Ballades in Blue China Part 4

(OLD FRENCH.)

Money taketh town and wall, Fort and ramp without a blow; Money moves the merchants all, While the tides shall ebb and flow; Money maketh Evil show Like the Good, and Truth like lies: These alone can ne'er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.

Money maketh festival, Wine she buys, and beds can strow; Round the necks of captains tall, Money wins them chains to throw, Marches soldiers to and fro, Gaineth ladies with sweet eyes: These alone can ne'er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.

Money wins the priest his stall; Money mitres buys, I trow, Red hats for the Cardinal, Abbeys for the novice low; Money maketh sin as snow, Place of penitence supplies: These alone can ne'er bestow Youth, and health, and Paradise.

BALLADE OF LIFE.

"'Dead and gone,'--a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life."

Death's Jest Book.

Say, fair maids, maying In gardens green, In deep dells straying, What end hath been Two Mays between Of the flowers that shone And your own sweet queen - "They are dead and gone!"

Say, grave priests, praying In dule and teen, From cells decaying What have ye seen Of the proud and mean, Of Judas and John, Of the foul and clean? - "They are dead and gone!"

Say, kings, arraying Loud wars to win, Of your manslaying What gain ye glean?

"They are fierce and keen, But they fall anon, On the sword that lean, - They are dead and gone!"

ENVOY.

Through the mad world's scene, We are drifting on, To this tune, I ween, "They are dead and gone!"

BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA.

There's a joy without canker or cark, There's a pleasure eternally new, 'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark Of china that's ancient and blue; Unchipp'd all the centuries through It has pa.s.s'd, since the chime of it rang, And they fashion'd it, figure and hue, In the reign of the Emperor Hw.a.n.g.

These dragons (their tails, you remark, Into bunches of gillyflowers grew), - When Noah came out of the ark, Did these lie in wait for his crew?

They snorted, they snapp'd, and they slew, They were mighty of fin and of fang, And their portraits Celestials drew In the reign of the Emperor Hw.a.n.g.

Here's a pot with a cot in a park, In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, Where the lovers eloped in the dark, Lived, died, and were changed into two Bright birds that eternally flew Through the boughs of the may, as they sang: 'Tis a tale was undoubtedly true In the reign of the Emperor Hw.a.n.g.

ENVOY.

Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, Kind critic, your "tongue has a tang"

But--a sage never heeded a shrew In the reign of the Emperor Hw.a.n.g.

BALLADE OF DEAD LADIES.

(AFTER VILLON.)

Nay, tell me now in what strange air The Roman Flora dwells to-day.

Where Archippiada hides, and where Beautiful Thais has pa.s.sed away?

Whence answers Echo, afield, astray, By mere or stream,--around, below?

Lovelier she than a woman of clay; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

Where is wise Heloise, that care Brought on Abeilard, and dismay?

All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders grey; And where's the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,--a perilous way - Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

Where's that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren's lay?

Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?

Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?

Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

ENVOY.

Prince, all this week thou need'st not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know.

One burden answers, ever and aye, "Nay, but where is the last year's snow?"

VILLON'S BALLADE OF GOOD COUNSEL, TO HIS FRIENDS OF EVIL LIFE.

Nay, be you pardoner or cheat, Or cogger keen, or mumper shy, You'll burn your fingers at the feat, And howl like other folks that fry.

All evil folks that love a lie!

And where goes gain that greed ama.s.ses, By wile, and trick, and thievery?

'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

Rhyme, rail, dance, play the cymbals sweet, With game, and shame, and jollity, Go jigging through the field and street, With MYST'RY and MORALITY; Win gold at GLEEK,--and that will fly, Where all you gain at Pa.s.sAGE pa.s.ses, - And that's? You know as well as I, 'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

Nay, forth from all such filth retreat, Go delve and ditch, in wet or dry, Turn groom, give horse and mule their meat, If you've no clerkly skill to ply; You'll gain enough, with husbandry, But--sow hempseed and such wild gra.s.ses, And where goes all you take thereby? - 'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

ENVOY.

Your clothes, your hose, your broidery, Your linen that the snow surpa.s.ses, Or ere they're worn, off, off they fly, 'Tis all to taverns and to la.s.ses!

BALLADE OF THE BOOKWORM.

Far in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with books upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more!

The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!

The Books I loved, I love them still!