RHYMES A LA MODE

BY A. LANG

Hom, c’est une ballade! Vadius

LONDON KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO MDCCCLXXXV

p. ivMany of these verses have appeared in periodicals, English or American, and some were published in an American collection called Ballades and Verses Vain. None of them have previously been put forth in book form in England. The Rondeaux of the Galleries were published in the Magazine of Art, and are reprinted by permission of Messrs. Cassell and Co. (Limited).

p. vCONTENTS.

PAGE

Ballade Dedicatory

vii

The Fortunate Islands

3

The New Millenium

13

Almae Matres

23

Desiderium

27

Rhymes a la Mode

29

Ballade of Middle Age

31

The Last Cast

33

Twilight

37

Ballade of Summer

39

Ballade of Christmas Ghosts

41

Love’s Easter

42

Ballade of the Girton Girl

43

Ronsard’s Grave

45

San Terenzo

48

Romance

50

Ballade of his own Country

52

p. viVillanelle

55

Triolets after Moschus

57

Ballade of Cricket

59

The Last Maying

61

Homeric Unity

65

In Tintagel

66

Pisidicê

68

From the East to the West

71

Love the Vampire

72

Ballade of the Book-man’s Paradise

74

Ballade of a Friar

76

Ballade of Neglected Merit

78

Ballade of Railway Novels

80

The Cloud Chorus

82

Ballade of Literary Fame

85

Νήνεμος Αἰών

87

Art

89

A very woful Ballade of the Art Critic

91

Art’s Martyr

94

The Palace of Bric-à-brac

97

Rondeaux of the Galleries

100

Science

103

The Barbarous Bird-Gods

105

Man and the Ascidian

110

Ballade of the Primitive Jest

113

Cameos

115

Cameos

117

Helen on the walls

118

p. viiThe Isles of the Blessed

119

Death

121

Nysa

122

Colonus (I.)

123

,, (II.)

124

The Passing of Œdipous

125

The Taming of Tyro

126

To Artemis

127

Criticism of Life

128

Amaryllis

129

The Cannibal Zeus

130

Invocation of Isis

132

The Coming of Isis

133

The Spinet

134

Notes

135

p. ixBALLADE DEDICATORY.

TO MRS. ELTON OF WHITE STAUNTON.

The painted Briton built his mound, And left his celts and clay, On yon fair slope of sunlit ground That fronts your garden gay; The Roman came, he bore the sway, He bullied, bought, and sold, Your fountain sweeps his works away Beside your manor old!

But still his crumbling urns are found Within the window-bay, Where once he listened to the sound That lulls you day by day;— p. xThe sound of summer winds at play, The noise of waters cold To Yarty wandering on their way, Beside your manor old!

The Roman fell: his firm-set bound Became the Saxon’s stay; The bells made music all around For monks in cloisters grey, Till fled the monks in disarray From their warm chantry’s fold, Old Abbots slumber as they may, Beside your manor old!

Envoy.

Creeds, empires, peoples, all decay, Down into darkness, rolled; May life that’s fleet be sweet, I pray, Beside your manor old.

p. 1THE FORTUNATE ISLANDS.

p. 3A DREAM IN JUNE.

In twilight of the longest day I lingered over Lucian, Till ere the dawn a dreamy way My spirit found, untrod of man, Between the green sky and the grey.

Amid the soft dusk suddenly More light than air I seemed to sail, Afloat upon the ocean sky, While through the faint blue, clear and pale, I saw the mountain clouds go by: My barque had thought for helm and sail, And one mist wreath for canopy.

p. 4Like torches on a marble floor Reflected, so the wild stars shone, Within the abysmal hyaline, Till the day widened more and more, And sank to sunset, and was gone, And then, as burning beacons shine On summits of a mountain isle, A light to folk on sea that fare, So the sky’s beacons for a while Burned in these islands of the air.

Then from a starry island set Where one swift tide of wind there flows, Came scent of lily and violet, Narcissus, hyacinth, and rose, Laurel, and myrtle buds, and vine, So delicate is the air and fine: And forests of all fragrant trees Sloped seaward from the central hill, And ever clamorous were these

p. 5With singing of glad birds; and still Such music came as in the woods Most lonely, consecrate to Pan, The Wind makes, in his many moods, Upon the pipes some shepherd Man, Hangs up, in thanks for victory! On these shall mortals play no more, But the Wind doth touch them, over and o’er, And the Wind’s breath in the reeds will sigh.

