fyxmll W^mvmxi^ Jilravg THE GIFT OF aA,Yws,<^. K.zr>4^go ■■■■■■■ 21-1^13. 6561 Cornell University Library PS 2792.L99 Lyrics from a librar 3 1924 022 163 434 The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022163434 LYRICS from a Library LYRICS from a LIBRARY Clinton Scollard George William Browning Clinton, New York ^ Copyright, April, 1913 by Clinton SisoUard The Siook-Lover . . ^ . On a Copy of Seat's "Endymion" With Herrick in Spring John Cleveland, Poet-CavaUer On a Copy of Theocritus The Bqokstall .... A First Edition A Bookman's Pleasures A Book-Lover's Choice A First Edition Copy of Lovelace In An 4-loove .... William Winstanley, Critic . The Bookman's Paradise The Bookworm's Plaint To William Sharp A Forgotten Bard At Goldsmith's Grave Izaak Walton's Name PAGB 7 9 . 12 . 13 . 15 . 17 . 19 . 21 . 23 . 25 . 26 . 27 . 28 . 29 . 30 . 31 . 33 . 34 Li R> CONTENTS (continued) PAGE . 35 . 36 . 37 The Sonnet Ad Musam The Singers On a Copy of Bayard Taylor's 'Ximena' 38 A Summer Mood 39 Sidney Lanier 40 . . 41 . . 42 . . 43 . . 44 . . 45 . . 46 . . 47 Philip Freneau Grenville Mellen . . On Be-Beading Scott The Birth of the Sonnet The Troubadours The Sonnets of Bossetti To Thomas S, Jones, Jr. From the oriels, one by one, Slowly fades the setting sun; On the marge of afternoon Stands the new-born crescent moon; In the twilight's crimson glow Dim the quiet alcoves grow; Drowsy-lidded Silence smiles On the long, deserted aisles; Out of every shadowy nook Spirit faces seem to look, Some with smiling eyes, and some With a sad entreaty dumb; — ne who shepherded his sheep O'/i the wild SiciUan steep. He above whose grave are set Sprays of Boman violet; — Poets, sages — all who wrought In the crucible of thought. Day by day as seasons glide On the great eternal tide. Noiselessly they gather thus In the twilight beauteous. Hold communion each with each, Closer than our earthly speech, Till within the east are born Premonitions of the morn! k. THE BOOK - LOVER I love a book, if there but run From title-page to colophon Something sincere that sings or glows, Whate'er the text be, rhyme or prose. And high-perched on some window-seat, Or in some ingle-side retreat, Or in an alcove consecrate To lore and to the lettered great, For happiness I need not look Beyond the pages of my book. Yea, I believe that, like an elf, I'd be contented with a shelf If thereupon with me might sit Some work of wisdom or of wit Whereto, at pleasure, I might turn, And the fair face of Joy discern 1 I love a book, — ^its throbbing heart 1 And while I may not hold the art That dresses it in honor scant, — The tree-calf "tooled" or "crushed" Levant, — Bather a rare soul, verily. Than a bedizened husk for me! Wla= »\ So, though no Midas' magic hands To gold transmute my barren sands, Though friendly Fame deign not to lay About my brows the vine and bay, Though fond eyes marry not with mine. Nor lip to lip give sacred sign, The core of all content I know, A blessing that is balm for woe; On life with level gaze I look, And all because I love — a book! ^ fj' ON A COPT OF KEATS' "ENDYMION" f^ Has not the glamoured season come once more. When earth puts on her arras of soft green? See where along the meadow rillet's shore The wild-rose buds unfold ! Eastward the boughs with murmurous laughter lean To warm themselves in morning's generous gold. The foxgloves nod along the English lanes That saw erewhile the dancing sprites of snowj Night-long the leaf -hid nightingale complains With such melodious woe That Sleep, enamored of her soaring strains, Is widely wakeful as the dim hours go. Ope but the page — and hark, the impassioned bird That through the hush of the be-shadowed hours Pours in the ear of dark its melting word! Here is as mellow song As ever welled from pleached laurel bowers. Or e'er was borne soft orient winds along;. Here may one list all ecstasies they sung, The shepherds and the maids of Arcady, Flower-garlanded what time the world was young;— Pandean minstrelsy, Low flutings from slim pipes of silver tongue Played by the dryads on some upland lea. 9 f*And blent with these are heavenly whisperings T|« As faint as whitening poplars make at dawn, | Sublime suggestions of flne-fingered strings Touched in celestial air, And earthward through the dulling ether drawn, Yet falling on us more than earthly fair; The voice divine that young Endymion knew In the cool woodland's darkmost depths by night. When godlike ardors thrilled him through and through ; And his voice from the height Whither, on wakening, drenched with chilly dew, He sought the goddess in the gathering light. But ah, what mournful memories are