Part 8

Take all, but leave my Books to me! These heavy creels of old we bore We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muses’ hill; Though something’s gone from stream and shore, The Books I loved, I love them still!

ENVOY.

Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved—to love them still.

VALENTINE IN FORM OF BALLADE.

The soft wind from the south land sped, He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like streams that flow, The ocean dark as wine, To my true love to whisper low, To be your Valentine.

The Spring half-raised her drowsy head, Besprent with drifted snow, “I’ll send an April day,” she said, “To lands of wintry woe.” He came,—the winter’s overthrow With showers that sing and shine, Pied daisies round your path to strow, To be your Valentine.

Where sands of Egypt, swart and red, ’Neath suns Egyptian glow, In places of the princely dead, By the Nile’s overflow, The swallow preened her wings to go, And for the North did pine, And fain would brave the frost her foe, To be your Valentine.

ENVOY.

Spring, Swallow, South Wind, even so, Their various voice combine; But that they crave on me bestow, To be your Valentine.

BALLADE OF OLD PLAYS.

(Les Œuvres de Monsieur Molière. A Paris, chez Louys Billaine, à la Palme. M.D.C. LXVI.)

LA COUR.

When these Old Plays were new, the King, Beside the Cardinal’s chair, Applauded, ’mid the courtly ring, The verses of Molière; Point-lace was then the only wear, Old Corneille came to woo, And bright Du Parc was young and fair, When these Old Plays were new!

LA COMÉDIE.

How shrill the butcher’s cat-calls ring, How loud the lackeys swear! Black pipe-bowls on the stage they fling, At Brécourt, fuming there! The Porter’s stabbed! a Mousquetaire Breaks in with noisy crew— ’Twas all a commonplace affair When these Old Plays were new!

LA VILLE.

When these Old Plays were new! They bring A host of phantoms rare: Old jests that float, old jibes that sting, Old faces peaked with care: Ménage’s smirk, de Visé’s stare, The thefts of Jean Ribou,—{66} Ah, publishers were hard to bear When these Old Plays were new.

ENVOY.

Ghosts, at your Poet’s word ye dare To break Death’s dungeons through, And frisk, as in that golden air, When these Old Plays were new!

BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS.

Here stand my books, line upon line They reach the roof, and row by row, They speak of faded tastes of mine, And things I did, but do not, know: Old school books, useless long ago, Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in, Could scarcely answer “yes” or “no”— The many things I’ve tried and failed in!

Here’s Villon, in morocco fine, (The Poet starved, in mud and snow,) Glatigny does not crave to dine, And René’s tears forget to flow. And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe, With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in; Ah, all my ghosts have gone below— The many things I’ve tried and failed in!

He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine, The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow; And here the arms of D’Hoym shine, And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau: Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe” (The first edition, this, he wailed in); I once believed in him—but oh, The many things I’ve tried and failed in!

ENVOY.

Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine Quite other balances are scaled in; May you succeed, though I repine— “The many things I’ve tried and failed in!”

BALLADE OF THE DREAM.

Swift as sound of music fled When no more the organ sighs, Sped as all old days are sped, So your lips, love, and your eyes, So your gentle-voiced replies Mine one hour in sleep that seem, Rise and flit when slumber flies, Following darkness like a dream!

Like the scent from roses red, Like the dawn from golden skies, Like the semblance of the dead From the living love that hies, Like the shifting shade that lies On the moonlight-silvered stream, So you rise when dreams arise, Following darkness like a dream!