Ballads in Blue China | Page 7

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. Come, though
the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar, Come, for the air of this old world
is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; "It may be we shall
touch the happy isle."
Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the

golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But
happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the
silken cords between. Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore,
Whose flower is faded and whose locks are hoar, Yet haste, light skiffs,
where myrtle thickets smile; Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of
yore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle!"
ENVOY.
Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore. Ah, singing birds your
happy music pour! Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; Flit to
these ancient