The Kaiser will stake his array Of sabres, of Krupps, and of lances;An Englishman punts with his pay, And glory the jeton of France is;Your artists, or Whistlers or Vances, Have voices or colours to bet;Will you moan that its motion askance is -The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette?
ENVOY.
The prize that the pleasure enhances?
The prize is--at last to forget The changes, the chops, and the chances -The wheel of Dame Fortune's roulette.
BALLADE OF SLEEP.
The hours are passing slow, I hear their weary tread Clang from the tower, and go Back to their kinsfolk dead.
Sleep! death's twin brother dread!
Why dost thou scorn me so?
The wind's voice overhead Long wakeful here I know, And music from the steep Where waters fall and flow.
Wilt thou not hear sue, Sleep?
All sounds that might bestow Rest on the fever'd bed, All slumb'rous sounds and low Are mingled here and wed, And bring no drowsihed.
Shy dreams flit to and fro With shadowy hair dispread;With wistful eyes that glow, And silent robes that sweep.
Thou wilt not hear me; no?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
What cause hast thou to show Of sacrifice unsped?
Of all thy slaves below I most have laboured With service sung and said;Have cull'd such buds as blow, Soft poppies white and red, Where thy still gardens grow, And Lethe's waters weep.
Why, then, art thou my foe?
Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep?
ENVOY.
Prince, ere the dark be shred By golden shafts, ere now And long the shadows creep:
Lord of the wand of lead, Soft-footed as the snow, Wilt thou not hear me, Sleep!
BALLADE OF THE MIDNIGHT FOREST.
AFTER THEODORE DE BANVILLE.
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old, Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold, And wolves still dread Diana roaming free In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite When now the wolds are bathed in silver light, And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey, Then down the dells, with blown soft hair and bright, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
With water-weeds twined in their locks of gold The strange cold forest-fairies dance in glee, Sylphs over-timorous and over-bold Haunt the dark hollows where the dwarf may be, The wild red dwarf, the nixies' enemy;Then 'mid their mirth, and laughter, and affright, The sudden Goddess enters, tall and white, With one long sigh for summers pass'd away;The swift feet tear the ivy nets outright And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
She gleans her silvan trophies; down the wold She hears the sobbing of the stags that flee Mixed with the music of the hunting roll'd, But her delight is all in archery, And naught of ruth and pity wotteth she More than her hounds that follow on the flight;The goddess draws a golden bow of might And thick she rains the gentle shafts that slay.
She tosses loose her locks upon the night, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
ENVOY.
Prince, let us leave the din, the dust, the spite, The gloom and glare of towns, the plague, the blight:
Amid the forest leaves and fountain spray There is the mystic home of our delight, And through the dim wood Dian threads her way.
BALLADE OF THE TWEED.
(LOWLAND SCOTCH.)
TO T. W. LANG.
The ferox rins in rough Loch Awe, A weary cry frae ony toun;The Spey, that loups o'er linn and fa', They praise a' ither streams aboon;They boast their braes o' bonny Doon:
Gie ME to hear the ringing reel, Where shilfas sing, and cushats croon By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
There's Ettrick, Meggat, Ail, and a', Where trout swim thick in May and June;Ye'll see them take in showers o' snaw Some blinking, cauldrife April noon:
Rax ower the palmer and march-broun, And syne we'll show a bonny creel, In spring or simmer, late or soon, By fair Tweed-side, at Ashiesteel!
There's mony a water, great or sma', Gaes singing in his siller tune, Through glen and heugh, and hope and shaw, Beneath the sun-licht or the moon:
But set us in our fishing-shoon Between the Caddon-burn and Peel, And syne we'll cross the heather broun By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
ENVOY.
Deil take the dirty, trading loon Wad gar the water ca' his wheel, And drift his dyes and poisons doun By fair Tweed-side at Ashiesteel!
BALLADE OF THE BOOK-HUNTER.
In torrid heats of late July, In March, beneath the bitter bise, He book-hunts while the loungers fly, -He book-hunts, though December freeze;
In breeches baggy at the knees, And heedless of the public jeers, For these, for these, he hoards his fees, -Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
No dismal stall escapes his eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies;Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.
With restless eyes that peer and spy, Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is Spes!
But ah! the fabled treasure flees;
Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their ease, -Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!
ENVOY.
Prince, all the things that tease and please, -Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, What are they but such toys as these -Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?
BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.
AFTER THEODORE DE BANVILLE.
I know Cythera long is desolate;
I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.
Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!
So be it, but we seek a fabled shore, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile;There let us land, there dream for evermore:
"It may be we shall touch the happy isle."The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry gods that smite us in their spleen.
Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore.
