maids went maidenlike, and playedWith woven dances in the poplar-shade,And all her song was but of lady’s bowersAnd the returning swallows, and spring flowers,Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed,A shadowy land; and now hath overweighedHer singing chaplet with the snow and showers.Yes, fair well-water for the bitter brineShe left, and by the margin of life’s seaSings, and her song is full of the sea’s moan,And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine;And whoso once has listened to her, heHis whole life long is slave to her alone.
THE WINDS ARE INVOKED BY THE WINNOWERS OF CORN.
DU BELLAY, 1550.
Toyou, troop so fleet,That with winged wandering feet,Through the wide world pass,And with soft murmuringToss the green shades of springIn woods and grass,Lily and violetI give, and blossoms wet,Roses and dew;This branch of blushing roses,Whose fresh bud uncloses,Wind-flowers too.
Ah, winnow with sweet breath,Winnow the holt and heath,Round this retreat;Where all the golden momWe fan the gold o’ the corn,In the sun’s heat.
JACQUES TAHUREAU.
Thehigh Midnight was garlanding her headWith many a shining star in shining skies,And, of her grace, a slumber on mine eyes,And, after sorrow, quietness was shed.Far in dim fields cicalas jargonèdA thin shrill clamour of complaints and cries;And all the woods were pallid, in strange wise,With pallor of the sad moon overspread.
Then came my lady to that lonely place,And, from her palfrey stooping, did embraceAnd hang upon my neck, and kissed me over;Wherefore the day is far less dear than night,And sweeter is the shadow than the light,Since night has made me such a happy lover.
VICTOR HUGO.
TheGrave said to the Rose,‘What of the dews of morn,Love’s flower, what end is theirs?’‘And what of souls outworn,Of them whereon doth closeThe tomb’s mouth unawares?’The Rose said to the Grave.
The Rose said, ‘In the shadeFrom the dawn’s tears is madeA perfume faint and strange,Amber and honey sweet.’‘And all the spirits fleetDo suffer a sky-change,More strangely than the dew,To God’s own angels new,’The Grave said to the Rose.
DU BELLAY.
We that with like hearts love, we lovers twain,New wedded in the village by thy fane,Lady of all chaste love, to thee it isWe bring these amaranths, these white lilies,A sign, and sacrifice; may Love, we pray,Like amaranthine flowers, feel no decay;Like these cool lilies may our loves remain,Perfect and pure, and know not any stain;And be our hearts, from this thy holy hour,Bound each to each, like flower to wedded flower.
RONSARD.
When you are very old, at eveningYou’ll sit and spin beside the fire, and say,Humming my songs, ‘Ah well, ah well-a-day!When I was young, of me did Ronsard sing.’None of your maidens that doth hear the thing,Albeit with her weary task foredone,But wakens at my name, and calls you oneBlest, to be held in long remembering.
I shall be low beneath the earth, and laidOn sleep, a phantom in the myrtle shade,While you beside the fire, a grandame grey,My love, your pride, remember and regret;Ah, love me, love! we may be happy yet,And gather roses, while ’t is called to-day.
JACQUES TAHUREAU.
Withinthe sand of what far river liesThe gold that gleams in tresses of my Love?What highest circle of the Heavens aboveIs jewelled with such stars as are her eyes?And where is the rich sea whose coral viesWith her red lips, that cannot kiss enough?What dawn-lit garden knew the rose, whereofThe fled soul lives in her cheeks’ rosy guise?
What Parian marble that is loveliestCan match the whiteness of her brow and breast?When drew she breath from the Sabæan glade?Oh happy rock and river, sky and sea,Gardens, and glades Sabæan, all that beThe far-off splendid semblance of my maid!
RÉMY BELLEAU, 1560.
April, pride of woodland ways,Of glad days,April, bringing hope of prime,To the young flowers that beneathTheir bud sheathAre guarded in their tender time;
April, pride of fields that beGreen and free,That in fashion glad and gay,Stud with flowers red and blue,Every hue,Their jewelled spring array;
April, pride of murmuringWinds of spring,That beneath the winnowed air,Trap with subtle nets and sweetFlora’s feet,Flora’s feet, the fleet and fair;
April, by thy hand caressed,From her breast,Nature scatters everywhereHandfuls of all sweet perfumes,Buds and blooms,Making faint the earth and air.