Between the daylight and the dark That island lies in silver air, And suddenly my magic barque Wheeled, and ran in, and grounded there; And by me stood the sentinel Of them who in the island dwell; All smiling did he bind my hands, With rushes green and rosy bands, They have no harsher bonds than these The people of the pleasant lands Within the wash of the airy seas!

p. 6Then was I to their city led: Now all of ivory and gold The great walls were that garlanded The temples in their shining fold, (Each fane of beryl built, and each Girt with its grove of shadowy beech,) And all about the town, and through, There flowed a River fed with dew, As sweet as roses, and as clear As mountain crystals pure and cold, And with his waves that water kissed The gleaming altars of amethyst That smoke with victims all the year, And sacred are to the Gods of old.

There sat three Judges by the Gate, And I was led before the Three, And they but looked on me, and straight The rosy bonds fell down from me Who, being innocent, was free; p. 7And I might wander at my will About that City on the hill, Among the happy people clad In purple weeds of woven air Hued like the webs that Twilight weaves At shut of languid summer eves So light their raiment seemed; and glad Was every face I looked on there!

There was no heavy heat, no cold, The dwellers there wax never old, Nor wither with the waning time, But each man keeps that age he had When first he won the fairy clime. The Night falls never from on high, Nor ever burns the heat of noon. But such soft light eternally Shines, as in silver dawns of June Before the Sun hath climbed the sky!

p. 8Within these pleasant streets and wide, The souls of Heroes go and come, Even they that fell on either side Beneath the walls of Ilium; And sunlike in that shadowy isle The face of Helen and her smile Makes glad the souls of them that knew Grief for her sake a little while! And all true Greeks and wise are there; And with his hand upon the hair Of Phaedo, saw I Socrates, About him many youths and fair, Hylas, Narcissus, and with these Him whom the quoit of Phoebus slew By fleet Eurotas, unaware!

All these their mirth and pleasure made Within the plain Elysian, The fairest meadow that may be, p. 9With all green fragrant trees for shade And every scented wind to fan, And sweetest flowers to strew the lea; The soft Winds are their servants fleet To fetch them every fruit at will And water from the river chill; And every bird that singeth sweet Throstle, and merle, and nightingale Brings blossoms from the dewy vale,— Lily, and rose, and asphodel— With these doth each guest twine his crown And wreathe his cup, and lay him down Beside some friend he loveth well.

There with the shining Souls I lay When, lo, a Voice that seemed to say, In far-off haunts of Memory, Whoso death taste the Dead Men’s bread, Shall dwell for ever with these Dead, Nor ever shall his body lie p. 10Beside his friends, on the grey hill Where rains weep, and the curlews shrill And the brown water wanders by!

Then did a new soul in me wake, The dead men’s bread I feared to break, Their fruit I would not taste indeed Were it but a pomegranate seed. Nay, not with these I made my choice To dwell for ever and rejoice, For otherwhere the River rolls That girds the home of Christian souls, And these my whole heart seeks are found On otherwise enchanted ground.

Even so I put the cup away, The vision wavered, dimmed, and broke, And, nowise sorrowing, I woke While, grey among the ruins grey Chill through the dwellings of the dead, The Dawn crept o’er the Northern sea, p. 11Then, in a moment, flushed to red, Flushed all the broken minster old, And turned the shattered stones to gold, And wakened half the world with me!

L’Envoi.

To E. W. G.

(Who also had rhymed on the Fortune Islands of Lucian).

Each in the self-same field we glean The field of the Samosatene, Each something takes and something leaves And this must choose, and that forego In Lucian’s visionary sheaves, To twine a modern posy so; But all any gleanings, truth to tell, Are mixed with mournful asphodel, While yours are wreathed with poppies red, With flowers that Helen’s feet have kissed, p. 12With leaves of vine that garlanded The Syrian Pantagruelist, The sage who laughed the world away, Who mocked at Gods, and men, and care, More sweet of voice than Rabelais, And lighter-hearted than Voltaire.

p. 13THE NEW MILLENIUM.

(THE UNFORTUNATE ISLANDS.)

p. 15A VISION IN THE STRAND.

The jaded light of late July Shone yellow down the dusty Strand, The anxious people bustled by, Policeman, Pressman, you and I, And thieves, and judges of the land.

So swift they strode they had not time To mark the humours of the Town, But I, that mused an idle rhyme, Looked here and there, and up and down, And many a rapid cart I spied That drew, as fast as ponies can, The Newspapers of either side, These joys of every Englishman!

p. 16The Standard here, the Echo there, And cultured ev’ning papers fair, With din and fuss and shout and blare Through all the eager land they bare, The rumours of our little span.

’Midst these, but ah, more slow of speed, A biggish box of sanguine hue Was tugged on a velocipede, And in and out the crowd, and through, An earnest stripling urged it well Perched on a cranky tricycle!

