The Ballade, The Double Ballade,

and The Chant Royal.

Ballade en huitains d' octosyllabes.

Chant de May.

En ce beau mois delicieux,
Arbres, fleurs et agriculture,
Qui, durant l' yver soncieux,
Avex esté en sepulture,

Sortez pour servir de pasture

Aux troupeaux du plus grand Pasteur:
Chacun de vous en sa nature,
Louez le nom de Createur.

Les servans d'amour furieux
Parlent de l'amour vaine et dure,
Où vous, vrays amans curieux
Parlez de l'amour sans laidure.
Allez aux champs sur la verdure
Ouir l'oyseau, parfait chanteur;
Mais du plaisir, si peu qu'il dure
Louez le nom de Createur.

Quand vous verrez rire les Cieux
Et la terre en sa floriture,
Quand vous verrez devant vos yeux
Les eaux lui bailler nourriture,
Sur peine de grand forfaiture
Et d'estre larron et menteur,
N' en louez nulle creature,
Louez le nom de Createur.

Envoy.

Prince, pensez, veu la facture,
Combien est puissant le facteur:
Et vous aussi, mon escriture,
Louez le nom de Createur.

-CLÉMENT MAROT.

WHERE ARE THE PIPES OF PAN?

In these prosaic days

Of politics and trade,

Where seldom fancy lays

Her touch on man or maid,
The sounds are fled that strayed
Along sweet streams that ran;
Of song the world's afraid;
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Within the busy maze

Wherein our feet are stayed,
There roam no gleesome fays
Like those which once repaid
His sight who first essayed
The stream of song to span,
Those spirits are all laid.
Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Dry now the poet's bays;

Of song-robes disarrayed

He hears not now the praise

Which erst those won who played
On pipes of rushes made,

Before dull days began

And love of song decayed.

Where are the Pipes of Pan?

Envoy.

Prince, all our pleasures fade;
Vain all the toils of man;

And fancy cries dismayed,

Where are the Pipes of Pan?

OSCAR FAY ADAMS.

A BALLADE OF EVOLUTION.

In the mud of the Cambrian main

Did our earliest ancestor dive:
From a shapeless albuminous grain
We mortals our being derive.
He could split himself up into five,
Or roll himself round like a ball;

For the fittest will always survive,
While the weakliest go to the wall.

As an active ascidian again

Fresh forms he began to contrive, Till he grew to a fish with a brain,

And brought forth a mammal alive. With his rivals he next had to strive, To woo him a mate and a thrall;

So the handsomest managed to wive While the ugliest went to the wall.

At length as an ape he was fain

The nuts of the forest to rive; Till he took to the low-lying plain,

And proceeded his fellow to knive. Thus did cannibal men first arrive, One another to swallow and maul;

And the strongest continued to thrive, While the weakliest went to the wall.

Envoy.

Prince, in our civilised hive

Now money's the measure of all; And the wealthy in coaches can drive While the needier go to the wall.

GRANT ALLEN.

BALLADE OF SOLITUDE.

Thank Heaven, in these despondent days,
I have at least one faithful friend,
Who meekly listens to my lays,

As o'er the darkened downs we wend.
Nay, naught of mine may him offend;
In sooth he is a courteous wight,

His constancy needs no amend-
My shadow on a moonlight night.

Too proud to give me perjured praise,
He hearkens as we onward tend,
And ne'er disputes a doubtful phrase,
Nor says he cannot comprehend.
Might God such critics always send!
He turns not to the left or right,

But patient follows to the end-
My shadow on a moonlight night.

And if the public grant me bays,
On him no jealousies descend;

But through the midnight woodland ways,
He velvet-footed will attend;

Or where the chalk cliffs downward bend

To meet the sea all silver bright,

There will he come, most reverend

My shadow on a moonlight night.

Envoy.

O wise companion, I commend
Your grace in being silent quite;
And envy with approval blend-

My shadow on a moonlight night.

WILLIAM BLACK.