Or those red-curtained panes, Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes, Might turn a caravansery’s, wherein You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk, And that fair Persian, bathed in tears, You’d not have given away For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous You had that dark and disleaved afternoon Escaped on a roc’s claw, Disguised like Sindbad—but in Christmas beef! And all the blissful while The schoolboy satchel at your hip Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn From over Caspian: yea, the Chief Jewellers Of Tartary and the bazaars, Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind. -
Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart The magian East: thus the child eyes Spelled out the wizard message by the light Of the sober, workaday hours They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind In ancient Severn’s arm, Amongst her water-meadows and her docks, Whose floating populace of ships - Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines, Bluff barques and rakehell fore-and-afters—brought To her very doorsteps and geraniums The scents of the World’s End; the calls That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride Like fire on some high errand of the race; The irresistible appeals For comradeship that sound Steadily from the irresistible sea. Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale, Telling itself anew In terms of living, labouring life, Took on the colours, busked it in the wear Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance, The Angel-Playmate, raining down His golden influences On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did, Walked with me arm in arm, Or left me, as one bediademed with straws And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart Who had the gift to seek and feel and find His fiery-hearted presence everywhere. Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things, Sends the same silver dews Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies On some poor collier-hamlet—(mound on mound Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk Sullenly smoking over a row Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings Of hurtling, tipping trams) - As on the amorous nightingales And roses of Shiraz, or the walls and towers Of Samarcand—the Ineffable—whence you espy The splendour of Ginnistan’s embattled spears, Like listed lightnings. Samarcand! That name of names! That star-vaned belvedere Builded against the Chambers of the South! That outpost on the Infinite! And behold! Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide Might overtake you: for one fringe, One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one Floats founded vague In lubberlands delectable—isles of palm And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas, The promise of wistful hills - The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream.
BRIC-A-BRAC
‘The tune of the time.’—HAMLET, concerning OSRIC
BALLADE OF A TOYOKUNI COLOUR-PRINT—To W. A.
Was I a Samurai renowned, Two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow? A histrion angular and profound? A priest? a porter?—Child, although I have forgotten clean, I know That in the shade of Fujisan, What time the cherry-orchards blow, I loved you once in old Japan.
As here you loiter, flowing-gowned And hugely sashed, with pins a-row Your quaint head as with flamelets crowned, Demure, inviting—even so, When merry maids in Miyako To feel the sweet o’ the year began, And green gardens to overflow, I loved you once in old Japan.
Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round Two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow, A blue canal the lake’s blue bound Breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo! Touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow, I see you turn, with flirted fan, Against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow … I loved you once in old Japan!
Envoy
Dear, ‘twas a dozen lives ago; But that I was a lucky man The Toyokuni here will show: I loved you—once—in old Japan.
BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF YOUTH AND AGE—I. M. Thomas Edward Brown
(1829-1896)
Spring at her height on a morn at prime, Sails that laugh from a flying squall, Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme - Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Winter sunsets and leaves that fall, An empty flagon, a folded page, A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball - These are a type of the world of Age.
Bells that clash in a gaudy chime, Swords that clatter in onsets tall, The words that ring and the fames that climb - Youth is the sign of them, one and all. Hymnals old in a dusty stall, A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage, The scene of a faded festival - These are a type of the world of Age.
Hours that strut as the heirs of time, Deeds whose rumour’s a clarion-call, Songs where the singers their souls sublime - Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A staff that rests in a nook of wall, A reeling battle, a rusted gage, The chant of a nearing funeral - These are a type of the world of Age.
Envoy
Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl - Youth is the sign of them, one and all. A smouldering hearth and a silent stage - These are a type of the world of Age.
BALLADE (DOUBLE REFRAIN) OF MIDSUMMER DAYS AND NIGHTS—To W. H.
With a ripple of leaves and a tinkle of streams The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise, And the winds are one with the clouds and beams - Midsummer days! Midsummer days! The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze, While the West from a rapture of sunset rights, Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise - Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
The wood’s green heart is a nest of dreams, The lush grass thickens and springs and sways, The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams - Midsummer days! Midsummer days! In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways, All secret shadows and mystic lights, Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze - Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
There’s a music of bells from the trampling teams, Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze, The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams - Midsummer days! Midsummer days! A soul from the honeysuckle strays, And the nightingale as from prophet heights Sings to the Earth of her million Mays - Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
Envoy
And it’s O, for my dear and the charm that stays - Midsummer days! Midsummer days! It’s O, for my Love and the dark that plights - Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
BALLADE OF DEAD ACTORS—I. M. Edward John Henley (1861-1898)
Where are the passions they essayed, And where the tears they made to flow? Where the wild humours they portrayed For laughing worlds to see and know? Othello’s wrath and Juliet’s woe? Sir Peter’s whims and Timon’s gall? And Millamant and Romeo? Into the night go one and all.
