Ballads in Blue China | Page 8

the fleetest of time!
ENVOY.
Reformers of Schools and of States, Is mirth so tremendous a crime? Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates - Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

BALLADE OF THE MUSE Quem tu, Melpomene, semel.

The man whom once, Melpomene, Thou look'st on with benignant sight, Shall never at the Isthmus be A boxer eminent in fight, Nor fares he foremost in the flight Of Grecian cars to victory, Nor goes with Delian laurels dight, The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
Not him the Capitol shall see, As who hath crush'd the threats and might Of monarchs, march triumphantly; But Fame shall crown him, in his right Of all the Roman lyre that smite The first; so woods of Tivoli Proclaim him, so her waters bright, The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
The sons of queenly Rome count ME, Me too, with them whose chants delight, - The poets' kindly company; Now broken is the tooth of spite, But thou, that temperest aright The golden lyre, all, all to thee He owes--life, fame, and fortune's height - The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!
ENVOY.
Queen, that to mute lips could'st unite The wild swan's dying melody! Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite - The man thou lov'st, Melpomene?

BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS. AFTER LA FONTAINE.

Rome does right well to censure all the vain Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach That earthly joys are damnable! 'Tis plain We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach; No, amble on! We'll gain it, one and all; The narrow path's a dream fantastical, And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven Mirth from the world. We'll scale the heavenly wall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
He does not hold a man may well be slain Who vexes with unseasonable speech, You MAY do murder for five ducats gain, NOT for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach; He ventures (most consistently) to teach That there are certain cases that befall When perjury need no good man appal, And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven. Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl, "Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!"
"For God's sake read me somewhat in the strain Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!" Why should I name them all? a mighty train - So many, none may know the name of each. Make these your compass to the heavenly beach, These only in your library instal: Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small, Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven; I tell you, and the common voice doth call, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!
ENVOY.
SATAN, that pride did hurry to thy fall, Thou porter of the grim infernal hall - Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven! To shun thy shafts, to 'scape thy hellish thrall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES. TO E. W. GOSSE.

The dust of Carthage and the dust Of Babel on the desert wold, The loves of Corinth, and the lust, Orchomenos increased with gold; The town of Jason, over-bold, And Cherson, smitten in her prime - What are they but a dream half-told? Where are the cities of old time?
In towns that were a kingdom's trust, In dim Atlantic forests' fold, The marble wasteth to a crust, The granite crumbles into mould; O'er these--left nameless from of old - As over Shinar's brick and slime, One vast forgetfulness is roll'd - Where are the cities of old time?
The lapse of ages, and the rust, The fire, the frost, the waters cold, Efface the evil and the just; From Thebes, that Eriphyle sold, To drown'd Caer-Is, whose sweet bells toll'd Beneath the wave a dreamy chime That echo'd from the mountain-hold, - "Where are the cities of old time?"
ENVOY.
Prince, all thy towns and cities must Decay as these, till all their crime, And mirth, and wealth, and toil are thrust Where are the cities of old time.

BALLADE OF THE ROYAL GAME OF GOLF. (EAST FIFESHIRE.)

There are laddies will drive ye a ba' To the burn frae the farthermost tee, But ye mauna think driving is a', Ye may heel her, and send her ajee, Ye may land in the sand or the sea; And ye're dune, sir, ye're no worth a preen, Tak' the word that an auld man'll gie, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
The auld folk are crouse, and they craw That their putting is pawky and slee; In a bunker they're nae gude ava', But to girn, and to gar the sand flee. And a lassie can putt--ony she, - Be she Maggy, or Bessie, or Jean, But a cleek-shot's the billy for me, Tak' aye tent to be up on the green!
I hae play'd in the frost and the thaw, I hae play'd since the year