THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME
In a theme where the thoughts have a pedantstrut,
In a changing quarrel of "Ayes" and "Noes,” In a starched procession of " If" and " But,”There is place and enough for the pains of prose;
But whenever a soft glance softer grows
And the light hours dance to the trysting-time,
And the secret is told "that no one knows,"
Then hey for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
IN the work-a-day world,-for its needs and woes, There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey!for the ripple of laughing rhyme!
Thy sides are bare of oar,
Thy tall mast wounded sore
Of Africus, and see,
What shall thy spars restore!Tempt not the tyrant sea!
What cable now will hold
When all drag out from shore!
What god canst thou, too bold,
In time of need implore!
Look! for thy sails flap o'er,
Thy stiff shrouds part and flee,
Fast fast thy seams outpour,—
Tempt not the tyrant sea!
What though thy ribs of old
The pines of Pontus bore!
Not now to stern of gold
Men trust, or painted prore! Thou, or thou count'st it store A toy of winds to be,
Shun thou the Cyclads' roar,Tempt not the tyrant sea!
SHIP OF THE STATE, before
A care, and now to me
A hope in my heart's core,-
Tempt not the tyrant sea!
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith-
"Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play."
There is no King more terrible than Death.
The lusty Lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armèd Knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong Captain in the fight;
The Burgher grave he beckons from debate;
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,
Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay;
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,
Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay
There is no King more terrible than Death.
All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber,-the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,
Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite;
Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,
The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate;
Woe to the Judge that selleth Law for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller harryeth :-
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,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,
And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate :-
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,
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,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;
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