April, joy of the green hours,Clothes with flowersOver all her locks of goldMy sweet Lady; and her breastWith the blestBuds of summer manifold.
April, with thy gracious wiles,Like the smiles,Smiles of Venus; and thy breathLike her breath, the gods’ delight,(From their heightThey take the happy air beneath;)
It is thou that, of thy grace,From their placeIn the far-off isles dost bringSwallows over earth and sea,Glad to beMessengers of thee, and Spring.
Daffodil and eglantine,And woodbine,Lily, violet, and rosePlentiful in April fair,To the air,Their pretty petals to unclose.
Nightingales ye now may hear,Piercing clear,Singing in the deepest shade;Many and many a babbled noteChime and float,Woodland music through the glade.
April, all to welcome thee,Spring sets freeAncient flames, and with low breathWakes the ashes grey and oldThat the coldChilled within our hearts to death.
Thou beholdest in the warmHours, the swarmOf the thievish bees, that fliesEvermore from bloom to bloomFor perfume,Hid away in tiny thighs.
Her cool shadows May can boast,Fruits almostRipe, and gifts of fertile dew,Manna-sweet and honey-sweet,That completeHer flower garland fresh and new.
Nay, but I will give my praiseTo these days,Named with the glad name of Her[102]That from out the foam o’ the seaCame to beSudden light on earth and air.
GÉRARD DE NERVAL.
Thereis an air for which I would disownMozart’s, Rossini’s, Weber’s melodies,—A sweet sad air that languishes and sighs,And keeps its secret charm for me alone.
Whene’er I hear that music vague and old,Two hundred years are mist that rolls away;The thirteenth Louis reigns, and I beholdA green land golden in the dying day.
An old red castle, strong with stony towers,The windows gay with many-coloured glass;Wide plains, and rivers flowing among flowers,That bathe the castle basement as they pass.
In antique weed, with dark eyes and gold hair,A lady looks forth from her window high;It may be that I knew and found her fair,In some forgotten life, long time gone by.
HENRI MURGER.
Louise, have you forgotten yetThe corner of the flowery land,The ancient garden where we met,My hand that trembled in your hand?Our lips found words scarce sweet enough,As low beneath the willow-treesWe sat; have you forgotten, love?Do you remember, love Louise?
Marie, have you forgotten yetThe loving barter that we made?The rings we changed, the suns that set,The woods fulfilled with sun and shade?The fountains that were musicalBy many an ancient trysting tree—Marie, have you forgotten all?Do you remember, love Marie?
Christine, do you remember yetYour room with scents and roses gay?My garret—near the sky ’twas set—The April hours, the nights of May?The clear calm nights—the stars aboveThat whispered they were fairest seenThrough no cloud-veil? Remember, love!Do you remember, love Christine?
Louise is dead, and, well-a-day!Marie a sadder path has ta’en;And pale Christine has passed awayIn southern suns to bloom again.Alas! for one and all of us—Marie, Louise, Christine forget;Our bower of love is ruinous,And I alone remember yet.
I be pareld most of prise,I ride after the wild fee.
Will ye that I should singOf the love of a goodly thing,Was no vilein’s may?’Tis all of a knight so free,Under the olive tree,Singing this lay.
Her weed was of samite fine,Her mantle of white ermine,Green silk her hose;Her shoon with silver gay,Her sandals flowers of May,Laced small and close.
Her belt was of fresh spring buds,Set with gold clasps and studs,Fine linen her shift;Her purse it was of love,Her chain was the flower thereof,And Love’s gift.
Upon a mule she rode,The selle was of brent gold,The bits of silver made;Three red rose trees there wereThat overshadowed her,For a sun shade.
She riding on a day,Knights met her by the way,They did her grace:‘Fair lady, whence be ye?’‘France it is my countrie,I come of a high race.
‘My sire is the nightingale,That sings, making his wail,In the wild wood, clear;The mermaid is mother to me,That sings in the salt sea,In the ocean mere.’
