Grass of Parnassus | Page 8

heart against its will?With memories of the Spring--?That Spring we sought the gardens through?For flowers which ne'er in gardens grew!
For we, beside our nurse's knee,?In fairy tales had heard?Of that strange Rose which blossoms free?On boughs of an enchanted tree,?And sings like any bird!?And of the weed beside the way?That leadeth lovers' steps astray!
In vain we sought the Singing Rose?Whereof old legends tell,?Alas, we found it not mid those?Within the grey old College close,?That budded, flowered, and fell,--?We found that herb called 'Wandering'?And meet no more, no more in Spring!
Yes, unawares the unhappy grass?That leadeth steps astray,?We trod, and so it came to pass?That never more we twain, alas,?Shall walk the self-same way.?And each must deem, though neither knows,?That NEITHER found the Singing Rose!
A REVIEW IN RHYME.
A little of Horace, a little of Prior,?A sketch of a Milkmaid, a lay of the Squire--?These, these are 'on draught' 'At the Sign of the Lyre!'
A child in Blue Ribbons that sings to herself,?A talk of the Books on the Sheraton shelf,?A sword of the Stuarts, a wig of the Guelph,
A lai, a pantoum, a ballade, a rondeau,?A pastel by Greuze, and a sketch by Moreau,?And the chimes of the rhymes that sing sweet as they go,
A fan, and a folio, a ringlet, a glove,?'Neath a dance by Laguerre on the ceiling above,?And a dream of the days when the bard was in love,
A scent of dead roses, a glance at a pun,?A toss of old powder, a glint of the sun,?They meet in the volume that Dobson has done!
If there's more that the heart of a man can desire,?He may search, in his Swinburne, for fury and fire;?If he's wise--he'll alight 'At the Sign of the Lyre!'
COLINETTE.
For a sketch by Mr. G. Leslie, R.A.
France your country, as we know;?Room enough for guessing yet,?What lips now or long ago,?Kissed and named you--Colinette.?In what fields from sea to sea,?By what stream your home was set,?Loire or Seine was glad of thee,?Marne or Rhone, O Colinette?
Did you stand with maidens ten,?Fairer maids were never seen,?When the young king and his men?Passed among the orchards green??Nay, old ballads have a note?Mournful, we would fain forget;?No such sad old air should float?Round your young brows, Colinette.
Say, did Ronsard sing to you,?Shepherdess, to lull his pain,?When the court went wandering through?Rose pleasances of Touraine??Ronsard and his famous Rose?Long are dust the breezes fret;?You, within the garden close,?You are blooming, Colinette.
Have I seen you proud and gay,?With a patched and perfumed beau,?Dancing through the summer day,?Misty summer of Watteau??Nay, so sweet a maid as you?Never walked a minuet?With the splendid courtly crew;?Nay, forgive me, Colinette.
Not from Greuze's canvases?Do you cast a glance, a smile;?You are not as one of these,?Yours is beauty without guile.?Round your maiden brows and hair?Maidenhood and Childhood met?Crown and kiss you, sweet and fair,?New art's blossom, Colinette.
A SUNSET OF WATTEAU.
LUI.
The silk sail fills, the soft winds wake,?Arise and tempt the seas;?Our ocean is the Palace lake,?Our waves the ripples that we make?Among the mirrored trees.
ELLE.
Nay, sweet the shore, and sweet the song,?And dear the languid dream;?The music mingled all day long?With paces of the dancing throng,?And murmur of the stream.
An hour ago, an hour ago,?We rested in the shade;?And now, why should we seek to know?What way the wilful waters flow??There is no fairer glade.
LUI.
Nay, pleasure flits, and we must sail,?And seek him everywhere;?Perchance in sunset's golden pale?He listens to the nightingale,?Amid the perfumed air.
Come, he has fled; you are not you,?And I no more am I;?Delight is changeful as the hue?Of heaven, that is no longer blue?In yonder sunset sky.
ELLE.
Nay, if we seek we shall not find,?If we knock none openeth;?Nay, see, the sunset fades behind?The mountains, and the cold night wind?Blows from the house of Death.
NIGHTINGALE WEATHER.
'Serai-je nonnette, oui ou non??Semi-je nonnette? je crois que non.?Derriere chez mon pere?Il est un bois taillis,?Le rossignol y chante?Et le jour et la nuit.?Il chante pour les filles?Qui n'ont pas d'ami;?Il ne chant pas pour moi,?J'en ai un, Dieu merci.'--Old French.
I'll never be a nun, I trow,?While apple bloom is white as snow,?But far more fair to see;?I'll never wear nun's black and white?While nightingales make sweet the night?Within the apple tree.
Ah, listen! 'tis the nightingale,?And in the wood he makes his wail,?Within the apple tree;?He singeth of the sore distress?Of many ladies loverless;?Thank God, no song for me.
For when the broad May moon is low,?A gold fruit seen where blossoms blow?In the boughs of the apple tree,?A step I know is at the gate;?Ah love, but it is long to wait?Until night's noon bring thee!
Between lark's song and nightingale's?A silent space, while dawning pales,?The birds leave still and free?For words and kisses musical,?For silence and for sighs that fall?In the dawn, 'twixt him and me.
LOVE AND WISDOM.
'When last we gathered roses in the garden?I found