Puslapio vaizdai
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'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark
Of china that's ancient and blue;
Unchipp'd, all the centuries through
It has pass'd, since the chime of it rang,
And they fashion'd it, figure and hue,
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.
These dragons (their tails, you remark,
Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),
When Noah came out of the ark,
Did these lie in wait for his crew?
They snorted, they snapp'd, and they
slew,

They were mighty of fin and of fang,
And their portraits Celestials drew
In the reign of the Emperor Hwang.

Here's a pot with a cot in a park,
In a park where the peach-blossoms blew,
Where the lovers eloped in the dark,
Lived, died, and were changed into two
Bright birds that eternally flew

Through the boughs of the may, as they

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"Dead and gone,' - a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life." DEATH'S JEST BOOK.

SAY, fair maids, maying
In gardens green,
In deep dells straying,
What end hath been
Two Mays between
Of the flowers that shone
And your own sweet queen
"They are dead and gone!"

Say, grave priests, praying
In dule and teen,

From cells decaying
What have ye seen
Of the proud and mean,
Of Judas and John,
Of the foul and clean?
"They are dead and gone

?

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And through the silver Northern night
The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
Stole forth among the branches gray;
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 gray ; 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!

THE ODYSSEY

As one that for a weary space has lain
Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine
In gardens near the pale of Proserpine,
Where that Ææan isle forgets the main,
And only the low lutes of love complain,
And only shadows of wan lovers pine,
As such an one were glad to know the brine
Salt on his lips, and the large air again, -
So gladly, from the songs of modern speech
Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the
free

Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers,

And, through the music of the languid hours,

They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

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TEARS for my lady dead,
Heliodore!

Salt tears and ill to shed
Over and o'er.
Tears for my lady dead,
Sighs do we send,
Long love remembered,

Mistress and friend.
Sad are the songs we sing,
Tears that we shed,
Empty the gifts we bring,
Gifts to the dead.

Go tears, and go lament!
Fare from her tomb,
Wend where my lady went,
Down through the gloom.
Ah, for my flower, my love,
Hades hath taken!

Ah for the dust above,

Scattered and shaken! Mother of all things born, Earth, in thy breast

Lull her that all men mourn, Gently to rest!

A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC

DARK Lily without blame,
Not upon us the shame,

Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true;

They, by the Maiden's side,

Victorious fought and died ;

One stood by thee that fiery torment through,

Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,

And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine

at the last.

Once only didst thou see,

In artist's imagery,

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Thine own face painted, and that precious Scarce did the memories wake

thing

Was in an Archer's hand

From the leal Northern land.

THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE

CHARLES

1731

BEAUTIFUL face of a child,

Lighted with laughter and glee, Mirthful, and tender, and wild, My heart is heavy for thee!

1744

Beautiful face of a youth,

As an eagle poised to fly forth

To the old land loyal of truth,

To the hills and the sounds of the North:

Fair face, daring and proud,

Lo! the shadow of doom, even now, The fate of thy line, like a cloud, Rests on the grace of thy brow!

1773

Cruel and angry face,

Hateful and heavy with wine, Where are the gladness, the grace, The beauty, the mirth that were thine?

Ah, my Prince, it were well,

Hadst thou to the gods been dear, To have fallen where Keppoch fell, With the war-pipe loud in thine ear ! To have died with never a stain

On the fair White Rose of Renown,

Of the far-off years and dim,
For he stood by Avernus' shore.
But he dreamed of a Northern glen,
And he murmured, over and o'er,
"For Charlie and his men: "
And his feet, to death that went,

Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine,
And the latest Minstrel bent
O'er the last of the Stuart line.

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