BALLADE OF THE BOURNE. What goal remains for pilgrim feet Now all our gods are banished? Tall portals bathed in gold and red, Smiles down on men full drowsilie 'Mid mystic forms of wings outspread Between the Gates of Ivorie. Now if beyond lie town or street I know not nor hath any said, Though tongues wag fast and winds are fleet; And some 66 it leads to Arcadie," In sooth I know not, yet would tread Between the Gates of Ivorie. For surely there sounds music sweet And pass, where no base soul had sped Envoy. Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread, By high desire and longing led GRAHAM R. TOMSON. 1 BALLADE OF FAIRY GOLD. A goblin trapped in netted skein, Did bruise his wings with vain essay; Meseems this mesh will keep for aye These echoes of the creature's pain, Drew soon anigh a surly swain 66 Who cut the cords and freed the fay : 'Now what fair gift shall well repay Thy service done?-for words are cold— Sweet looks or wisdom! vine or bay?" "The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold." "Thou choosest ill, but speech is vain, Lo! here is treasure good and gay:` The goat-herd grasped his golden gain And bore the shining store away; He oped his chest, at break of day, To find no talents, bright and cold, But soft, dead cowslips-nowhere lay The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold ! Envoy. Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray. And find in every woodland way, The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold. sold, GRAHAM R. TOMSON. BALLADE OF MIGHT-BE. Young Love flies fast, on wavering wing, Of days long done our praises ring Right loud and full, a valorous peal, For life was then a lusty thing: Ah! then were mighty blows to deal. Brave days, my masters !-still, I feel In sooth I could not deem him base Who'd shun your stare, O age of steel! Should you but chance to turn your face. "Alas!" our dainty minstrels sing, "That sorrow sets unbroken seal On saint and sinner, clown and king." They beg death's boon with busy zeal. They'll do you homage warm and leal, Death! while you pass their dwelling-place But lips would gape and senses reel, Should you but chance to turn your face. Envoy. Queen Fortune! of the mystic wheel, We would not turn on sullen heel Should you but chance to turn your face. GRAHAM R. TOMSON. BALLADE OF THE OPTIMIST. Heed not the folk who sing or say This round world's but a bitter pill." What though we wish the cats at play And all our worshipped Worcester spill, And, sometimes, on a summer's day Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil GRAHAM R. TOMSON. BALLADE OF OLD INSTRUMENTS. So quaintly sadly mute they hang, We ask in vain what fingers playe 1, We only know that once they rang In oaken room and forest glade, Where yule logs glowed or branches swang; To drown in such life's shallower cares, To long-forgot familiar airs. Dead all-a pun for every pang (So Shakespeare then the race portrayed That fought and revelled, danced and sprang Half-way to meet death undismayed); About them gather mist and shade, Yet Time ironically spares These strings on which their fingers strayed To long-forgot familiar airs. Envoy. Ah! child, so soon the colours fade From Watteau fêtes and Teniers fairs, You yet may seek in notes decayed Our long-forgot familiar airs. MORTIMER WHEELER. |