Ballades in Blue China Part 8

VILLANELLE.

TO LUCIA.

Apollo left the golden Muse And shepherded a mortal's sheep, Theocritus of Syracuse!

To mock the giant swain that woo's The sea-nymph in the sunny deep, Apollo left the golden Muse.

Afield he drove his lambs and ewes, Where Milon and where Battus reap, Theocritus of Syracuse!

To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise Below the dim Sicilian steep Apollo left the golden Muse.

Ye twain did loiter in the dews, Ye slept the swain's unfever'd sleep, Theocritus of Syracuse!

That Time might half with HIS confuse Thy songs,--like his, that laugh and leap, - Theocritus of Syracuse, Apollo left the golden Muse!

NATURAL THEOLOGY.

[Greek text which cannot be reproduced] OD. III. 47.

"Once CAGN was like a father, kind and good, But He was spoiled by fighting many things; He wars upon the lions in the wood, And breaks the Thunder-bird's tremendous wings; But still we cry to Him,--'We are thy brood - O Cagn, be merciful!' and us He brings To herds of elands, and great store of food, And in the desert opens water-springs."

So Qing, King Nqsha's Bushman hunter, spoke, Beside the camp-fire, by the fountain fair, When all were weary, and soft clouds of smoke Were fading, fragrant, in the twilit air: And suddenly in each man's heart there woke A pang, a sacred memory of prayer.

THE ODYSSEY.

As one that for a weary s.p.a.ce has lain Lulled by the song of Circe and her wine In gardens near the pale of Proserpine, Where that AEaean isle forgets the main, And only the low lutes of love complain, And only shadows of wan lovers pine, As such an one were glad to know the brine Salt on his lips, and the large air again, - So gladly, from the songs of modern speech Men turn, and see the stars, and feel the free Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey.

IDEAL.

Suggested by a female head in wax, of unknown date, but supposed to be either of the best Greek age, or a work of Raphael or Leonardo.

It is now in the Lille Museum.

Ah, mystic child of Beauty, nameless maid, Dateless and fatherless, how long ago, A Greek, with some rare sadness overweighed, Shaped thee, perchance, and quite forgot his woe!

Or Raphael thy sweetness did bestow, While magical his fingers o'er thee strayed, Or that great pupil taught of Verrocchio Redeemed thy still perfection from the shade

That hides all fair things lost, and things unborn, Where one has fled from me, that wore thy grace, And that grave tenderness of thine awhile; Nay, still in dreams I see her, but her face Is pale, is wasted with a touch of scorn, And only on thy lips I find her smile.

THE FAIRY'S GIFT.

"Take short views."--SYDNEY SMITH.

The Fays that to my christ'ning came (For come they did, my nurses taught me), They did not bring me wealth or fame, 'Tis very little that they brought me.

But one, the crossest of the crew, The ugly old one, uninvited, Said, "I shall be avenged on YOU, My child; you shall grow up short-sighted!"

With magic juices did she lave Mine eyes, and wrought her wicked pleasure.

Well, of all gifts the Fairies gave, HERS is the present that I treasure!

The bore whom others fear and flee, I do not fear, I do not flee him; I pa.s.s him calm as calm can be; I do not cut--I do not see him!

And with my feeble eyes and dim, Where YOU see patchy fields and fences, For me the mists of Turner swim - MY "azure distance" soon commences!

Nay, as I blink about the streets Of this befogged and miry city, Why, almost every girl one meets Seems preternaturally pretty!

"Try spectacles," one's friends intone; "You'll see the world correctly through them."

But I have visions of my own, And not for worlds would I undo them.

BENEDETTA RAMUS.

AFTER ROMNEY.

Mysterious Benedetta! who That Reynolds or that Romney drew Was ever half so fair as you, Or is so well forgot?

These eyes of melancholy brown, These woven locks, a shadowy crown, Must surely have bewitched the town; Yet you're remembered not.

Through all that prattle of your age, Through lore of fribble and of sage I've read, and chiefly Walpole's page, Wherein are beauties famous; I've haunted ball, and rout, and sale; I've heard of Devonshire and Thrale, And all the Gunnings' wondrous tale, But nothing of Miss Ramus.

And yet on many a lattice pane 'Fair Benedetta,' scrawled in vain By lovers' diamonds, must remain To tell us you were cruel. {6} But who, of all that sighed and swore - Wits, poets, courtiers by the score - Did win and on his bosom wore This hard and lovely jewel?

Why, dilettante records say An Alderman, who came that way, Woo'd you and made you Lady Day; You crowned his civic flame.

It suits a melancholy song To think your heart had suffered wrong, And that you lived not very long To be a City dame!

Perchance you were a Mourning Bride, And conscious of a heart that died With one who fell by Rodney's side In blood-stained Spanish bays.

Perchance 'twas no such thing, and you Dwelt happy with your knight and true, And, like Aurora, watched a crew Of rosy little Days!

Oh, lovely face and innocent!

Whatever way your fortunes went, And if to earth your life was lent For little s.p.a.ce or long, In your kind eyes we seem to see What Woman at her best may be, And offer to your memory An unavailing song!

PARTANT POUR LA SCRIBIE.

[Scribie, on the north-east littoral of Bohemia, is the land of stage conventions. It is named after the discoverer, M. Scribe.]

A pleasant land is Scribie, where The light comes mostly from below, And seems a sort of symbol rare Of things at large, and how they go, In rooms where doors are everywhere And cupboards shelter friend or foe.