New Collected Rhymes [9]
Tall and slim, and softly swaying, Then her beauty were like thine, Salmacis, when boune a Maying, Tall as any poplar tree, Sweet as apple blossoms be!
Had the Amazonian Queen Seen thee 'midst thy maiden peers, Thou the Coronel hadst been Of that lady's Grenadiers; Troy had never mourned her fall, With thine axe to guard her wall.
As Penthesilea brave Is the maiden (in her dreams); Ilium she well might save, Though Achilles' armour gleams, 'Midst the Greeks; all vain it is, 'Gainst the glance of Salmacis!
WHAT FRANCESCO SAID OF THE JUBILEE--BY R. B.
What if we call it fifty years! 'Tis steep! To climb so high a gradient? Prate of Guides? Are we not roped? The Danger? Nay, the Turf, No less nor more than mountain peaks, my friend, Hears talk of Roping,--but the Jubilee! Nay, there you have me: old Francesco once (This was in Milan, in Visconti's time, Our wild Visconti, with one lip askance, And beard tongue-twisted in the nostril's nook) Parlous enough,--these times--what? "So are ours"? Or any times, i'fegs, to him who thinks, - Well 'twas in Spring "the frolic myrtle trees There gendered the grave olive stocks,"--you cry "A miracle!"--Sordello writeth thus, - Believe me that indeed 'twas thus, and he, Francesco, you are with me? Well, there's gloom No less than gladness in your fifty years, "And so," said he, "to supper as we may." "Voltairean?" So you take it; but 'tis late, And dinner seven, sharp, at Primrose Hill.
THE POET AND THE JUBILEE
POSCIMUR! BY A. D.
A Birthday Ode for MEG or NAN, A Rhyme for Lady FLORA's Fan, A Verse on Smut, who's gone astray, These Things are in the Poet's way; At Home with praise of JULIA's Lace, Or DELIA's Ankles, ROSE's Face, But "Something overparted" He, When asked to rhyme the jubilee!
He therefore turns, the Poet wary, And Thumbs his Carmen Seculare, To PHOEBUS and to DIAN prays, Who tune Men's Lyres of Holidays, He reads of the Sibylline Shades, Of Stainless Boys and chosen Maids. He turns, and reads the other Page, Of docile Youth, and placid Age, Then Sings how, in this golden Year Fides Pudorque reappear, - And if they don't appear, you know it Were quite unjust to blame the Poet!
ON ANY BEACH--BY M. A.
Yes, in the stream and stress of things, That breaks around us like the sea, There comes to Peasants and to Kings, The solemn Hour of Jubilee. If they, till strenuous Nature give Some fifty harvests, chance to live!
Ah, Fifty harvests! But the corn Is grown beside the barren main, Is salt with sea-spray, blown and borne Across the green unvintaged plain. And life, lived out for fifty years, Is briny with the spray of tears!
Ah, such is Life, to us that live Here, in the twilight of the Gods, Who weigh each gift the world can give, And sigh and murmur, What's the odds So long's you're happy? Nay, what Man Finds Happiness since Time began?
ODE OF JUBILEE--BY A. C. S.
Me, that have sung and shrieked, and foamed in praise of Freedom, ME do you ask to sing Parochial pomps, and waste, the wail of Jubileedom For Queen, or Prince, or King!
* * *
Nay, by the foam that fleeting oars have feathered, In Grecian seas; Nay, by the winds that barques Athenian weathered - By all of these I bid you each be mute, Bards tamed and tethered, And fee'd with fees!
For you the laurel smirched, for you the gold, too, Of Magazines; For me the Spirit of Song, unbought, unsold to Pale Priests or Queens!
For you the gleam of gain, the fluttering cheque Of Mr. Knowles, For me, to soar above the ruins and wreck Of Snobs and "Souls"!
When aflush with the dew of the dawn, and the Rose of the Mystical Vision, The spirit and soul of the Men of the Future shall rise and be free, They shall hail me with hymning and harping, With eloquent Art and Elysian, - The Singer who sung not but spurned them, The slaves that could sing "Jubilee;" With pinchbeck lyre and tongue, Praising their tyrant sung, They shall fail and shall fade in derision, As wind on the ways of the sea!
