Ballads of a Bohemian | Page 6

The sense of
living fills me with exultation. I want to sing, to dance; I am
dithyrambic with delight.
I think the moon must be to blame:
It fills the room with fairy flame;

It paints the wall, it seems to pour
A dappled flood upon the floor.

I rise and through the window stare . . .
Ye gods! how marvelously
fair!
From Montrouge to the Martyr's Hill,
A silver city rapt and
still;
Dim, drowsy deeps of opal haze,
And spire and dome in
diamond blaze;
The little lisping leaves of spring
Like sequins
softly glimmering;
Each roof a plaque of argent sheen,
A gauzy
gulf the space between;
Each chimney-top a thing of grace,
Where
merry moonbeams prank and chase;
And all that sordid was and
mean,
Just Beauty, deathless and serene.
O magic city of a dream!
From glory unto glory gleam;
And I will
gaze and pity those
Who on their pillows drowse and doze . . .
And
as I've nothing else to do,
Of tea I'll make a rousing brew,
And coax
my pipes until they croon,
And chant a ditty to the moon.
There! my tea is black and strong. Inspiration comes with every sip.
Now for the moon.
The moon peeped out behind the hill
As yellow as an apricot;
Then
up and up it climbed until
Into the sky it fairly got;
The sky was
vast and violet;
The poor moon seemed to faint in fright,
And pale
it grew and paler yet,
Like fine old silver, rinsed and bright.
And
yet it climbed so bravely on
Until it mounted heaven-high;
Then
earthward it serenely shone,
A silver sovereign of the sky,
A bland
sultana of the night,
Surveying realms of lily light.
Moon Song

A child saw in the morning skies
The dissipated-looking moon,

And opened wide her big blue eyes,
And cried: "Look, look, my lost
balloon!"
And clapped her rosy hands with glee:
"Quick, mother!
Bring it back to me."
A poet in a lilied pond
Espied the moon's reflected charms,
And
ravished by that beauty blonde,
Leapt out to clasp her in his arms.

And as he'd never learnt to swim,
Poor fool! that was the end of him.
A rustic glimpsed amid the trees
The bluff moon caught as in a snare.

"They say it do be made of cheese,"
Said Giles, "and that a chap
bides there. . . .
That Blue Boar ale be strong, I vow --
The lad's
a-winkin' at me now."
Two lovers watched the new moon hold
The old moon in her bright
embrace.
Said she: "There's mother, pale and old,
And drawing near
her resting place."
Said he: "Be mine, and with me wed,"

Moon-high she stared . . . she shook her head.
A soldier saw with dying eyes
The bleared moon like a ball of blood,

And thought of how in other skies,
So pearly bright on leaf and
bud
Like peace its soft white beams had lain;
~Like Peace!~ . . . He
closed his eyes again.
Child, lover, poet, soldier, clown,
Ah yes, old Moon, what things
you've seen!
I marvel now, as you look down,
How can your face
be so serene?
And tranquil still you'll make your round,
Old Moon,
when we are underground.
"And now, blow out your candle, lad, and get to bed.
See, the dawn is
in the sky. Open your window and let its freshness rouge your cheek.
You've earned your rest. Sleep."
Aye, but before I do so, let me read again the last of my ~Ballads~.
The Sewing-Girl

The humble garret where I dwell
Is in that Quarter called the Latin;

It isn't spacious -- truth to tell,
There's hardly room to swing a cat in.

But what of that! It's there I fight
For food and fame, my Muse
inviting,
And all the day and half the night
You'll find me writing,
writing, writing.
Now, it was in the month of May
As, wrestling with a rhyme
rheumatic,
I chanced to look across the way,
And lo! within a
neighbor attic,
A hand drew back the window shade,
And there, a
picture glad and glowing,
I saw a sweet and slender maid,
And she
was sewing, sewing, sewing.
So poor the room, so small, so scant,
Yet somehow oh, so bright and
airy.
There was a pink geranium plant,
Likewise a very pert canary.

And in the maiden's heart it seemed
Some fount of gladness must
be springing,
For as alone I sadly dreamed
I heard her singing,
singing, singing.
God love her! how it cheered me then
To see her there so brave and
pretty;
So she with needle, I with pen,
We slaved and sang above
the city.
And as across my streams of ink
I watched her from a
poet's distance,
She stitched and sang . . . I scarcely think
She was
aware of my existence.
And then one day she sang no more.
That put me out, there's no
denying.
I looked -- she labored as before,
But, bless me! she was
crying, crying.
Her poor canary chirped in vain;
Her pink geranium
drooped in sorrow;
"Of course," said I, "she'll sing again.
Maybe," I
sighed, "she will to-morrow."
Poor child; 'twas finished with her song:
Day after day her tears were
flowing;
And as I wondered what was wrong
She pined and peaked
above her sewing.

And then