BALLADE OF THE BARD.

Though through the cloudy ranks of morn
The Sun god sends no golden ray,
Though swift along the air are borne

The feathery shafts that none may stay; Though wrathful storm-blasts pangless slay, And wan the patient plodder rues

His lonely lot each dagging dayHe's gay who courts the merry muse !

When down the fields the tender corn

Upsprings, and sees blue skies in May, When budding blooms the boughs adorn,

And flowers bespangle sprig and spray, When torrid summer's regnant sway Has dimmed the foliage's fairest hues,

And bronzed reapers house the hayHe's gay who courts the merry muse !

And when the hollow harvest horn

O'erflows with autumn's rich display,
When high, with goodly grain, new-shorn,
Is piled each lofty granary,

When, like dark moons amid the gray
Of cornfields, where the red ear woos,
The pumpkins lie in long array-
He's gay who courts the merry muse!

Envoy.

Prince, e'en though Fortune go astray
And lost is wealth's bright-shining cruse,
Though dark and drear the weary way-
He's gay who courts the merry muse.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

BALLADE OF DEAD POETS.

Theocritus, who bore

The lyre where sleek herds graze On the Sicilian shore,

(There yet the shepherd strays)— And Horace, crowned with bays, Who dwelt by Tiber's flow,

Sleep through the silent daysFor God will have it so !

The bard, whose requiem o'er
And o'er the sad sea plays,

Who sang of classic lore,

Of Mab, the queen of frys-
And Keats, fair Adonais,

The child of song and woe,

No longer thread life's maze

For God will have it so !

Your voices, sweet of yore,

With honied word and phrase,

Are heard by men no more,
They list to other lays-
New poets now have praise,

But all in turn must go

To follow in your ways

For God will have it so!

BALLADE TO VILLON.

Where, prithee, are thy comrades bold,
With ruffle, flounce, and furbelow,
Who, in the merry days of old,

Made light of all but red wine's flow?
Where now are cavalier and beau
Who joyed with thee in that bright clime?
Ah! dust to dust !-and none may know-
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time !

Where now are they whom gleaming gold
Led on to many a bandit blow,
Who roamed with thee the widening wold
And vine-clad hills, and shared thy woe?
Where they, who, in the sunset glow,
With thee heard Paris' sweet bells chime?

Ah! they are gone !—and still men go
Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

And where are they, those maids untold,
Thy lighter loves, each one thy foe?
They too are now but loathsome mould,
With earth above and earth below.
And she who won, aside to throw

Thy love, the promise of thy prime,

Doth any seek her name? Ah ! no

Alas, for the fleet wings of Time!

Envoy.

Poet of ballade and rondeau,

Prince of the tripping, laughing rhyme, Thy name alone hath 'scaped the snow; Alas, for the fleet wings of Time.

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

FOR ME THE BLITHE BALLADE.

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' recurring throw;
Some weighed with wasting woe,

Gay triolets make them glad ;

But would I choose them ?—no. ·

For me the blithe ballade !

On chant of stately swell

With measured feet and slow,

At grave as minster bell

As vesper tolling low,

Do some their praise bestow;

Some on sestinas sad;

But would I choose them ?-nɔ,

For me the blithe ballade!

Envoy.

Prince, to these songs a-row
The Muse might endless add;
But would I choose them ?-no,
For me the blithe ballade!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

O LADY MINE.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair,

The birds are caroling blithe and gay In the bourgeoning boughs that sway in air O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way. The mock bird pipes to the busy jay. There's a gleam of white on the vines that twine Where your casement opes to the golden day, O lady mine.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair,

The rills are glad that the month is May;
The dawns are bright and the eves are fair

O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way.
The dales have doffed their gowns of grey,
The sending buttercups spill their wine,
There is joy in the heart of faun and fay,
O lady nine.

O lady mine with the sunlit hair

The bees, like ruthless bandits, prey On the blooms that part their lips in prayer

O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way. From the sunny shores where the nereids play The breezes blow o'er the foamy brine,

And I dream I hear them softly say,

Envoy.

"O lady mine! ”

O lady mine, wilt thou not stray

O'er the grassy aisles of the orchard way,

And list to Love where the wind-flowers shine,

O lady mine?

CLINTON SCOLLARD.