JUBILEE BEFORE REVOLUTION--BY W. M.
"Tell
Had the Amazonian Queen Seen thee 'midst thy maiden peers, Thou the Coronel hadst been Of that lady's Grenadiers; Troy had never mourned her fall, With thine axe to guard her wall.
As Penthesilea brave Is the maiden (in her dreams); Ilium she well might save, Though Achilles' armour gleams, 'Midst the Greeks; all vain it is, 'Gainst the glance of Salmacis!
WHAT FRANCESCO SAID OF THE JUBILEE--BY R. B.
What if we call it fifty years! 'Tis steep! To climb so high a gradient? Prate of Guides? Are we not roped? The Danger? Nay, the Turf, No less nor more than mountain peaks, my friend, Hears talk of Roping,--but the Jubilee! Nay, there you have me: old Francesco once (This was in Milan, in Visconti's time, Our wild Visconti, with one lip askance, And beard tongue-twisted in the nostril's nook) Parlous enough,--these times--what? "So are ours"? Or any times, i'fegs, to him who thinks, - Well 'twas in Spring "the frolic myrtle trees There gendered the grave olive stocks,"--you cry "A miracle!"--Sordello writeth thus, - Believe me that indeed 'twas thus, and he, Francesco, you are with me? Well, there's gloom No less than gladness in your fifty years, "And so," said he, "to supper as we may." "Voltairean?" So you take it; but 'tis late, And dinner seven, sharp, at Primrose Hill.
THE POET AND THE JUBILEE
POSCIMUR! BY A. D.
A Birthday Ode for MEG or NAN, A Rhyme for Lady FLORA's Fan, A Verse on Smut, who's gone astray, These Things are in the Poet's way; At Home with praise of JULIA's Lace, Or DELIA's Ankles, ROSE's Face, But "Something overparted" He, When asked to rhyme the jubilee!
He therefore turns, the Poet wary, And Thumbs his Carmen Seculare, To PHOEBUS and to DIAN prays, Who tune Men's Lyres of Holidays, He reads of the Sibylline Shades, Of Stainless Boys and chosen Maids. He turns, and reads the other Page, Of docile Youth, and placid Age, Then Sings how, in this golden Year Fides Pudorque reappear, - And if they don't appear, you know it Were quite unjust to blame the Poet!
ON ANY BEACH--BY M. A.
Yes, in the stream and stress of things, That breaks around us like the sea, There comes to Peasants and to Kings, The solemn Hour of Jubilee. If they, till strenuous Nature give Some fifty harvests, chance to live!
Ah, Fifty harvests! But the corn Is grown beside the barren main, Is salt with sea-spray, blown and borne Across the green unvintaged plain. And life, lived out for fifty years, Is briny with the spray of tears!
Ah, such is Life, to us that live Here, in the twilight of the Gods, Who weigh each gift the world can give, And sigh and murmur, What's the odds So long's you're happy? Nay, what Man Finds Happiness since Time began?
ODE OF JUBILEE--BY A. C. S.
Me, that have sung and shrieked, and foamed in praise of Freedom, ME do you ask to sing Parochial pomps, and waste, the wail of Jubileedom For Queen, or Prince, or King!
* * *
Nay, by the foam that fleeting oars have feathered, In Grecian seas; Nay, by the winds that barques Athenian weathered - By all of these I bid you each be mute, Bards tamed and tethered, And fee'd with fees!
For you the laurel smirched, for you the gold, too, Of Magazines; For me the Spirit of Song, unbought, unsold to Pale Priests or Queens!
For you the gleam of gain, the fluttering cheque Of Mr. Knowles, For me, to soar above the ruins and wreck Of Snobs and "Souls"!
When aflush with the dew of the dawn, and the Rose of the Mystical Vision, The spirit and soul of the Men of the Future shall rise and be free, They shall hail me with hymning and harping, With eloquent Art and Elysian, - The Singer who sung not but spurned them, The slaves that could sing "Jubilee;" With pinchbeck lyre and tongue, Praising their tyrant sung, They shall fail and shall fade in derision, As wind on the ways of the sea!
JUBILEE BEFORE REVOLUTION--BY W. M.
"Tell