Ballades and Other Rhymes of a Country Bookworm

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Stanesby & Company, 1888 - 88 psl.

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42 psl. - ... clear, The while my rhymes are murmuring in your ear A restless lore like that the billows teach; For on these sonnet-waves my soul would reach From its own depths, and rest within you, dear, As, through the billowy voices yearning here, Great nature strives to find a human speech. A sonnet is a wave of melody: From heaving waters of the impassioned soul A billow of tidal music one and whole Flows, in the "octave"; then, returning free, Its ebbing surges in the "sestet" roll Back to the deeps...
24 psl. - Easy is the Triolet, If you really learn to make it! Once a neat refrain you get, Easy is the Triolet. As you see ! - I pay my debt With another rhyme. Deuce take it, Easy is the Triolet, If you really learn to make it ! Wie das Triolett, so stammt auch das R o N DE AU aus Frankreich.
11 psl. - ... to the trustees, or something; but I did turn to a speaking likeness of "Larry" that hung right over the bookcase and seemed to say, "Why, sure, fellow book-lover; pass on the torch, print anything you please." And these are the verses: — BALLADE OF A POOR BOOK-LOVER Though in its stern vagaries Fate A poor book-lover me decreed, Perchance mine is a happy state — The books I buy I like to read: To me dear friends they are indeed, But, howe'er enviously I sigh, Of others take I little heed...
2 psl. - Of all the songs that dwell Where softest speech doth flow, Some love the sweet rondel, And some the bright rondeau, With rhymes that tripping go In mirthful measures clad; But would I choose them ? No; » For me the blithe ballade ! O'er some, the villanelle, That sets the heart aglow, Doth its enchanting spell With lines...
51 psl. - Of death we've no panic ! My parlor is little, And poor are its treasures; All pleasures are brittle, And so are my pleasures; But, though I shall never Be Beckford or Locker, While fate does not sever The door from the knocker, No book shall tap vainly At latch or at lattice (If costumed urbanely, And worth our care, that is) ; My poets from slumber Shall rise in morocco, To shield the new comer From storm or sirocco. I might prate thus for pages, The theme is so pleasant; But the gloom of the ages...
61 psl. - LOVE-SONG. (With apologies to OW) A barrel of beer and a glass of gin hot Are goodly gifts for me ; For my own true love a half-gallon pot Fill'd to the brim with tea. For thee a bloater from Yarmouth town (Fresh, O fresh, is...
12 psl. - Tweed, in Some books tho' tooled in style ornate, Yet worms upon their contents feed, Some men about their bindings prate — • The books I buy I like to read : Yet some day may my fancy breed My ruin — it may now be nigh — They reap, we know, who sow the seed: The books I read I like to buy. ENVOY Tho...
3 psl. - Ah me ! how many Fate makes mourn Unhonoured in our midst to dwell, Tho' Epics write they, and — in scorn — Shun Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle : Blank verse they scan — at times, as well, In jolts and jingles harsh rhymes clang — But fail to reach the pinnacle Of Austin Dobson — Andrew Lang. Dear brothers these, whose names adorn Their roll who spread Poesy's spell, Their sweetest strains heart-ward are borne In Rondeau, Ballade, Villanelle : Yet did no rival e'er excel Their efforts in...

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