BALLADE OF RHYME. When blossoms born of balmy spring Breathe fragrance in the pleasant shade Of branches where the blue-birds sing, Their hearts with music overweighed ; When brooks go babbling through the glade, And over rocks the grasses climb To greet the sunshine, half-afraid, How easy 'tis to write a rhyme ! When invitations are a-wing For gay Terpsichore's parade; When by your side, with graceful swing, Your claims for love and get them paid When Cupid's rules are first obeyed, How easy 'tis to write a rhyme ! Envoy. Reader, forgive me, man or maid, FRANK DEMPSTER SHERMAN. A BALLAD OF DREAMLAND. I hid my heart in a nest of roses, Out of the sun's way, hidden apart : Why would it sleep not? why should it start, When never a leaf of the rose-tree stirred ? What made sleep flutter his wings and part? Only the song of a secret bird. Lie still, I said, for the wind's wing closes, And mild leaves muffle the keen sun's dart ; Lie still, for the wind on the warm seas dozes, And the wind is unquieter yet than thou art. Does a thought in thee still as a thorn's wound smart Does the fang still fret thee of hope deferred? The green land's name that a charm encloses, It never was writ in the traveller's chart, And sweet on its trees as the fruit that grows is, It never was sold in the merchant's mart. The swallows of dreams through its dim fields dart, And sleep's are the tunes in its tree-tops heard; No hound's note wakens the wildwood hart, Only the song of a secret bird. Envoi. In the world of dreams I have chosen my part, ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE A BALLADE OF KINGS. Where are the mighty kings of yore Whose sword-arm cle.t the world in twain? And where are they who won and wore The empire of the land and main ? Where's Alexander, Charlemain? Alone the sky above them brings Their tombs the tribute of the rain. Dust in dust are the bones of kings! Where now is Rome's old emperor, Who gazed on burning Rome full fain; The Liege of France, the Lord of Spain? Grim Fritz's iron hammerings, Forging the links of Europe's chain? Dust in dust are the bones of kings! Where, 'neath what ravenous curses sore, Hath Well-Loved Louis lapsed and lain? Where is the Lion-Heart, who bore The spears toward Zion's gate again? Quiet from all his wanderings, The world-demanding Tamburlaine? Dust in dust are the bones of kings! Envoy. O Kings, bethink ye then how vain The pride and pomp of earthly things: A little pain, a little gain, Then dust in dust are the bones of kings. BALLADE OF ACHERON. Between the Midnight and the Morn, The Heroes fallen in their pride; I saw the marsh-lands drear and wide, And many a ghost that strayed thereon; 'Still must I roam," a maiden sighed, "The sunless marsh of Acheron." And is thy fate thus hope-forlorn ?" But The lover seeketh not the bride, "And still for me will Lacon mourn, And still my pardon be denied : Ah, never shall I cross the bourne That Dead from Living doth divide; The sunless marsh of Acheron." Envoy. Ah, Princess! when thy ghost shall glide See thou she tarry not beside The sunless marsh of Acheron. GRAHAM R. TOMSON, BALLADE OF ASPHODEL. Κατ ̓ ἀσφοδελὸν λειμῶνα. Now who will thread the winding way, Beyond the blast of winter sleet? Along the mead of Asphodel. There death and birth are one, they say; Those lowlands bear no yellow wheat; No sound doth rise of mortal fray, Of lowing herds, of flocks that bleat : Nor wind nor rain doth blow nor beat; Nor shrieketh sword, nor tolleth bell; But lovers one another greet Along the mead of Asphodel. I would that there my soul might stray: Might leave the murmur of the street, The half-believed-in Gods; too well Queen Proserpine, at whose white feet GRAHAM R. TOMSON. |