Ballads, Lyrics, and Poems of Old France Part 11

Farewell, be glad, forget; There is no need to say 'forget,' I know, For youth is youth, and time will have it so, And though your lips are pale, and your eyes wet, Farewell, you must forget.

You shall bring home your sheaves, Many, and heavy, and with blossoms twined Of memories that go not out of mind; Let this one sheaf be twined with poppy leaves When you bring home your sheaves.

In garnered loves of thine, The ripe good fruit of many hearts and years, Somewhere let this lie, grey and salt with tears; It grew too near the sea wind, and the brine Of life, this love of mine.

This sheaf was spoiled in spring, And over-long was green, and early sere, And never gathered gold in the late year From autumn suns, and moons of harvesting, But failed in frosts of spring.

Yet was it thine my sweet, This love, though weak as young corn withered, Whereof no man may gather and make bread; Thine, though it never knew the summer heat; Forget not quite, my sweet.

AN OLD PRAYER.

?a??? ??, ? ?as??e?a, d?ape??? e?? ? ?e ???a?

???? ?a? ???at??,t? t' ?p' ?????p??s? p????ta?.

ODYSSEY, xiii. 59.

MY prayer an old prayer borroweth, Of ancient love and memory- 'Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.'

Gently as winter's early breath, Scarce felt, what time the swallows flee, To lands whereof _no man knoweth_ Of summer, over land and sea; So with thy soul may summer be, Even as the ancient singer saith, 'Do thou farewell, till Eld and Death, That come to all men, come to thee.'

LOVE'S MIRACLE.

WITH other helpless folk about the gate, The gate called Beautiful, with weary eyes That take no pleasure in the summer skies, Nor all things that are fairest, does she wait; So bleak a time, so sad a changeless fate Makes her with dull experience early wise, And in the dawning and the sunset, sighs That all hath been, and shall be, desolate.

Ah, if Love come not soon, and bid her live, And know herself the fairest of fair things, Ah, if he have no healing gift to give, Warm from his breast, and holy from his wings, Or if at least Love's shadow in pa.s.sing by Touch not and heal her, surely she must die.

DREAMS.

HE spake not truth, however wise, who said That happy, and that hapless men in sleep Have equal fortune, fallen from care as deep As countless, careless, races of the dead.

Not so, for alien paths of dreams we tread, And one beholds the faces that he sighs In vain to bring before his daylit eyes, And waking, he remembers on his bed;

And one with fainting heart and feeble hand Fights a dim battle in a doubtful land, Where strength and courage were of no avail; And one is borne on fairy breezes far To the bright harbours of a golden star Down fragrant fleeting waters rosy pale.

FAIRY LAND.

IN light of sunrise and sunsetting, The long days lingered, in forgetting That ever pa.s.sion, keen to hold What may not tarry, was of old, In lands beyond the weary wold; Beyond the bitter stream whose flood Runs red waist-high with slain men's blood.

Was beauty once a thing that died?

Was pleasure never satisfied?

Was rest still broken by the vain Desire of action, bringing pain, To die in languid rest again?

All this was quite forgotten there, Where never winter chilled the year, Nor spring brought promise unfulfilled, Nor, with the eager summer killed, The languid days drooped autumnwards.

So magical a season guards The constant prime of a cool June; So slumbrous is the river's tune, That knows no thunder of heavy rains, Nor ever in the summer wanes, Like waters of the summer time In lands far from the Fairy clime.

Yea, there the Fairy maids are kind, With nothing of the changeful mind Of maidens in the days that were; And if no laughter fills the air With sound of silver murmurings, And if no prayer of pa.s.sion brings A love nigh dead to life again, Yet sighs more subtly sweet remain, And smiles that never satiate, And loves that fear scarce any fate.

Alas, no words can bring the bloom Of Fairy Land; the faint perfume, The sweet low light, the magic air, To eyes of who has not been there: Alas, no words, nor any spell Can lull the eyes that know too well, The lost fair world of Fairy Land.

Ah, would that I had never been The lover of the Fairy Queen!

Or would that through the sleepy town, The grey old place of Ercildoune, And all along the little street, The soft fall of the white deer's feet Came, with the mystical command That I must back to Fairy Land!

TWO SONNETS OF THE SIRENS.

'Les Sirenes estoient tant intimes amies et fidelles compagnes de Proserpine, qu'elles estoient toujours ensemble. Esmues du juste deuil de la perte de leur chere compagne, et enuyees jusques au desespoir, elles s'arresterent a la mer Sicilienne, ou par leurs chants elles attiroient les navigans, mais l'unique fin de la volupe de leur musique est la Mort.'-PONTUS DE TYARD. 1570.

I.

THE Sirens once were maidens innocent That through the water-meads with Proserpine Plucked no fire-hearted flowers, but were content Cool fritillaries and flag-flowers to twine, With lilies woven and with wet woodbine; Till once they sought the bright aetnaean flowers, And their bright mistress fled from summer hours With Hades, down the irremeable decline.

And they have sought her all the wide world through Till many years, and wisdom, and much wrong Have filled and changed their song, and o'er the blue Rings deadly sweet the magic of the song, And whoso hears must listen till he die Far on the flowery sh.o.r.es of Sicily.

II.

So is it with this singing art of ours, That once with maids went maidenlike, and played With woven dances in the poplar-shade, And all her song was but of lady's bowers And the returning swallows, and spring-flowers, Till forth to seek a shadow-queen she strayed, A shadowy land; and now hath overweighed Her singing chaplet with the snow and showers.

Yea, fair well-water for the bitter brine She left, and by the margin of life's sea Sings, and her song is full of the sea's moan, And wild with dread, and love of Proserpine; And whoso once has listened to her, he His whole life long is slave to her alone.

A LA BELLE HeLeNE.

AFTER RONSARD.

MORE closely than the clinging vine About the wedded tree, Clasp thou thine arms, ah, mistress mine!

About the heart of me.

Or seem to sleep, and stoop your face Soft on my sleeping eyes, Breathe in your life, your heart, your grace, Through me, in kissing wise.

Bow down, bow down your face, I pray, To me, that swoon to death, Breathe back the life you kissed away, Breathe back your kissing breath.

So by your eyes I swear and say, My mighty oath and sure, From your kind arms no maiden may My loving heart allure.

I'll bear your yoke, that's light enough, And to the Elysian plain, When we are dead of love, my love, One boat shall bear us twain.

They'll flock around you, fleet and fair, All true loves that have been, And you of all the shadows there, Shall be the shadow queen.

_Ah shadow-loves_, _and shadow-lips_!

_Ah_, _while 'tis called to-day_, _Love me_, _my love, for summer slips_, _And August ebbs away_.