mine, Song- wakened at this lavish summer-tide! Can I forget that sombre cypress line By old Rome's ruined wall, The lonely grave that alien grasses hide, And the pathetic silence shrouding all? Who would forget ? Blest be the song that bears My soul across aerial seas of space As wingedly as airy fancy fares! For now that earth's worn face The radiant glow of life's renewal wears. Would I in reverence soeK that sacred place. M WmJm i^,—" 10 m"^^^^^^' There would I lay these woven shreds of rhyme In lieu of scattered heart's-ease and the rose. Behold how Song has triumphed over Time, For still his song rings clear, Though where the tender Roman violet grows Deep has he slumbered mary a fateful y^ar! If to the poet's rapt imaginings Beauty be wed, with love of purpose high, Despite the cynic and his scornful flings Song shall not fail and die. But like the bird that up the azure springs Still thrill the heart, stiU flU the listening sky 1 U =&ili^k WITH HEBBICK IN SPBING Now that all the wakened hills Arrased are with tender green, And the noon-gold daffodils Greet their over-lord, the sun. Now that tulips show their sheen, And a thousand ardors run Mead and orchard lane along — Voices virginal with song — Here's the book unfolds to me How to-day may still be won The old path to Arcady! Pastoral revelry and rite. Clear airs consecrate to Pan, Dreams of innocent delight, Love in frolic guise arrayexl. Merriment of maid and man In the sunshine and the shade, Here behold, compacted rare, Ever fresh and ever fair! — Herrick, pray reveal to me (Singer Hesperidian) Still the path to Arcady! 12 =cl3« JOHN CLEVELAND, POET-CAVALIER He was a f eaxless fighting man, This handsome anti-Puritan Who smote with pen and eke with sword Against the blufE Cromwellian horde. Disciple deft of Doctor Donne, Had kindlier fate but shone upon His curls, in cut so cavalier. Delightful ditties to endear His name adown the years might ring For man's perennial pleasuring. Alack-a-day ! It might not be! For he, of his Latinity So proud, so fain of his conceits Beside the Cam's elm-bowered retreats. From haven was swept fast and far. And under grim War's sanguine star Was rudely tossed and racked and swirled, Then pent within a prison-world. And finally flung forth too spent To long fight life's vexed argument. You know hiTn not? Have hardly heard His lightest claim to fame averred? Well, 'tis but flotsam, that may be The all he left posterity. Yet somehow in the strokes he dealt "Old Noll" (I pledge he raised a welt!) J 13 And in dactylic dash displayed Anent some merry Cambridge maid, And in fleet lyric flights where he Kan riot ia hyperbole, I seem to catch — elusive — ^thin — The magical -what-might-have-been ! So, o'er the g^ulfs of Time, good cheer, John Cleveland, poet-cavalier I 31 ON A COPT OF THEOCRITUS { ,/„ (Venice, 1493) Theocritus, we love thy song, Where thyme is sweet and meads are sunny, Where shepherd swains and maidens throng, And bees Hyblean hoard their honey. Since ancient Syraeusan days It year by year has grown the sweeter, For year by year life's opening ways Run more in prose and less in metre. And than this quarto, vellum-elad, You could not wish a rarer setting; Beholding, you must still be glad, If you behold without forgetting. Manutius was the Printer's name — (A Publisher was then unheard of) A fellow of some worthy fame, If history we take the word of. Think when its pages first were cut, And eager eyes above them hovered, Our proudest dwelling was a hut — America was just discovered! 15 ~j£-d Then Venice was indeed a queen, And taught the tawny Turk to fear her; Now has she lost her royal mien, And yet we could not hold her dearer. Betwixt these covers there is bound A charm that needeth no completion; A golden atmosphere is found At once SieUian and Venetian. So, while our plausive song we raise And hail the bard whose name is famocus, Let ns for once divide the bays. And to the Printer cry — LaudamusI ^ 16 ^ It stands in a winding street, A quiet and restful nook, Apart from the endless beat Of the noisy heart of Trade. There's never a spot more cool Of a hot midsummer day By the brink of a forest pool. Or the bank of a crystal brook In the maples' breezy shade. Than the bookstall old and grey. Here are precious gems of thought That were quarried long ago, Some in vellum bound, and wrought With letters and lines of gold; Here are curious rows of "calf," And perchance an Elzevir; Here are countless "mos" of chaff, And a parchment foUo, Like leaves that are cracked with cold All puckered and brown and sere. B- 17 In every age and clime Live the monarchs of the brain : And the