Clogging and filling my pores, Ears are on edge at the rattle; "Gent" just in front of me snores, Sounds like the noise of a battle. Ears are on edge at the rattle, Sounds like the noise of a battle, BRANDER MATTHEWS. IN THE SULTAN'S GARDEN. She oped the portal of the palace, From every spotless snowy chalice The lilies breathed a sweet perfume. She stole into the garden's gloom, She thought that no one would discover; The lilies breathed a sweet perfume, She thought that no one would discover, She swiftly ran to meet her lover Beside the fountain crystal clear. But footsteps followed ever near; Ah, who is that she sees before her Beside the fountain crystal clear? 'Tis not her hazel-eyed adorer. Ah, who is that she sees before her, His hand upon his scimitar Alas, what brought such dread disaster! It is her lord of Candahar, The fierce Sultan, her lord and master. Alas, what brought such dread disaster! "Your pretty lover's dead!" he cries (A sudden, ringing voice behind him); "Neath yonder tree his body lies-" 66 Die, lying dog! go thou and find him!" A sudden, ringing voice behind him, A deadly blow, a moan of hate, His blood ran red as wine in chalice; "Come, love, our steeds are at the gate!" She oped the portal of the palace. CLINTON SCOLLARD, RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ. My soul is sick of nightingale and rose, The perfume and the darkness of the grove; I weary of the fevers and the throes, And all the enervating dreams of love. At morn I love to hear the lark, and rove The meadows, where the simple daisy shows Her guiltless bosom to the skies aboveMy soul is sick of nightingale and rose. The afternoon is sweet, and sweet repose, But let me lie where breeze-blown branches move. I hate the stillness where the sunbeams doze, The perfume and the darkness of the grove. I love to hear at eve the gentle dove Contented coo the day's delightful close. She sings of love and all the calm thereof,I weary of the fevers and the throes. I love the night, who like a mother throws Her arms round hearts that throbbed and limbs that strove, As kind as Death, that puts an end to woes And all the enervating dreams of love. Because my soul is sick of fancies wove Because the taste of cinnamon and clove COSMO MONKHOUSE. RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ My day and night are in my lady's hand ; I have no other sunrise than her sight; For me her favour glorifies the land; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Her face is fairer than the hawthorn white, When all a-flower in May the hedgerows stand; While she is kind, I know of no affright; My day and night are in my lady's hand. All heaven in her glorious eyes is spanned; Her smile is softer than the summer's night, Gladder than daybreak on the Faery strand; I have no other sunrise than her sight. Her silver speech is like the singing flight What if the Winter chase the Summer bland! The gold sun in her hair burns ever bright. If she be sad, straightway all joy is banned; Her anger darkens all the cheerful light. Come weal or woe, I am my lady's knight And in her service every ill withstand; Love is my Lord in all the world's despite And holdeth in the hollow of his hand 14 My day and night. THE PRAYER OF DRYOPE. (Rondeau Redoublé.) O goddess sweet, give ear unto my prayer. Ah how my heart would joy again to be That I am innocent hast thou no care Come with thy doves across the briny sea! I hear no waters' silvern melody, And yet the rippling water once was there, And on its bloomy banks I worshipped thee ;Leave thy tall fanes and thy rose gardens rare! Could I but feel my boy's hands on my hair, Then bravely would I cast forth chill despair, I, who was once the blithesome Dryope, Am now a tree bole, cold and brown and bare; Pity, I pray, my ceaseless agony, Or grant forgetfulness of all things fair, O goddess sweet. CLINTON SCOLLARD. |