He beckons the grave Elder from debate, Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay: Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay. All things must bow to him. And woe betide Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite : Woe to the Lender at usurious rate, The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate: These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay. . There is no king more terrible than Death. He hath no pity,-nor will be denied. When the low hearth is garnished and bright, And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight; Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may; Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,— In the last furrow,-feels an icy breath, And knows a hand hath turned the team astray. There is no king more terrible than Death. He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride, He with the clatter of his drum doth fright; He scares the Virgin at the convent grate; He hath no grace for weakness or decay: All these he leadeth by the lonely way. . . Envoy. YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late, Have thou thy joy of living and be gay; When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,— There is no king more terrible than Death. AUSTIN DOBSON. THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS. (Chant Royal.) Behold, above the mountains there is light, Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, Onward, with even pace, in stately rows, The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white. And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, Bathed in an air of infinite delight, Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare, Leading the van to conquest, on they fare; Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes, These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring, And forests grim forget their ancient woes, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire, Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight, [briar. And wandered forth through many a scourging And waited shivering in the icy air, And wrapped their leopard skins about them there, The time must come, that every poet knows, But oh within the heart of this great flight, What ivory arms held up the golden lyre? What form is this of more than mortal height What matchless beauty, what inspired ire? The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, And harmonise their steps with stately care; Bent to the morning like a living rose, The immortal splendour of his face he shows, And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. Envoi. Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling; And with no frigid lips our songs compose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing. EDMUND GOSSE. THE GOD OF LOVE. (Chant Royal.) I. O most fair God, O Love both new and old, Leapt into light across the first day's dew; Holdest the hearts of servant and of king, And Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing, II. What thing rejects thy mastery? who so bold That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new, She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring And in that kiss put off cold chastity. Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string, "Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?" III. Master of men and gods, in every fold Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew The labouring earth, tranced with the winter's cold, Lie hid the quintessential charms that woo The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might Of the dead year, and draw them to the light. Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling; Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling Their spells of healing over land and sea, One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, "Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee !" IV. I see thee throned aloft; thy sair hands hold |