lords of prose and rhyme, Years after the long last sleep Has come to the kings of earth And their names have passed away, Rule on through death and birth; And the thrones of their domain Are found where the shades are deep, In the bookstall old and grey. IntjQib: 18 =g|3 A FIRST EDITION A most exclusive clan are we, Proud of our peerless pedigree; Will Caxton fathered us, a man Shaped somewhat on the clerkly plan, But one of whom we're fond withal, Industrious and not prodigal. Now comely, now unkempt, we show — Octavo, duodecimo! But whether dimmed or bright our pagfl^ We glow to know our lineage. Black-lettered first, clear-lettered last — The present, or the golden past — - We stand content our fame upon From fly-leaf through to colophon. As among all patricians, fine And fair ensamples of our line Arouse our self-complacency; Viz., Caxton 's priceless Malory; A Tyndale Bible (choicer none!); A Shakespeare in full folio done; A song that tells of Paradise Which Milton saw with darkened eyes; And that rare "find" of later vein, The little liber, Tamerlane! 19 Mi And now a word of warning, ye Who seek our constant company! Unless your purses, plethoric, hold The round and clearly-minted gold, Abjure us, shun us, lest the night Creep on ye, and pale candle-light Find ye by us uncomf orted. And slipping snpperless to bed! k. 20 BOOKMAN'S PLEASURES Life jdelds rich pleasures in its varied round, — The fair unfolding of the season's store, — Hearts by the ties of faithful friendship bound, The litany of love and all its lore; The bud of beauty opening evermore In forms of fresh perfection that allure ; The mom's unfailing miracle; the pure And passionless decline of twilight-tide; Yet what gives joy more sweet, serene and sure Than some dear volume by the ingle-side! There is delight in melody; — the sound The minstrel sea makes as it woos the shore; The strains the wind evokes; the music foimd Where feathered throats their ecstasy outpour ; — In stilled aroma from the rose's core; In the mime's grave or comic portraiture; In rest and dreams when rigid frosts immure; In deeds self -sacrifice has sanctified; Yet what gives joy more sweet, serene and sure Than some dear volume by the ingle-side! feTk- 21 ' Theocritus whom Grecian garlands crowned; The Mantuan who Augustan laurels wore; The sire of English song who broke tlie ground Whereon have trodden many a tuneful score; Avon's immortal son whom all adore; The twain who sleep by Roman walls secure; And he who far from Highland loeh and moor Keeps his last tryst where southern seas sweep wide; Aye, what gives joy more sweet, serene and sure Than some dear volume by the ingle-side! Friends, of the many pleasures that we poor Mortals may taste, the while that v/e endure This wayfaring, till death our paths divide, Know there is none more sweet, serene and sure Than some dear volume by the ingle-side! 22 For some, about the honeyed heart of June, To drift and dream, amid the golden shine, Down placid waters, is the dearest boon; For some, what time the skies incarnadine, To list the thunder of the ancient brine That swirls, as though 'twere chafE, the stoutest prow; For me, line marrying with jeweled line, "A book of verses underneath the bough!" For some the light of the enamored moon. Flooding the sky as with ethereal wine. The while impassioned night-birds trill in tune, And Love plucks liKes for the votive shrine! For some the prospect, distant and divine, Billowing below a mighty mountain's brow; — For me, serene, sequestered, and supine, "A book of verses underneath the bough!" For some the mellow and mysterious croon Of the warm south, at twilight faint and fine; For some the garden, with its radiant rune, — The violet, the pink, the eglantine; ^■'■?^%^ 23 For some such mins as the Rhone and Rhine With a vague charm of legendry endow; For me, who reverence the wreathed Nine, "A book of verses underneath the bough!" Whose verses? Thine, O Poet of the Vine, Omar, high honored, both of yore and now! How sweet to read until the day's decline Thy book of verses underneath the bough ! ^ O 24 w^ L Who could withstand that tender touch. Those glances that implore? Dick Lovelace, though I love thee much, Forsooth, I love her more! 