A Little Book of Western Verse Part 9

HORACE TO MELPOMENE

Lofty and enduring is the monument I've reared,-- Come, tempests, with your bitterness a.s.sailing; And thou, corrosive blasts of time, by all things mortal feared, Thy buffets and thy rage are unavailing!

I shall not altogether die; by far my greater part Shall mock man's common fate in realms infernal; My works shall live as tributes to my genius and my art,-- My works shall be my monument eternal!

While this great Roman empire stands and G.o.ds protect our fanes, Mankind with grateful hearts shall tell the story, How one most lowly born upon the parched Apulian plains First raised the native lyric muse to glory.

a.s.sume, revered Melpomene, the proud estate I've won, And, with thine own dear hand the meed supplying, Bind thou about the forehead of thy celebrated son The Delphic laurel-wreath of fame undying!

AILSIE, MY BAIRN

Lie in my arms, Ailsie, my bairn,-- Lie in my arms and dinna greit; Long time been past syn I kenned you last, But my harte been allwais the same, my swete.

Ailsie, I colde not say you ill, For out of the mist of your bitter tears, And the prayers that rise from your bonnie eyes Cometh a promise of oder yeres.

I mind the time when we lost our bairn,-- Do you ken that time? A wambling tot, You wandered away ane simmer day, And we hunted and called, and found you not.

I promised G.o.d, if He'd send you back, Alwaies to keepe and to love you, childe; And I'm thinking again of that promise when I see you creep out of the storm sae wild.

You came back then as you come back now,-- Your kirtle torn and your face all white; And you stood outside and knockit and cried, Just as you, dearie, did to-night.

Oh, never a word of the cruel wrang, That has faded your cheek and dimmed your ee; And never a word of the fause, fause lord,-- Only a smile and a kiss for me.

Lie in my arms, as long, long syne, And sleepe on my bosom, deere wounded thing,-- I'm nae sae glee as I used to be, Or I'd sing you the songs I used to sing.

But Ile kemb my fingers thro' y'r haire, And nane shall know, but you and I, Of the love and the faith that came to us baith When Ailsie, my bairn, came home to die.

CORNISH LULLABY

Out on the mountain over the town, All night long, all night long, The trolls go up and the trolls go down, Bearing their packs and crooning a song; And this is the song the hill-folk croon, As they trudge in the light of the misty moon,-- This is ever their dolorous tune: "Gold, gold! ever more gold,-- Bright red gold for dearie!"

Deep in the hill the yeoman delves All night long, all night long; None but the peering, furtive elves See his toil and hear his song; Merrily ever the cavern rings As merrily ever his pick he swings, And merrily ever this song he sings: "Gold, gold! ever more gold,-- Bright red gold for dearie!"

Mother is rocking thy lowly bed All night long, all night long, Happy to smooth thy curly head And to hold thy hand and to sing her song; 'T is not of the hill-folk, dwarfed and old, Nor the song of the yeoman, stanch and bold, And the burden it beareth is not of gold; But it's "Love, love!--nothing but love,-- Mother's love for dearie!"

UHLAND'S "THREE CAVALIERS"

There were three cavaliers that went over the Rhine, And gayly they called to the hostess for wine.

"And where is thy daughter? We would she were here,-- Go fetch us that maiden to gladden our cheer!"

"I'll fetch thee thy goblets full foaming," she said, "But in yon darkened chamber the maiden lies dead."

And lo! as they stood in the doorway, the white Of a shroud and a dead shrunken face met their sight.

Then the first cavalier breathed a pitiful sigh, And the throb of his heart seemed to melt in his eye, And he cried, "Hadst thou lived, O my pretty white rose, I ween I had loved thee and wed thee--who knows?"

The next cavalier drew aside a small s.p.a.ce, And stood to the wall with his hands to his face; And this was the heart-cry that came with his tears: "I loved her, I loved her these many long years!"

But the third cavalier kneeled him down in that place, And, as it were holy, he kissed that dead face: "I loved thee long years, and I love thee to-day, And I'll love thee, dear maiden, forever and aye!"

A CHAUCERIAN PARAPHRASE OF HORACE

Syn that you, Chloe, to your moder sticken, Maketh all ye yonge bacheloures full sicken; Like as a lyttel deere you ben y-hiding Whenas come lovers with theyre pityse chiding; Sothly it ben faire to give up your moder For to beare swete company with some oder; Your moder ben well enow so farre shee goeth, But that ben not farre enow, G.o.d knoweth; Wherefore it ben sayed that foolysh ladyes That marrye not shall leade an aype in Hadys; But all that do with G.o.de men wed full quickylye When that they be on dead go to ye seints full sickerly.

NORSE LULLABY

The sky is dark and the hills are white As the storm-king speeds from the north to-night, And this is the song the storm-king sings, As over the world his cloak he flings: "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep;"

He rustles his wings and gruffly sings: "Sleep, little one, sleep."

On yonder mountain-side a vine Clings at the foot of a mother pine; The tree bends over the trembling thing, And only the vine can hear her sing: "Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; What shall you fear when I am here?

Sleep, little one, sleep."

The king may sing in his bitter flight, The tree may croon to the vine to-night, But the little snowflake at my breast Liketh the song _I_ sing the best,-- Sleep, sleep, little one, sleep; Weary thou art, anext my heart Sleep, little one, sleep.

BeRANGER'S "MY LAST SONG PERHAPS"

[JANUARY, 1814]

When, to despoil my native France, With flaming torch and cruel sword And boisterous drums her foeman comes, I curse him and his vandal horde!

Yet, what avail accrues to her, If we a.s.sume the garb of woe?

Let's merry be,--in laughter we May rescue somewhat from the foe!

Ah, many a brave man trembles now.

I (coward!) show no sign of fear; When Bacchus sends his blessing, friends, I drown my panic in his cheer.

Come, gather round my humble board, And let the sparkling wa.s.sail flow,-- Chuckling to think, the while you drink, "This much we rescue from the foe!"