‘Ye come of a right good race,And are born of a high place,And of high degree;Would to God that ye wereGiven unto me, being fair,My lady and love to be.’
ROMAIC FOLK-SONG.
Allthe maidens were merry and wedAll to lovers so fair to see;The lover I took to my bridal bedHe is not long for love and me.
I spoke to him and he nothing said,I gave him bread of the wheat so fine;He did not eat of the bridal bread,He did not drink of the bridal wine.
I made him a bed was soft and deep,I made him a bed to sleep with me;‘Look on me once before you sleep,And look on the flower of my fair body.
‘Flowers of April, and fresh May-dew,Dew of April and buds of May;Two white blossoms that bud for you,Buds that blossom before the day.’
FRENCH VOLKS-LIED.
Itwas a mother and a maidThat walked the woods among,And still the maid went slow and sad,And still the mother sung.
‘What ails you, daughter Margaret?Why go you pale and wan?Is it for a cast of bitter love,Or for a false leman?’
‘It is not for a false loverThat I go sad to see;But it is for a weary lifeBeneath the greenwood tree.
‘For ever in the good daylightA maiden may I go,But always on the ninth midnightI change to a milk-white doe.
‘They hunt me through the green forestWith hounds and hunting men;And ever it is my fair brotherThat is so fierce and keen.’
* * * * *
‘Good-morrow, mother.’ ‘Good-morrow, son;Where are your hounds so good?’‘Oh, they are hunting a white doeWithin the glad greenwood.
‘And three times have they hunted her,And thrice she’s won away;The fourth time that they follow herThat white doe they shall slay.’
* * * * *
Then out and spoke the forester,As he came from the wood,‘Now never saw I maid’s gold hairAmong the wild deer’s blood.
‘And I have hunted the wild deerIn east lands and in west;And never saw I white doe yetThat had a maiden’s breast.’
Then up and spake her fair brother,Between the wine and bread:‘Behold I had but one sister,And I have been her dead.
‘But ye must bury my sweet sisterWith a stone at her foot and her head,And ye must cover her fair bodyWith the white roses and red.
‘And I must out to the greenwood,The roof shall never shelter me;And I shall lie for seven long yearsOn the grass below the hawthorn tree.’
(MELEAGER.)
Pourwine, and cry again, again, again!To Heliodore!And mingle the sweet word ye call in vainWith that ye pour!And bring to me her wreath of yesterdayThat’s dank with myrrh;Hesternæ Rosæ, ah my friends, but theyRemember her!Lo the kind roses, loved of lovers, weepAs who repine,For if on any breast they see her sleepIt is not mine!
(ANTIPHILUS.)
Iknewit in your childish graceThe dawning of Desire,‘Who lives,’ I said, ‘will see that faceSet all the world on fire!’They mocked; but Time has brought to passThe saying over-true;Prophet and martyr now, alas,I burn for Truth,—and you!
(POMPEIUS.)
Laisthat bloomed for all the world’s delight,Crowned with all love lilies, the fair and dear,Sleeps the predestined sleep, nor knows the flightOf Helios, the gold-reined charioteer:Revel, and kiss, and love, and hate, one NightDarkens, that never lamp of Love may cheer!
(MELEAGER.)
ForDeath, not for Love, hast thouLoosened thy zone!Flutes filled thy bower but now,Morning brings moan!Maids round thy bridal bedHushed are in gloom,Torches to Love that ledLight to the tomb!
(LEONIDAS OF TARENTUM.)
Theristhe Old, the waves that harvestedMore keen than birds that labour in the sea,With spear and net, by shore and rocky bed,Not with the well-manned galley laboured he;Him not the star of storms, nor sudden sweepOf wind with all his years hath smitten and bent,But in his hut of reeds he fell asleep,As fades a lamp when all the oil is spent:This tomb nor wife nor children raised, but weHis fellow-toilers, fishers of the sea.
(MELEAGER.)
AhLove, my Master, hear me swearBy all the locks of Timo’s hair,By Demo, and that fragrant spellWherewith her body doth enchantSuch dreams as drowsy lovers haunt,By Ilias’ mirth delectable.And by the lamp that sheds his lightOn love and lovers all the night,By those, ah Love, I swear that thouHast left me but one breath, and nowUpon my lips it fluttereth,YetthisI’ll yield, my latest breath,Even this, oh Love, for thee to Death!
