Ban and Arriere Ban [13]
and my old sword,
For I have never a son,
And you must be the chief of all
When I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broadsword,
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground,
To make a soft death-bed for me.
And you must bring the holy priest,
That I may sained be,
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.
And you shall make a grave for me,
And dig it deep and wide,
That I may turn about and dream
With my old gun by my side.
And leave a window to the east
And the swallows will bring the spring,
And all the merry month of May
The nightingales will sing.'
THE NEW-LIVERIED YEAR--FROM CHARLES D'ORLEANS
The year has changed his mantle cold
Of wind, of rain, of bitter air,
And he goes clad in cloth of gold
Of laughing suns and season fair;
No bird or beast of wood or wold
But doth in cry or song declare
'The year has changed his mantle cold!'
All founts, all rivers seaward rolled
Their pleasant summer livery wear
With silver studs on broidered vair,
The world puts off its raiment old,
The year has changed his mantle cold.
MORE STRONG THAN DEATH--FROM VICTOR HUGO
Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it,
And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade,
Since it was given to me to hear one happy while
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;
Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam,
A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always,
Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream
Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;
I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours,
Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old.
Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers,
One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold.
Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet,
My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill.
My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.
SILENTIA LUNAE--FROM RONSARD
Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon,
So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest
Loving and unawakened on thy breast;
So shall no foul enchanter importune
Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon,
And through the friendly night unseen I fare
Who dread the face of foemen unaware,
And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.
Thou know'st, O Moon, the bitter power of Love.
'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move
With a small gift thy heart; and of your grace,
Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire,
Because on earth ye did not scorn desire,
Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.
HIS LADY'S TOMB--FROM RONSARD
As in the gardens, all through May, the Rose,
Lovely, and young, and rich apparelled,
Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose, -
So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise,
The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes:
And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses.
THE POET'S APOLOGY
No, the Muse has gone away,
Does not haunt me much to-day.
Everything she had to say
Has been said!
'Twas not much at any time
She could hitch into a rhyme,
Never was the Muse sublime,
Who has fled!
Any one who takes her in
May observe she's rather thin;
Little more than bone and skin
Is the Muse;
Scanty sacrifice she won
When her very best she'd done,
And at her they poked their fun,
In Reviews.
For I have never a son,
And you must be the chief of all
When I am dead and gone.
But you must take my old broadsword,
And cut the green boughs of the tree,
And strew the green boughs on the ground,
To make a soft death-bed for me.
And you must bring the holy priest,
That I may sained be,
For I have lived a roving life
Fifty years under the greenwood tree.
And you shall make a grave for me,
And dig it deep and wide,
That I may turn about and dream
With my old gun by my side.
And leave a window to the east
And the swallows will bring the spring,
And all the merry month of May
The nightingales will sing.'
THE NEW-LIVERIED YEAR--FROM CHARLES D'ORLEANS
The year has changed his mantle cold
Of wind, of rain, of bitter air,
And he goes clad in cloth of gold
Of laughing suns and season fair;
No bird or beast of wood or wold
But doth in cry or song declare
'The year has changed his mantle cold!'
All founts, all rivers seaward rolled
Their pleasant summer livery wear
With silver studs on broidered vair,
The world puts off its raiment old,
The year has changed his mantle cold.
MORE STRONG THAN DEATH--FROM VICTOR HUGO
Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet,
Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid,
Since I have known your soul and all the bloom of it,
And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade,
Since it was given to me to hear one happy while
The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries,
Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile,
Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes;
Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam,
A ray, a single ray of your star veiled always,
Since I have felt the fall upon my lifetime's stream
Of one rose-petal plucked from the roses of your days;
I now am bold to say to the swift-changing hours,
Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old.
Fleet to the dark abyss with all your fading flowers,
One rose that none may pluck within my heart I hold.
Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill
The cup fulfilled of love from which my lips are wet,
My heart has far more fire than you have frost to chill.
My soul more love than you can make my soul forget.
SILENTIA LUNAE--FROM RONSARD
Hide this one night thy crescent, kindly Moon,
So shall Endymion faithful prove, and rest
Loving and unawakened on thy breast;
So shall no foul enchanter importune
Thy quiet course, for now the night is boon,
And through the friendly night unseen I fare
Who dread the face of foemen unaware,
And watch of hostile spies in the bright noon.
Thou know'st, O Moon, the bitter power of Love.
'Tis told how shepherd Pan found ways to move
With a small gift thy heart; and of your grace,
Sweet stars, be kind to this not alien fire,
Because on earth ye did not scorn desire,
Bethink ye, now ye hold your heavenly place.
HIS LADY'S TOMB--FROM RONSARD
As in the gardens, all through May, the Rose,
Lovely, and young, and rich apparelled,
Makes sunrise jealous of her rosy red,
When dawn upon the dew of dawning glows;
Graces and Loves within her breast repose,
The woods are faint with the sweet odour shed,
Till rains and heavy suns have smitten dead
The languid flower and the loose leaves unclose, -
So this, the perfect beauty of our days,
When heaven and earth were vocal of her praise,
The fates have slain, and her sweet soul reposes:
And tears I bring, and sighs, and on her tomb
Pour milk, and scatter buds of many a bloom,
That, dead as living, Rose may be with roses.
THE POET'S APOLOGY
No, the Muse has gone away,
Does not haunt me much to-day.
Everything she had to say
Has been said!
'Twas not much at any time
She could hitch into a rhyme,
Never was the Muse sublime,
Who has fled!
Any one who takes her in
May observe she's rather thin;
Little more than bone and skin
Is the Muse;
Scanty sacrifice she won
When her very best she'd done,
And at her they poked their fun,
In Reviews.