Part 6

Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest And the daffodil’s fair on the leas, And the soul of the Southron might rest, And be perfectly happy with these; But we, that were nursed on the knees Of the hills of the North, we would fleet Where our hearts might their longing appease With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

ENVOY.

Ah Constance, the land of our quest It is far from the sounds of the street, Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

VILLANELLE

(TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”)

VILLANELLE, why art thou mute? Hath the singer ceased to sing? Hath the Master lost his lute?

Many a pipe and scrannel flute On the breeze their discords fling; Villanelle, why art thou mute?

Sound of tumult and dispute, Noise of war the echoes bring; Hath the Master lost his lute?

Once he sang of bud and shoot In the season of the Spring; Villanelle, why art thou mute?

Fading leaf and falling fruit Say, “The year is on the wing, Hath the Master lost his lute?”

Ere the axe lie at the root, Ere the winter come as king, Villanelle, why art thou mute? Hath the Master lost his lute?

TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.

Αίαῖ ταὶ μαλάχαι μέν ἐπὰν κατὰ κᾱπον ὄλωνται ὕστερον άυ ζώοντι καὶ εἰς ἔτος ἄλλο φύοντι άμμες δ’ οι μεγάλοι καὶ χαρτερί οι σοφοὶ ἄνδρες ὁππότε πρᾱτα θάνωμες άνάχοοι ἔν χθονὶ χοίλα ‘εύδομες ἔυ μάλα μαχρὸν ἀπέμονα νήγρετον ‘ύπνον.

ALAS, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed, For these the grave has lost his sting, Alas, for us no second spring, Who sleep without awakening, And, dead, for ever more are dead, Alas, for us no second spring, Like mallows in the garden-bed!

Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave That boast themselves the sons of men! Once they go down into the grave— Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,— They perish and have none to save, They are sown, and are not raised again; Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, That boast themselves the sons of men!

BALLADE OF CRICKET.

TO T. W. LANG.

THE burden of hard hitting: slog away! Here shalt thou make a “five” and there a “four,” And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say, That thou art in for an uncommon score. Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar, And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire, When lo, the Umpire gives thee “leg before,”— “This is the end of every man’s desire!”

The burden of much bowling, when the stay Of all thy team is “collared,” swift or slower, When “bailers” break not in their wonted way, And “yorkers” come not off as here-to-fore, When length balls shoot no more, ah never more, When all deliveries lose their former fire, When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door,— “This is the end of every man’s desire!”

The burden of long fielding, when the clay Clings to thy shoon in sudden shower’s downpour, And running still thou stumblest, or the ray Of blazing suns doth bite and burn thee sore, And blind thee till, forgetful of thy lore, Thou dost most mournfully misjudge a “skyer,” And lose a match the Fates cannot restore,— “This is the end of every man’s desire!”

ENVOY.

Alas, yet liefer on Youth’s hither shore Would I be some poor Player on scant hire, Than King among the old, who play no more,— “This is the end of every man’s desire!”

THE LAST MAYING.

“It is told of the last Lovers which watched May-night in the forest, before men brought the tidings of the Gospel to this land, that they beheld no Fairies, nor Dwarfs, nor no such Thing, but the very Venus herself, who bade them ‘make such cheer as they might, for’ said she, ‘I shall live no more in these Woods, nor shall ye endure to see another May time.’”—EDMUND GORLIOT, “Of Phantasies and Omens,” p. 149. (1573.)

“WHENCE do ye come, with the dew on your hair? From what far land are the boughs ye bear, The blossoms and buds upon breasts and tresses, The light burned white in your faces fair?”

“In a falling fane have we built our house, With the dying Gods we have held carouse, And our lips are wan from their wild caresses, Our hands are filled with their holy boughs.

As we crossed the lawn in the dying day No fairy led us to meet the May, But the very Goddess loved by lovers, In mourning raiment of green and grey.

She was not decked as for glee and game, She was not veiled with the veil of flame, The saffron veil of the Bride that covers The face that is flushed with her joy and shame.