Ban and Arriere Ban | Page 8

these or anything,
Has but a moment of thy
spring,
Thy spring, and then--the long regret!
Ah, Golden Eyes!'
A GALLOWAY GARLAND
We know not, on these hills of ours,
The fabled asphodel of Greece,

That filleth with immortal flowers
Fields where the heroes are at
peace!
Not ours are myrtle buds like these
That breathe o'er isles
where memories dwell
Of Sappho, in enchanted seas!
We meet not, on our upland moor,
The singing Maid of Helicon,

You may not hear her music pure
Float on the mountain meres

withdrawn;
The Muse of Greece, the Muse is gone!
But we have
songs that please us well
And flowers we love to look upon.
More sweet than Southern myrtles far
The bruised Marsh-myrtle
breatheth keen;
Parnassus names the flower, the star,
That shines
among the well-heads green
The bright Marsh-asphodels between -

Marsh-myrtle and Marsh-asphodel
May crown the Northern Muse a
queen
CELIA'S EYES--PASTICHE
Tell me not that babies dwell
In the deeps of Celia's eyes;
Cupid in
each hazel well
Scans his beauties with surprise,
And would, like
Narcissus, drown
In my Celia's eyes of brown.
Tell me not that any goes
Safe by 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