A Jongleur Strayed Part 9

The peril of fair faces all his days No man shall 'scape: be it for joy or woe, Each is the thrall of some predestined face Divinely doomed to work his overthrow, Transiently fair, as flowers in gardens blow, Then fade, and charm no more our listless eyes; But some fair faces ever fairer grow-- Beware of the dead face that never dies.

No snare young beauty for thy manhood lays, No honeyed kiss the girls of Paphos know, Shall hold thee as the silent smiling ways Of her that went--yet only seemed to go-- With April blossoms and with last year's snow; Each year she comes again in subtler guise, And beckons us to her green bed below-- Beware of the dead face that never dies.

The living fade before her lunar gaze, Her phantom youth their ruddy veins out-glow, She lays cold fingers on the lips that praise Aught save her lovely face of long ago; Oblivious poppies all in vain we sow Before the opening gates of Paradise; There shalt thou find her pacing to and fro-- Beware of the dead face that never dies.

ENVOI

Prince, take thy fill of love, for even so Sad men grow happy and no other wise; But love the quick--and as thy mortal foe Beware of the dead face that never dies.

THE END OF LAUGHTER

O never laugh again!

Laughter is dead, Deep hiding in her grave, A sacred thing.

O never laugh again, Never take hands and run Through the wild streets, Or sing, Glad in the sun: For she, the immortal sweetness of all sweets, Took laughter with her When she went away With sleep.

O never laugh again!

Ours but to weep, Ours but to pray.

THE SONG THAT LASTS

Songs I sang of lordly matters, Life and death, and stars and sea; Nothing of them now remains But the song I sang for thee.

Vain the learned elaborate metres, Vain the deeply pondered line; All the rest are dust and ashes But that little song of thine.

THE BROKER OF DREAMS

Bring not your dreams to me-- Blown dust, and vapour, and the running stream-- Saying, "He, too, doth dream, Touched of the moon."

Nay! wouldst thou vanish see Thy darling phantoms, Bring them then to me!

For my hard business--though so soft it seems-- Was ever dreams and dreams.

And as some stern-eyed broker smiles disdain, Valuing at nought Her bosom's locket, with its little chain, Love's all that Love hath brought; So must I weigh and measure Thy fading treasure, Sighing to see it go As surely as the snow.

For I have such sad knowledge of all things That shine like dew a little, all that sings And ends its song in weeping-- Such sowing and such reaping!-- There is no cure but sleeping.

IV

AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE

(To the Memory of Austin Dobson)

Master of the lyric inn Where the rarer sort so long Drew the rein, to 'scape the din Of the cymbal and the gong, Topers of the cla.s.sic bin,-- Oporto, sherris and tokay, Muscatel, and beaujolais-- Conning some old Book of Airs, Lolling in their Queen Anne chairs-- Catch or glee or madrigal, Writ for viol or virginal; Or from France some courtly tune, Gavotte, ridotto, rigadoon; (Watteau and the rising moon); Ballade, rondeau, triolet, Villanelle or virelay, Wistful of a statelier day, Gallant, delicate, desire: Where the Sign swings of the Lyre, Garlands droop above the door, Thou, dear Master, art no more.

Lo! about thy portals throng Sorrowing shapes that loved thy song: _Taste_ and _Elegance_ are there, The modish Muses of Mayfair, _Wit_, _Distinction_, _Form_ and _Style_, _Humour_, too, with tear and smile.

Fashion sends her b.u.t.terflies-- Pretty laces to their eyes, Ladies from St. James's there Step out from the sedan chair; Wigged and scented dandies too Tristely wear their sprigs of rue; Country squires are in the crowd, And little Phyllida sobs aloud.

Then stately shades I seem to see, Master, to companion thee; Horace and Fielding here are come To bid thee to Elysium.

Last comes one all golden: Fame Calls thee, Master, by thy name, On thy brow the laurel lays, Whispers low--"In After Days."

TO MADAME JUMEL

Of all the wind-blown dust of faces fair, Had I a G.o.d's re-animating breath, Thee, like a perfumed torch in the dim air Lethean and the eyeless halls of death, Would I relume; the cresset of thine hair, Furiously bright, should stream across the gloom, And thy deep violet eyes again should bloom.

Methinks that but a pinch of thy wild dust, Blown back to flame, would set our world on fire; Thy face amid our timid counsels thrust Would light us back to glory and desire, And swords flash forth that now ign.o.bly rust; Maenad and Muse, upon thy lips of flame.

Madness too wise might kiss a clod to fame.

Like musk the charm of thee in the gray mould That lies on by-gone traffickings of state, Transformed a moment by that head of gold, Touching the paltry hour with splendid Fate; To "write the Const.i.tution!" 'twere a cold, Dusty and bloomless immortality, Without that last wild dying thought of thee.

TO A BEAUTIFUL OLD LADY

(To the Sweet Memory of Lucy Hinton)

Say not--"She once was fair;" because the years Have changed her beauty to a holier thing, No girl hath such a lovely face as hers, That h.o.a.rds the sweets of many a vanished spring, Stealing from Time what Time in vain would steal, Culling perfections as each came to flower, Bearing on each rare lineament the seal Of being exquisite from hour to hour.

These eyes have dwelt with beauty night and morn, Guarding the soul within from every stain, No baseness since the first day she was born Behind those star-lit brows could access again, Bathed in the light that streamed from all things fair, Turning to spirit each delicate door of sense, And with all lovely shapes of earth and air Feeding her wisdom and her innocence.

Life that, whate'er it gives, takes more away From those that all would take and little give, Enriched her treasury from day to day, Making each hour more wonderful to live; And touch by touch, with hands of unseen skill, Transformed the simple beauty of a girl, Finding it lovely, left it lovelier still, A mystic masterpiece of rose and pearl.

Her grief and joy alike have turned to gold, And tears and laughter mingled to one end, With alchemy of living manifold: If Life so wrought, shall Death be less a friend?

Nay, earth to heaven shall give the fairest face, Dimming the haughty beauties of the sky; Would I could see her softly take her place, Sweeping each splendour with her queenly eye!

TO LUCY HINTON: December 19, 1921

O loveliest face, on which we look our last-- Not without hope we may again behold Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have pa.s.sed Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear, That gathered beauty every changing year, And made Youth dream of some day being old.