'A FIBST EDITION COPT OF LOVELACE CA (British Museum Eeading-Room) The yellow half-light shines within On many a bulky quire ; Without the pavements roar with din, And reek with ooze and mire. Sold at a bookshop called "The Gun" That stood in Ivy Lane, The page before me, soiled and dun. Exhales both joy and pain. Brooding upon those troublous times. In most bewitching wise I see from out the courtly rhymes The sweet Lueasta rise. The brow no grief has writ upon, The Saxon eyes sincere, And all the winsome grace that won The poet-cavalier. The voice — ^but hold! what voice is thatt 'Tis Sylvia's, I aver! A beauty in a Bond Street hat Who begs me go with her. 25 Once more am I at middle day In tranquil twilight hid away, Where not a sound disturbs the sense Of book-encompassed indolence. Pale, grave-eyed Science does not brood Above this sunless solitude. Nor does Romance's ardent face With antique glamour fill the place; A fairer form the vision views. The gracious presence of the Muse. Small meed of gold she offers those Who leave the wider ways of Prose To follow where her foot-fall leads Along the asphodeUan meads, Nor is she prodigal to lay Upon the brow the wreathed bay: Yet are her votaries content. Aye, more, their lot seems opulent, If on them be by her conferred Some transient, dream-evoking word! It may be but a whisper low, Yet straightway are the skies aglow; It may be but the lightest breath, And yet how it illumineth! And though beyond all heart-appeal Her lips a cruel silence seal, A holier influence fills the air Through her benignant presence there; Ah, how would earth and heaven unroll Could one but know her lyric soul! 26 WILLIAM WIN8TANLEY, CRITIC (1687) Long are the years, Sir Critic, long, Since you your galaxy of song Set with such pomp and proud intent Fair in the Muse's firmament! We can but smile at your acclaim. Or be it praise, or be it blame; — Whether at Milton's fame you flout, Cry how his candle is snuffed out. And glory, in judicial ease. O'er his poetic obsequies; Or whether you the merits chant Of Cleveland or of Davenant; Patronize Shakespeare, or dismiss Herrick with light hypothesis. Out of the misty long ago This truth your volume lives to show, — That, though their wit be Hermes-shod, Critics, like Jove, do sometimes nod. 'Tie Time alone, with certain hand. Winnows the gold from shard and sand. ^4 27 A little stand without the door Whereon scant treasure is arrayed, Yet just enough to tempt explore The inner depths of dust and shade; Enter; how glade on bookish glade Parts right and left to peering eyes, Proclaiming both to man and maid — This is the bookman's paradise! There is a shelf of ancient lore, Black-lettered pages overlaid With umber mottles, score on score; There is an alcove flUed with frayed Tall foUos standing stiff and staid, Like kniffhts of mediaBval guise; Open, and why 'tis straight displayed This is the bookman's paradise. Delve deep, and with what golden ore, — What riches will your hands be weighed I Each comer owns its precious store, — Poets from Homer down to Praed, Philosophers, and those that trade In tales that scoffers label "lies"; — The few whose fame shall never fade; — This IS the bookman's paradise. Collectors, of each grain and grade. When ye shall come to "price" a prize, Although ye may be sore dismayed. This is the bookman's paradise! To-day, when I had dined my fill Upon a Caxton, — ^you know Will, — I crawled forth o'er the colophon To bask awhile within the sun ; And having coiled my sated length, I felt anon my whilom strength Slip from me gradually, till deep I dropped away in dreamful sleep, Wherein I walked an endless maze. And dined on Caxtons all my days. Then I woke suddenly. Alas! What in my sleep had come to pass? That priceless first edition row, — Squat quarto and taU folio, — Had, in my slumber, vanished quite; Instead, on my astonished sight The newest novels burst, — a gay And most unpalatable array! I, that have battened on the best. Why should I thus be dispossessed, And with starvation, or the worst Of diets, cruelly be curst? w. 29 TO WILLIAM SHARP (nOKA MACLEOD) The waves about lona dirge, The wild winds tnunpet over Skye; Shrill around Arran's cliff -bound verge The gray gulls C17. Spring wraps its transient scarf of green, Its heathery robe, round slope and scar; And night, the scnddii>g wrack between, Lights its lo'ie star. But you who loved these outland isles. Their gleams, their jrlooms, their mysteries, Their eldritch lures, their druid wiles, Their tragic seas. Will heed no more, in mortal guise. The potent witchery of their caU, If dawn be regnant in the skies. Or evenfaU. Tet, though where suns Sicilian beam The loving earth enfolds your form, I can but deem these coasts of dream And hovering storm Still thrall your spirit — ^that it bides By for lona's kelp-strewn shore. There lingering till time and tides Shall surge no more. 30 A FORGOTTEN BARD In n dim nook beneath the street Where Pine and noisy Nassau meet, This little book of song I found In a scarred morocco quaintly