Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

Mimnermus in Church

She had part in these,―akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.
Oft inspected, ne'er seen through,
Thou art firm, if brittle too;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.

What the glass was, when therein

Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell

To the honest soul of Nell.

1767

Laman Blanchard [1804-1845]

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife,
Pure truth, and perfect change of will;
But sweet, sweet is this human life,

So sweet, I fain would breathe it still:
Your chilly stars I can forego,
This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here,
One great reality above:

Back from that void I shrink in fear,

And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels fell. Till then, I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires

From faltering lips and fitful veins
To sexless souls, ideal choirs,

Unwearied voices, wordless strains:
My mind with fonder welcome owns
One dear dead friend's remembered tones.

Forsooth the present we must give

To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay.

But oh, the very reason why

I clasp them, is because they die.
William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]

CLAY

"WE are but clay," the preacher saith;
"The heart is clay, and clay the brain,
And soon or late there cometh death
To mingle us with earth again."

Well, let the preacher have it so,

And clay we are, and clay shall be;

Why iterate?-for this I know,

That clay does very well for me.

When clay has such red mouths to kiss,
Firm hands to grasp, it is enough:

How can I take it aught amiss

We are not made of rarer stuff?

And if one tempt you to believe

His choice would be immortal gold, Question him, Can you then conceive A warmer heart than clay can hold?

Or richer joys than clay can feel?

And when perforce he falters nay,
Bid him renounce his wish and kneel
In thanks for this same kindly clay.
Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-

AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE

WHAT magic halo rings thy head,
Dream-maiden of a minstrel dead?

What charm of faerie round thee hovers,
That all who listen are thy lovers?

What power yet makes our pulses thrill
To see thee at thy window-sill,
And by that dangerous cord down-sliding,
And through the moonlit garden gliding?

Ballade of Summer

True maiden art thou in thy dread;
True maiden in thy hardihead;
True maiden when, thy fears half-over,
Thou lingerest to try thy lover.

And ah! what heart of stone or steel
But doth some stir unwonted feel,
When to the day new brightness bringing
Thou standest at the stair-foot singing!

Thy slender limbs in boyish dress,
Thy tones half glee, half tenderness,
Thou singest, 'neath the light tale's cover,
Of thy true love to thy true lover.

O happy lover, happy maid,
Together in sweet story laid;

Forgive the hand that here is baring
Your old loves for new lovers' staring!

Yet, Nicolete, why fear'st thou fame?
No slander now can touch thy name,
Nor Scandal's self a fault discovers,
Though each new year thou hast new lovers.

Nor, Aucassin, need'st thou to fear
These lovers of too late a year,
Nor dread one jealous pang's revival;
No lover now can be thy rival.

What flower considers if its blooms
Light haunts of men, or forest glooms?
What care ye though the world discovers
Your flowers of love, O flower of lovers!
Francis William Bourdillon [1852-

1769

BALLADE OF SUMMER

WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap,

Ere elms be black, or limes be sere,

When midnight dances are murdering sleep,

Then comes in the sweet o' the year!

And far from Fleet Street, far from here,
The Summer is Queen in the length of the land,
And moonlit nights they are soft and clear,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When clamor that doves in the lindens keep
Mingles with musical plash of the weir,
When drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And better a crust and a beaker of beer,
With rose-hung hedges on either hand,

Than a palace in town, and a prince's cheer,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When big trout late in the twilight leap,

When cuckoo clamoreth far and near,
When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And it's oh to sail, with the wind to steer,
While kine knee-deep in the water stand,
On a Highland loch, or a Lowland mere,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

ENVOY

Friend, with the fops, while we dawdle here,
Then comes in the sweet o' the year!
And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand,
When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME

WHEN the ways 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 at the casement climb,

And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows,

Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme!

[ocr errors][merged small][merged small]

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-strut,
In 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 [1840-

"GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!”

Si vieillesse pouvait !

SCENE.-A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman.

MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS

BABETTE

M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously)
Day of my life! Where can she get!
Babette! I say! Babette!-Babette!

BABETTE (entering hurriedly)

Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks
So loud, he won't be well for weeks!

« AnteriorContinuar »