Ban and Arriere Ban | Page 8

that enchanted place;?Eros dwells with Anteros?In the garden of her Face,?Where like friends who late were foes?Meet the white and crimson Rose.
BRITANNIA--FROM JULES LEMAITRE
Thy mouth is fresh as cherries on the bough,?Red cherries in the dawning, and more white?Than milk or white camellias is thy brow;?And as the golden corn thy hair is bright,?The corn that drinks the Sun's less fair than thou;?While through thine eyes the child-soul gazeth now -?Eyes like the flower that was Rousseau's delight.
Sister of sad Ophelia, say, shall these?Thy pearly teeth grow like piano keys?Yellow and long; while thou, all skin and bone,?Angles and morals, in a sky-blue veil,?Shalt hosts of children to the sermon hale,?Blare hymns, read chapters, backbite, and intone?
GALLIA
Lady, lady neat?Of the roguish eye,?Wherefore dost thou hie,?Stealthy, down the street,?On well-booted feet??From French novels I?Gather that you fly,?Guy or Jules to meet.
Furtive dost thou range,?Oft thy cab dost change;?So, at least, 'tis said:?Oh, the sad old tale?Passionately stale,?We've so often read!
THE FAIRY MINISTER
[The Rev. Mr. Kirk of Aberfoyle was carried away by the Fairies in 1692.]
People of Peace! a peaceful man,?Well worthy of your love was he,?Who, while the roaring Garry ran?Red with the life-blood of Dundee,?While coats were turning, crowns were falling,?Wandered along his valley still,?And heard your mystic voices calling?From fairy knowe and haunted hill.?He heard, he saw, he knew too well?The secrets of your fairy clan;?You stole him from the haunted dell,?Who never more was seen of man.?Now far from heaven, and safe from hell,?Unknown of earth, he wanders free.?Would that he might return and tell?Of his mysterious Company!?For we have tired the Folk of Peace;?No more they tax our corn and oil;?Their dances on the moorland cease,?The Brownie stints his wonted toil.?No more shall any shepherd meet?The ladies of the fairy clan,?Nor are their deathly kisses sweet?On lips of any earthly man.?And half I envy him who now,?Clothed in her Court's enchanted green,?By moonlit loch or mountain's brow?Is Chaplain to the Fairy Queen.
TO ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON?WITH KIRK'S 'SECRET COMMONWEALTH'
O Louis! you that like them maist,?Ye're far frae kelpie, wraith, and ghaist,?And fairy dames, no unco chaste,?And haunted cell.?Among a heathen clan ye're placed,?That kensna hell!
Ye hae nae heather, peat, nor birks,?Nae trout in a' yer burnies lurks,?There are nae bonny U.P. kirks,?An awfu' place!?Nane kens the Covenant o' Works?Frae that o' Grace!
But whiles, maybe, to them ye'll read?Blads o' the Covenanting creed,?And whiles their pagan wames ye'll feed?On halesome parritch;?And syne ye'll gar them learn a screed?O' the Shorter Carritch.
Yet thae uncovenanted shavers?Hae rowth, ye say, o' clash and clavers?O' gods and etins--auld wives' havers,?But their delight;?The voice o' him that tells them quavers?Just wi' fair fright.
And ye might tell, ayont the faem,?Thae Hieland clashes o' our hame?To speak the truth, I takna shame?To half believe them;?And, stamped wi' Tusitala's name,?They'll a' receive them.
And folk to come ayont the sea?May hear the yowl o' the Banshie,?And frae the water-kelpie flee,?Ere a' things cease,?And island bairns may stolen be?By the Folk o' Peace.
FOR MARK TWAIN'S JUBILEE
To brave Mark Twain, across the sea,?The years have brought his jubilee;?One hears it half with pain,?That fifty years have passed and gone?Since danced the merry star that shone?Above the babe, Mark Twain!
How many and many a weary day,?When sad enough were we, 'Mark's way'?(Unlike the Laureate's Mark's)?Has made us laugh until we cried,?And, sinking back exhausted, sighed,?Like Gargery, Wot larx!
We turn his pages, and we see?The Mississippi flowing free;?We turn again, and grin?O'er all Tom Sawyer did and planned,?With him of the Ensanguined Hand,?With Huckleberry Finn!
Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells?Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells?Across the Atlantic main,?Grant that Mark's laughter never die,?That men, through many a century,?May chuckle o'er Mark Twain!
MIST
Mist, though I love thee not, who puttest down?Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule,?At least on fly, in mere or river-pool?When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown,?And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown,?The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool?The blatant declamations of the fool?Who raves reciting through the heather brown.
Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass?Who cries 'How lovely!' and who does not spare?When light and shadow on the mountain pass,--?Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair,?O'er rock, and glade, and glen,--to shout, the Ass,?To me, to me the Poet, 'Oh, look there!'
LINES
[Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.]
How solemn is the front of this Hotel,?When now the hills are swathed in modest mist,?And none can speak of scenery, nor tell?Of 'tints of amber,' or of 'amethyst.'?Here once thy