The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 11

Laman Blanchard [1804-1845]

MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH

You promise heavens free from strife, Pure truth, and perfect change of will; But sweet, sweet is this human life, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still: Your chilly stars I can forego, This warm kind world is all I know.

You say there is no substance here, One great reality above: Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels feel. Till then I cling, a mere weak man, to men.

You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins To s.e.xless souls, ideal choirs, Unwearied voices, wordless strains: My mind with fonder welcome owns One dear dead friend's remembered tones.

Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pa.s.s away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and s.p.a.ce decay.

But oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die.

William Johnson-Cory [1823-1892]

CLAY

"We are but clay," the preacher saith; "The heart is clay, and clay the brain, And soon or late there cometh death To mingle us with earth again."

Well, let the preacher have it so, And clay we are, and clay shall be;-- Why iterate?--for this I know, That clay does very well for me.

When clay has such red mouths to kiss, Firm hands to grasp, it is enough: How can I take it aught amiss We are not made of rarer stuff?

And if one tempt you to believe His choice would be immortal gold, Question him, Can you then conceive A warmer heart than clay can hold?

Or richer joys than clay can feel?

And when perforce he falters nay, Bid him renounce his wish and kneel In thanks for this same kindly clay.

Edward Verrall Lucas [1868-

AUCa.s.sIN AND NICOLETE

What magic halo rings thy head, Dream-maiden of a minstrel dead?

What charm of faerie round thee hovers, That all who listen are thy lovers?

What power yet makes our pulses thrill To see thee at thy window-sill, And by that dangerous cord down-sliding, And through the moonlit garden gliding?

True maiden art thou in thy dread; True maiden in thy hardihead; True maiden when, thy fears half-over, Thou lingerest to try thy lover.

And ah! what heart of stone or steel But doth some stir unwonted feel, When to the day new brightness bringing Thou standest at the stair-foot singing!

Thy slender limbs in boyish dress, Thy tones half glee, half tenderness, Thou singest, 'neath the light tale's cover, Of thy true love to thy true lover.

O happy lover, happy maid, Together in sweet story laid; Forgive the hand that here is baring Your old loves for new lovers' staring!

Yet, Nicolete, why fear'st thou fame?

No slander now can touch thy name, Nor Scandal's self a fault discovers, Though each new year thou hast new lovers.

Nor, Auca.s.sin, need'st thou to fear These lovers of too late a year, Nor dread one jealous pang's revival; No lover now can be thy rival.

What flower considers if its blooms Light, haunts of men, or forest glooms?

What care ye though the world discovers Your flowers of love, O flower of lovers!

Francis William Bourdillon [1852-1921]

PROVENCAL LOVERS Auca.s.sin And Nicolette

Within the garden of Beaucaire He met her by a secret stair,-- The night was centuries ago.

Said Auca.s.sin, "My love, my pet, These old confessors vex me so!

They threaten all the pains of h.e.l.l Unless I give you up, ma belle";-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette.

"Now who should there in Heaven be To fill your place, ma tres-douce mie?

To reach that spot I little care!

There all the droning priests are met; All the old cripples, too, are there That unto shrines and altars cling To filch the Peter-pence we bring";-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette.

"There are the barefoot monks and friars With gowns well tattered by the briars, The saints who lift their eyes and whine: I like them not--a starveling set!

Who'd care with folk like these to dine?

The other road 'twere just as well That you and I should take, ma belle!"-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette.

"To purgatory I would go With pleasant comrades whom we know, Fair scholars, minstrels, l.u.s.ty knights Whose deeds the land will not forget, The captains of a hundred fights, The men of valor and degree: We'll join that gallant company,"-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette.

"There, too, are jousts and joyance rare, And beauteous ladies debonair, The pretty dames, the merry brides, Who with their wedded lords coquette And have a friend or two besides,-- And all in gold and trappings gay, With furs, and crests in vair and gray,"-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette.

"Sweet players on the cithern strings, And they who roam the world like kings, Are gathered there, so blithe and free!

Pardie! I'd join them now, my pet, If you went also, ma douce mie!

The joys of Heaven I'd forego To have you with me there below,"-- Said Auca.s.sin to Nicolette.

Edmund Clarence Stedman [1833-1908]

ON THE HURRY OF THIS TIME

With slower pen men used to write, Of old, when "letters" were "polite"; In Anna's or in George's days, They could afford to turn a phrase, Or trim a struggling theme aright.

They knew not steam; electric light Not yet had dazed their calmer sight;-- They meted out both blame and praise With slower pen.