A seedy tricycle he rode, Perchance some three miles in the hour, But, on the big red box that glowed Behind him, was a name of Power, Justice, (I read it e’er I wist,) The Organ of the Socialist!

p. 17The paper carts fled fleetly by And vanished up the roaring Strand, And eager purchasers drew nigh Each with his penny in his hand, But Justice, scarce more fleet than I, Began to permeate the land, And dark, methinks, the twilight fell, Or ever Justice reached Pall Mall.

Oh Man, (I stopped to moralize,) How eager thou to fight with Fate, To bring Astraea from the skies; Yet ah, how too inadequate The means by which thou fain wouldst cope With Laws and Morals, King and Pope! “Justice!”—how prompt the witling’s sneer,— “Justice! Thou wouldst have Justice here! And each poor man should be a squire, Each with his competence a year, Each with sufficient beef and beer, p. 18And all things matched to his desire, While all the Middle Classes should With every vile Capitalist Be clean reformed away for good, And vanish like a morning mist!

“Ah splendid Vision, golden time, An end of hunger, cold, and crime. An end of Rent, an end of Rank, An end of balance at the Bank, An end of everything that’s meant To bring Investors five per cent!”

How fair doth Justice seem, I cried, Yet oh, how strong the embattled powers That war against on every side Justice, and this great dream of ours, And what have we to plead our cause ’Gainst Masters, Capital, and laws, What but a big red box indeed, p. 19With copies of a weekly screed, That’s slowly jolted, up and down, Behind an old velocipede To clamour Justice through the town: How touchingly inadequate These arms wherewith we’d vanquish Fate!

Nay, the old Order shall endure And little change the years shall know, And still the Many shall be poor, And still the Poor shall dwell in woe; Firm in the iron Law of things The strong shall be the wealthy still, And (called Capitalists or Kings) Shall seize and hoard the fruits of skill. Leaving the weaker for their gain, Leaving the gentler for their prize Such dens and husks as beasts disdain,— Till slowly from the wrinkled skies The fireless frozen Sun shall wane, p. 20Nor Summer come with golden grain; Till men be glad, mid frost and snow To live such equal lives of pain As now the hutted Eskimo! Then none shall plough nor garner seed, Then, on some last sad human shore, Equality shall reign indeed, The Rich shall be with us no more, Thus, and not otherwise, shall come The new, the true Millennium!

p. 21ALMAE MATRES.

p. 23(ST. ANDREWS, 1862. OXFORD, 1865)

St. Andrews by the Northern sea, A haunted town it is to me! A little city, worn and grey, The grey North Ocean girds it round. And o’er the rocks, and up the bay, The long sea-rollers surge and sound. And still the thin and biting spray Drives down the melancholy street, And still endure, and still decay, Towers that the salt winds vainly beat. Ghost-like and shadowy they stand Dim mirrored in the wet sea-sand.

p. 24St. Leonard’s chapel, long ago We loitered idly where the tall Fresh budded mountain ashes blow Within thy desecrated wall: The tough roots rent the tomb below, The April birds sang clamorous, We did not dream, we could not know How hardly Fate would deal with us!

O, broken minster, looking forth Beyond the bay, above the town, O, winter of the kindly North, O, college of the scarlet gown, And shining sands beside the sea, And stretch of links beyond the sand, Once more I watch you, and to me It is as if I touched his hand!

And therefore art thou yet more dear, O, little city, grey and sere, p. 25Though shrunken from thine ancient pride And lonely by thy lonely sea, Than these fair halls on Isis’ side, Where Youth an hour came back to me!

A land of waters green and clear, Of willows and of poplars tall, And, in the spring time of the year, The white may breaking over all, And Pleasure quick to come at call. And summer rides by marsh and wold, And Autumn with her crimson pall About the towers of Magdalen rolled; And strange enchantments from the past, And memories of the friends of old, And strong Tradition, binding fast The “flying terms” with bands of gold,—

All these hath Oxford: all are dear, But dearer far the little town, p. 26The drifting surf, the wintry year, The college of the scarlet gown, St. Andrews by the Northern sea, That is a haunted town to me!

p. 27DESIDERIUM.

IN MEMORIAM S. F. A.

The call of homing rooks, the shrill Song of some bird that watches late, The cries of children break the still Sad twilight by the churchyard gate.

And o’er your far-off tomb the grey Sad twilight broods, and from the trees The rooks call on their homeward way, And are you heedless quite of these?

The clustered rowan berries red And Autumn’s may, the clematis, They droop above your dreaming head, And these, and all things must you miss?

p. 28Ah, you that loved the twilight air, The dim lit hour of quiet best, At last, at last you have your share Of what life gave so seldom, rest!

