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BALLADE OF THE BOURNE.

What goal remains for pilgrim feet

Now all our gods are banished?
Afar, where sea and sunrise meet,

Tall portals bathed in gold and red,
From either door a carven head

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;
Some say that there men meet the dead,
Or filmy phantoms in their stead,

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
With fair delights and perfumes shed,
And all things broken made complete,
And found again things forfeited;
All this for him who scorning dread
Shall read the wreathen fantasie,

And pass, where no base soul had sped
Between the Gates of Ivorie.

Envoy.

Ah, Princess! grasp the golden thread,
Rise up and follow fearlesslie,

By high desire and longing led
Between the Gates of Ivorie.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

1

BALLADE OF FAIRY GOLD.

A goblin trapped in netted skein,

Did bruise his wings with vain essay;
"Now who will rend this hempen chain?
Let that man ask me what he may,
I shall not, surely, say him nay:
The shadows wane, the day grows old,

Meseems this mesh will keep for aye
The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold !"

These echoes of the creature's pain,
As in the fowler's net he lay,

Drew soon anigh a surly swain

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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,

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But soft, dead cowslips-nowhere lay The sun-bright glint of Fairy Gold !

Envoy.

Take hands, O Prince, for we will stray.
We twain, where nought is bought or

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,
Full fast he flies for woe or weal,
And some do bear his grievous sting
Too deep for any leech to heal;
I scorn to swell their sad appeal,
False phantom, fled from our embrace!
And yet I doubt me I might kneel
Should you but chance to turn your face.

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 bow to find you full of grace,

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
In sonnet sad or sermon chill,
"Alas, alack, and well-a-day,

This round world's but a bitter pill."
Poor porcupines of fretful quill!
Sometimes we quarrel with our lot:
We, too, are sad and careful; still
We'd rather be alive than not.

What though we wish the cats at play
Would some one else's garden till;
Though Sophonisba drop the tray

And all our worshipped Worcester spill,
Though neighbours "practise " loud and shrill,
Though May be cold and June be hot,
Though April freeze and August grill,
We'd rather be alive than not.

And, sometimes, on a summer's day
To self and every mortal ill
We give the slip, we steal away,
To lie beside some sedgy rill;
The darkening years, the cares that kill,
A little while are well forgot;
Deep in the broom upon the hill
We'd rather be alive than not.

Pistol, with oaths didst thou fulfil
The task thy braggart tongue begot.
We eat our leek with better will,
We'd rather be alive than not.

GRAHAM R. TOMSON.

BALLADE OF OLD INSTRUMENTS.

So quaintly sadly mute they hang,

We ask in vain what fingers playe 1,
What hearts were stirred, what voices sang,
What songs in life's brief masquerade,—
What old-world catch or serenade,
What ill-worn mirth, what mock despairs
Found voice when maid or ruffling blade
Sang long-forgot familiar airs.

We only know that once they rang

In oaken room and forest glade,

Where yule logs glowed or branches swang;
When earth and heaven itself were made
For roistering off a Spanish raid,

To drown in such life's shallower cares,
Or trip in ruffs and old brocade,

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.

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