Rhymes à la Mode | Page 7

dwell -?Where,--who may tell?
The snow and wind and hail?May never there prevail,?Nor ever thunder fall?Nor storm at all.
But always fadeless there?The woods are green and fair,?And faithful ever more?Spring to that shore!
There shall I ever hear?Alcaeus' music clear,?And sweetest of all things?There SAPPHO sings.
SAN TERENZO
(The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living before the wreck of the Don Juan.)
Mid April seemed like some November day,?When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,?Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,?Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,?Rounded a point,--and San Terenzo lay?Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,?The roof that covered Shelley's homeless head, -?His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.
The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen?Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.?Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,?When suddenly the forest glades were stirred?With waving pinions, and a great sea bird?Flew forth, like Shelley's spirit, to the sea!
1880
ROMANCE
My Love dwelt in a Northern land.?A grey tower in a forest green?Was hers, and far on either hand?The long wash of the waves was seen,?And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,?The woven forest boughs between!
And through the silver Northern night?The sunset slowly died away,?And herds of strange deer, lily-white,?Stole forth among the branches grey;?About the coming of the light,?They fled like ghosts before the day!
I know not if the forest green?Still girdles round that castle grey;?I know not if the boughs between?The white deer vanish ere the day;?Above my Love the grass is green,?My heart is colder than the clay!
BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY
I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves?Among the shining salmon-flies;?A song for summer-time that grieves?I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves.?Between grey sea and golden sheaves,?Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,?I scribbled on a fly-book's leaves?Among the shining salmon-flies.
TO C. H. ARKCOLL
Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed?By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;?In the isles of the East and the West?That are sweet with the cinnamon trees?Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas;?Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,?We are more than content, if you please,?With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best?With the scent of the limes, when the bees?Hummed low 'round the doves in their nest,?While the vintagers lay at their ease,?Had he sung in our northern degrees,?He'd have sought a securer retreat,?He'd have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,?With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest?And the daffodil's fair on the leas,?And the soul of the Southron might rest,?And be perfectly happy with these;?But WE, that were nursed on the knees?Of the hills of the North, we would fleet?Where our hearts might their longing appease?With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
ENVOY
Ah Constance, the land of our quest?It is far from the sounds of the street,?Where the Kingdom of Galloway's blest?With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!
VILLANELLE--(To M. Joseph Boulmier, author of "Les Villanelles.")
Villanelle, why art thou mute??Hath the singer ceased to sing??Hath the Master lost his lute?
Many a pipe and scrannel flute?On the breeze their discords fling;?Villanelle, why art THOU mute?
Sound of tumult and dispute,?Noise of war the echoes bring;?Hath the Master lost his lute?
Once he sang of bud and shoot?In the season of the Spring;?Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Fading leaf and falling fruit?Say, "The year is on the wing,?Hath the Master lost his lute?"
Ere the axe lie at the root,?Ere the winter come as king,?Villanelle, why art thou mute??Hath the Master lost his lute?
TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS
[Paragraph of Greek text]
Alas, for us no second spring,?Like mallows in the garden-bed,?For these the grave has lost his sting,?Alas, for US no second spring,?Who sleep without awakening,?And, dead, for ever more are dead,?Alas, for us no second spring,?Like mallows in the garden-bed!
Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave?That boast themselves the sons of men!?Once they go down into the grave -?Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave, -?They perish and have none to save,?They are sown, and are not raised again;?Alas, the strong, the wise, the brave,?That boast themselves the sons of men!
BALLADE OF CRICKET--TO T. W. LANG
The burden of hard hitting: slog away!?Here shalt thou make a "five" and there a "four,"?And then upon thy bat shalt lean, and say,?That thou art in for an uncommon score.?Yea, the loud ring applauding thee shall roar,?And thou to rival THORNTON shalt aspire,?When lo, the Umpire gives thee "leg before," -?"This is the end of every man's desire!"
The burden of much bowling, when the stay?Of all thy team is "collared," swift or slower,?When "bailers" break not in their wonted way,?And "yorkers" come not off as here-to-fore,?When length balls shoot no more, ah never more,?When all deliveries lose their former fire,?When bats seem broader than the broad barn-door, -?"This is the end of every man's desire!"
The burden of long fielding, when the