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 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 RONDEAU REDOUBLÉ. I will go hence, and seek her, my old Love; The year is old, he said, and skies are grey. The rose-wreaths fade, the viols are not gay. I will go hence and seek her, my oid Love. Low, labouring sighs stirred coldly through the grove, All bramble-laced and moss-grown is the way!" With grievous eyes, and lips that smiled alway, strove Their spectral arms, and filmy green array; There was no sun, nor broad red moon above. Here lies her lute- and here her slender glove; (Her bower well won, sweet joy shall crown the day); But her he saw not, vanished was his Love, The year is old, he said, and skies are grey. The wrong was mine! he cried. I left my dove (He flung him down upon the weeping clay), And now I find her flown-ah wellaway! The house is desolate that held my Love, I will go hence. GRAHAM R. TOMSON. THE SICILIAN OCTAVE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED. To thee, fair Isle, Italia's satellite, To thee 'tis pleasure, haply to have brought And mine, to seize some rare and coloured thought RICHARD GARNETT, LL.D. Although this shape is not actually akin to the group of forms in this book, yet for examples of another variety of strict verse, the author has kindly allowed two specimens to be quoted. |