Yes, rest beyond all dreaming deep, Or labour, nearer the Divine, And pure from fret, and smooth as sleep, And gentle as thy soul, is thine!

So let it be! But could I know That thou in this soft autumn eve, This hush of earth that pleased thee so, Hadst pleasure still, I might not grieve.

p. 29RHYMES A LA MODE.

p. 31BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE.

Our youth began with tears and sighs, With seeking what we could not find; Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind, We sought and knew not what we sought. We marvel, now we look behind: Life’s more amusing than we thought!

Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise! Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies, With rainy clouds and southern wind, p. 32With common cares and faces kind, With pains and joys each morning brought? Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find Life’s more amusing than we thought!

Though youth “turns spectre-thin and dies,” To mourn for youth we’re not inclined; We set our souls on salmon flies, We whistle where we once repined. Confound the woes of human-kind! By Heaven we’re “well deceived,” I wot; Who hum, contented or resigned, “Life’s more amusing than we thought!”

Envoy.

O nate mecum, worn and lined Our faces show, but that is naught; Our hearts are young ’neath wrinkled rind: Life’s more amusing than we thought!

p. 33THE LAST CAST.

THE ANGLER’S APOLOGY.

Just one cast more! how many a year Beside how many a pool and stream, Beneath the falling leaves and sere, I’ve sighed, reeled up, and dreamed my dream!

Dreamed of the sport since April first Her hands fulfilled of flowers and snow, Adown the pastoral valleys burst Where Ettrick and where Teviot flow.

Dreamed of the singing showers that break, And sting the lochs, or near or far, And rouse the trout, and stir “the take” From Urigil to Lochinvar.

p. 34Dreamed of the kind propitious sky O’er Ari Innes brooding grey; The sea trout, rushing at the fly, Breaks the black wave with sudden spray!

* * * * *

Brief are man’s days at best; perchance I waste my own, who have not seen The castled palaces of France Shine on the Loire in summer green.

And clear and fleet Eurotas still, You tell me, laves his reedy shore, And flows beneath his fabled hill Where Dian drave the chase of yore.

And “like a horse unbroken” yet The yellow stream with rush and foam, ’Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet, Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome!

p. 35I may not see them, but I doubt If seen I’d find them half so fair As ripples of the rising trout That feed beneath the elms of Yair.

Nay, Spring I’d meet by Tweed or Ail, And Summer by Loch Assynt’s deep, And Autumn in that lonely vale Where wedded Avons westward sweep,

Or where, amid the empty fields, Among the bracken of the glen, Her yellow wreath October yields, To crown the crystal brows of Ken.

Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal, Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide, You never heard the ringing reel, The music of the water side!

p. 36Though Gods have walked your woods among, Though nymphs have fled your banks along; You speak not that familiar tongue Tweed murmurs like my cradle song.

My cradle song,—nor other hymn I’d choose, nor gentler requiem dear Than Tweed’s, that through death’s twilight dim, Mourned in the latest Minstrel’s ear!

p. 37TWILIGHT.

SONNET.

(AFTER RICHEPIN.)

Light has flown! Through the grey The wind’s way The sea’s moan Sound alone! For the day These repay And atone!

Scarce I know, Listening so To the streams Of the sea, If old dreams Sing to me!

p. 38BALLADE OF SUMMER.

TO C. H. ARKCOLL

When strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And far from Fleet Street, far from here, The Summer is Queen in the length of the land, And moonlit nights they are soft and clear, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When clamour that doves in the lindens keep Mingles with musical plash of the weir, Where drowned green tresses of crowsfoot creep, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And better a crust and a beaker of beer, With rose-hung hedges on either hand, p. 39Than a palace in town and a prince’s cheer, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoureth far and near, When glittering scythes in the hayfield reap, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And it’s oh to sail, with the wind to steer, Where kine knee deep in the water stand, On a Highland loch, on a Lowland mere, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

Envoy.

Friend, with the fops while we dawdle here, Then comes in the sweet o’ the year! And the Summer runs out, like grains of sand, When fans for a penny are sold in the Strand!

p. 40BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS.

Between the moonlight and the fire In winter twilights long ago, What ghosts we raised for your desire To make your merry blood run slow! How old, how grave, how wise we grow! No Christmas ghost can make us chill, Save those that troop in mournful row, The ghosts we all can raise at will!

The beasts can talk in barn and byre On Christmas Eve, old legends know, As year by year the years retire, We men fall silent then I trow, Such sights hath Memory to show, Such voices from the silence thrill, p. 41Such shapes return with Christmas snow,— The ghosts we all can raise at will.