bound. Each musty and bemildewed leaf Bespeaks long years of grime and grief; Long years, — ^for on the title-page A dim date tells the volume's age. Ah, who was he, the bard that sung In that dead century's stately tongue In those evanished days of yore? — An empty name — I know no more! Yet, as I read, will fancy form A face whose glow is fresh and warm, A frank, clear eye wherein I view A nature open, genial, true. Mayhap he dreamed of fame, but fate Eas barred to him that temple's gatej He loved, — was loved, — for one divines An answered passion in his lines; He died, ah, yes, he died, but when He ceased to walk the ways of men, Or where his clay with mother clay Commingles sweetly, who can say! ^^^. t'^iV'^iJ*— 31 In pity will I give his book A not too lonely study nook, Where kindly gleams of light may play Across it of a wintry day; And I will take it down sometimes To con the prim and polished rhymes. WiU thus, when the gray years have fled. Some book of mine be housed and readf 32 ^ On Goldsmith's grave to-day I found a wreath of hay, Laid by some loving hand; whose, none may say. Though since he ceased to be The surge of Time's great sea Has swept unceasing, green his memory I For through his limpid lines, Unfailing, one divines A humorous tenderness that sings and shines. 'Twas his unconscious part To touch the human heart With a fine feeling that is more than art. So, where his bones repose I^ the gr&y Temple-close, Shall mingle laurel, ivy and the rose! 33 IZAAK WALTON'S NAME As I went down the crowded Fleet, An idler without aim, I marked above the roaring street Dear Izaak Walton's name. A marble tablet in the wall (Saint Dunstan's in the West) A brief but fair memorial In graven lines expressed. How sweet 'mid London's turbid ways, 'Neath sMes so duU and dim, To find in terse but gracious phrase This kindly word of him! Dear Izaak of the simple heart. The quiet country love! — I saw before my vision start The winding dale of Dove; Its slopes that shimmered in the sun, Its stream that rippling ran. And on the grassy margin one — One happy fisherman! Some treasure statesmen, martyrs, Idngs, Heroes of noble fame. But here a vagrant rhymer sings Dear Izaak Walton's name! 1KtA(£= V-' 34 What is the sonnet? "Tis a lovely flower Of fourteen perfect petals! From the bloom Exhales so soft, so subtle a perfume That it has sweetened many an empty hour; Bom in a beautiful Italian bower, Fair root it found beneath the glow and gloom Of changeful English skies, and welcome room In other climes, each richer for its dower. What passionate attar Shakespeare from it won 1 How it for Milton bourgeoned, and how Keats Nurtured it gladly in his garden-close! Still in its heart hide undiscovered sweets; So, poets, put your fondest care thereon, As doth a gardener on his rarest rose! 35 AD MU8AM. Muse, thou hast heen my gracious solac« long, Making melodious discordant days, Leading my feet adown the pleasant ways Within the precincts of the gates of Song. Thou hast interpreted grim Winter's wrong, The vernal wonder, Summer's bright displays. The pomp of Autumn; many a varied phase That life reveals with its trans-shifting throng. The rich inheritor through thee am I Of castles, aye, of kingdoms! Every clime And age yields something from its treasure- store For thee to clothe anew and vivify. Dust buried by the tireless hands of Time Thou hast transmuted into magic ore! ^ 38 TEE SINGERS ' Tou who have quaffed from Aganippe's spring, And know the kindling rapture, hail and hear ! Your eyes have caught the vision morning-clear, The poignant, incommunicable thing, That bade you ope your silent Kps and sing, Fond and forgetful, and fain but to hear The music swell and ebb, to you as dear As its own flute-notes to the golden-wing. Be you contented, though on evil days Your paths have fallen when the art of yor« So reverenced is held as is a shard; Sing on, sing on, nor falter nor deplore! He to the Muse the truest tribute pays Who finds in song song's most divine reward ! 