Where are the braveries, fresh or frayed? The plumes, the armours—friend and foe? The cloth of gold, the rare brocade, The mantles glittering to and fro? The pomp, the pride, the royal show? The cries of war and festival? The youth, the grace, the charm, the glow? Into the night go one and all.
The curtain falls, the play is played: The Beggar packs beside the Beau; The Monarch troops, and troops the Maid; The Thunder huddles with the Snow. Where are the revellers high and low? The clashing swords? The lover’s call? The dancers gleaming row on row? Into the night go one and all.
Envoy
Prince, in one common overthrow The Hero tumbles with the Thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all.
BALLADE MADE IN THE HOT WEATHER—To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle The moss they overspill; Pools that the breezes crinkle; The wheel beside the mill, With its wet, weedy frill; Wind-shadows in the wheat; A water-cart in the street; The fringe of foam that girds An islet’s ferneries; A green sky’s minor thirds - To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the tinkle, Pellucid, silver-shrill; Peaches without a wrinkle; Cherries and snow at will, From china bowls that fill The senses with a sweet Incuriousness of heat; A melon’s dripping sherds; Cream-clotted strawberries; Dusk dairies set with curds - To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle; Wet stone-crop on the sill; The look of leaves a-twinkle With windlets clear and still; The feel of a forest rill That wimples fresh and fleet About one’s naked feet; The muzzles of drinking herds; Lush flags and bulrushes; The chirp of rain-bound birds - To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards, Mermaidens’ tails, cool swards, Dawn dews and starlit seas, White marbles, whiter words - To live, I think of these!
BALLADE OF TRUISMS
Gold or silver, every day, Dies to gray. There are knots in every skein. Hours of work and hours of play Fade away Into one immense Inane. Shadow and substance, chaff and grain, Are as vain As the foam or as the spray. Life goes crooning, faint and fain, One refrain: ‘If it could be always May!’
Though the earth be green and gay, Though, they say, Man the cup of heaven may drain; Though, his little world to sway, He display Hoard on hoard of pith and brain: Autumn brings a mist and rain That constrain
Him and his to know decay, Where undimmed the lights that wane Would remain, If it could be always May.
YEA, alas, must turn to NAY, Flesh to clay. Chance and Time are ever twain. Men may scoff, and men may pray, But they pay Every pleasure with a pain. Life may soar, and Fortune deign To explain Where her prizes hide and stay; But we lack the lusty train We should gain, If it could be always May.
Envoy
Time, the pedagogue, his cane Might retain, But his charges all would stray Truanting in every lane - Jack with Jane - If it could be always May.
DOUBLE BALLADE OF LIFE AND FATE
Fools may pine, and sots may swill, Cynics gibe, and prophets rail, Moralists may scourge and drill, Preachers prose, and fainthearts quail. Let them whine, or threat, or wail! Till the touch of Circumstance Down to darkness sink the scale, Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.
What if skies be wan and chill? What if winds be harsh and stale? Presently the east will thrill, And the sad and shrunken sail, Bellying with a kindly gale, Bear you sunwards, while your chance Sends you back the hopeful hail:- ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’
Idle shot or coming bill, Hapless love or broken bail, Gulp it (never chew your pill!), And, if Burgundy should fail, Try the humbler pot of ale! Over all is heaven’s expanse. Gold’s to find among the shale. Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.
Dull Sir Joskin sleeps his fill, Good Sir Galahad seeks the Grail, Proud Sir Pertinax flaunts his frill, Hard Sir AEger dints his mail; And the while by hill and dale Tristram’s braveries gleam and glance, And his blithe horn tells its tale:- ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’
Araminta’s grand and shrill, Delia’s passionate and frail, Doris drives an earnest quill, Athanasia takes the veil: Wiser Phyllis o’er her pail, At the heart of all romance Reading, sings to Strephon’s flail:- ‘Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.’
Every Jack must have his Jill (Even Johnson had his Thrale!): Forward, couples—with a will! This, the world, is not a jail. Hear the music, sprat and whale! Hands across, retire, advance! Though the doomsman’s on your trail, Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.
Envoy
Boys and girls, at slug and snail And their kindred look askance. Pay your footing on the nail: Fate’s a fiddler, Life’s a dance.
DOUBLE BALLADE OF THE NOTHINGNESS OF THINGS
The big teetotum twirls, And epochs wax and wane As chance subsides or swirls; But of the loss and gain The sum is always plain. Read on the mighty pall, The weed of funeral That covers praise and blame, The -isms and the -anities, Magnificence and shame:- ‘O Vanity of Vanities!’
The Fates are subtile girls! They give us chaff for grain.
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