Ballads in Blue China | Page 8

gods we still adore: "It may be we shall touch the happy
isle!"

BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM. (Being a Petition, in the form
of a Ballade, praying the University Commissioners to spare the
Summer Term.)

When Lent and Responsions are ended, When May with fritillaries
waits, When the flower of the chestnut is splendid, When drags are at
all of the gates (Those drags the philosopher "slates" With a scorn that
is truly sublime), {1} Life wins from the grasp of the Fates Sweet hours
and the fleetest of time!
When wickets are bowl'd and defended, When Isis is glad with "the
Eights," When music and sunset are blended, When Youth and the
summer are mates, When Freshmen are heedless of "Greats," And
when note-books are cover'd with rhyme, Ah, these are the hours that
one rates - Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!
When the brow of the Dean is unbended At luncheons and mild
tete-a-tetes, When the Tutor's in love, nor offended By blunders in
tenses or dates; When bouquets are purchased of Bates, When the bells
in their melody chime, When unheeded the Lecturer prates - Sweet
hours and 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