(RUFINUS.)
Thouhast Hera’s eyes, thou hast Pallas’ hands,And the feet of the Queen of the yellow sands,Thou hast beautiful Aphrodite’s breast,Thou art made of each goddess’s loveliest!Happy is he who sees thy face,Happy who hears thy words of grace,And he that shall kiss thee is half divine,But a god who shall win that heart of thine!
(ASCLEPIADES.)
Believeme, love, it is not goodTo hoard a mortal maidenhood;In Hades thou wilt never find,Maiden, a lover to thy mind;Love’s for the living! presentlyAshes and dust in death are we!
(MELEAGER.)
Ogentleships that skim the seas,And cleave the strait where Hellé fell,Catch in your sails the Northern breeze,And speed to Cos, where she doth dwell,My Love, and see you greet her well!And if she looks across the blue,Speak, gentle ships, and tell her true,‘He comes, for Love hath brought him back,No sailor, on the landward tack.’
If thus, oh gentle ships, ye do,Then may ye win the fairest gales,And swifter speed across the blue,While Zeus breathes friendly on your sails.
(PAULUS SILENTIARIUS.)
Ithatin youth had never beenThe servant of the Paphian Queen,I that in youth had never feltThe shafts of Eros pierce and melt,Cypris! in later age, half grey,I bow the neck totheeto-day.Pallas, that was my lady, thouDost more triumphant vanquish now,Than when thou gained’st, over seas,The apple of the Hesperides.
Thirty-sixis the term that the prophets assign,And the students of stars to the years that are mine;Nay, let thirty suffice, for the man who hath passedThirty years is a Nestor, andhedied at last!
(FROM THE LATIN OF MÉNAGE.)
Whatdo I see! Oh gods divineAnd goddesses,—this Book of mine,—This child of many hopes and fears,—Is published by the Elzevirs!Oh perfect Publishers complete!Oh dainty volume, new and neat!The Paper doth outshine the snow,The Print is blacker than the crow,The Title-Page, with crimson bright,The vellum cover smooth and white,All sorts of readers do invite,Ay, and will keep them reading still,Against their will, or with their will!Thus what of grace the Rhymes may lackThe Publisher has given them back,As Milliners adorn the fairWhose charms are something skimp and spare.Ohdulce decus, Elzevirs!The pride of dead and dawning years,How can a poet best repayThe debt he owes your House to-day?May this round world, while aught endures,Applaud, and buy, these books of yours!May purchasers incessant pop,My Elzevirs, within your shop,And learned bards salute, with cheers,The volumes of the Elzevirs,Till your renown fills earth and sky,Till men forget the Stephani,And all that Aldus wrought, and allTurnebus sold in shop or stall,While still may Fate’s (and Binders’) shearsRespect, and spare, the Elzevirs!
Withinthe streams, Pausanias saith,That down Cocytus valley flow,Girdling the grey domain of Death,The spectral fishes come and go;The ghosts of trout flit to and fro.Persephone, fulfil my wish,And grant that in the shades belowMy ghost may land the ghosts of fish.
Φη λογοποιος ανήρ, δνοφερων εντοσθε ρεέθρωνοσσα πέριξ Αιδην εις ’Αχέροντα ρέειιχθύες ως αν’ αφεγγες υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσινειδωλ’ ειδώλοις νηχόμενα πτερύγων.Φερσεφόνη, συ θανόντι δ’ εμοι κρήηνον εέλδωρ,καν Αιδη σκιερους ιχθύας εξερύσαι.L. C.
Φη λογοποιος ανήρ, δνοφερων εντοσθε ρεέθρωνοσσα πέριξ Αιδην εις ’Αχέροντα ρέειιχθύες ως αν’ αφεγγες υδωρ σκιαι αισσουσινειδωλ’ ειδώλοις νηχόμενα πτερύγων.Φερσεφόνη, συ θανόντι δ’ εμοι κρήηνον εέλδωρ,καν Αιδη σκιερους ιχθύας εξερύσαι.
L. C.