37 8^ ON A COPY OF BAYARD TAYLOR'S \ "XIMENA" This was the first libation that he poured Upon the consecrated shrine of Song, His sovereign lady through his whole life long, Howe'er he wandered, worshipped and adored; Whether he strayed where Syrian vultures soared In the blue vault, or where the turbaned throng Surged in swart Egypt, or with lash and thong Urged the swift sledge o'er Lapland field and fiord. Bare little tome of meek and modest mien, Scanning your pages now the years have run Through many a lustrum siace yon saw the day, I seem to read your buoyant lines between, Lines where Youth treads the daffodiliaii way, How high of heart was our Deucalion 1 38 A. SUMMER MOOD The majesty of the Miltonic line Allures me not to-day, nor paradise, Unless it be in Julia's winsome eyes As hymned by Herrick, with his lute-note finej Not the Shakespearean altar-fire divine Beguileth me, save where, in tender wise, It plays through Rosalind's questions and replies. Or Beatrice's sallies set a-shine. The day is one of laughing Lovelace mood. Tricksy with frolic fancies such as gave To Suckling's wit its nimbleness and zest; For me Terpsichore, the Muse they wooed — Those cavahers so debonair and brave — And at her maddest and her merriest! ^ Ji^'*^^:::. 39 SIDNET LANIER The marshes spread in the autnmnal stin Their symphony of blended green and gold As when he saw them, while the multifold Tide-heralds of the ocean race and mn Vociferous landward, and the creek-banks dun Feel the cool gush of waters o'er them roUed; Inlet and cove caressed are and consoled. And the parched meads have cooling solace won. Ofttimes from sweet communion with his peers In that fair bourn beyond the dusk and dawn Whither he went, our eyes with grief bedimmed, (Ah, stem are the irrevocable years!) I dream that he is earthward backward drawn To these lone marshes that he loved and hymned. L 40 PHILIP FBENEAU Now that the vesper-planet's violet glow Is smothered in a welter of gray cloud, And all the winds that sweep the sky are loud, I mind me how, one white night long ago, Our earliest poet, valiant-souled Freneau, By the stem stress of years assailed and bowed, Fell by the way, and found a fatal shroud In the benumbing silence of the snow! When the young nation shook with war's grim throes. The smiting of his song was as a sword. The light of it was as a beacon flame; And though the drift of Time's unpitying snows Upon the mound that hides his dust be poured, It may not dim the glory of his name! L= 41 GBENVILLE MELLEN Poet that livest in a single line, — "Above the fight the lonely bugle grieves," — About thy grave on cloud-encompassed eves The banded winds in consonance combine To breathe forth battle strains ; — a fitting shrine For such impassioned utterance! — the leaves FaUing the while, and sad autumnal sheaves Against the sunset etched in weird design. There is the pathos of all mourning airs. And of the fading pageant of the year. In unfulfilled ambition such as thine; And yet thy brow one leaf of laurel wears; Niggard of favor is the Muse austere, Poet that livest la a single line! 42 Muse, for a little while put by the lute! The shawm, the cymbal, and the drum be thine! The imperious trumpet, evermore the sign Of arms and banners and of high dispute ! Let for a space the lips of love be mute. While martial words with martial airs combine ! Away luxurious ease, with song and wine — Dreams and desires of Pleasure's languid fruit t Hail the free winds abroad upon the moors,. The caves, the crags, the forests, and the sound Of mighty deeds sword-done by land and sea! Aye, hail the lofty spirit that endures Through aU the years from Time's remotest, bound — The spirit of leal-heaxted chivalry! 43 Beyond where Scylla and Charybdis roared, In the old days of hale Odyssean worth, Where pale Proserpine of joy had dearth In the fair fields of Enna the deplored, .Where asphodels still show their golden hoard, — The flowerful largess of Sicilian earth, — There, it is said, the sonnet had its birth, A limpid song from melody's chalice poured. And they, the bards who shaped the stately form, Their names are but blown waifs upon the wind; Their bones with yellowed dust long since were one; But still the sonnet, living, vital, warm, In many a bosom lovingly enshrined, Sings on and on in choral antiphon. ^&G^ u What of the bards who in love's white demesne Made Ijrric dalliance, and linked their rhymes Beside the rippling Rhone in bygone times, Each choosing some sweet lady for his queen? Gallant they were, nor scorned the battle scene. Albeit they tuned beneath the scented limes Their soft lute-pleadings to the castle chimes Of fair Provence, girt with its vineyards green. Shapers of song, if but a jest to-day Your art is made, a byword on the lip Of those whose hearts this age of trade immures, Take courage! you, by right of comradeship, Have rich inheritance from such as they; — You are the heirs of all the troubadours! 46 -'% Dream-led, methought I wandered through a maze Wherein immortal Beauty had her bower; Delicious waf tuxes from the jasmine-flower, And floating veils of delicate amber haze, Mysteriously adown mysterious ways Were borne, and every part of every hour Had Song's enchanting cadence for its dower, Paeans immaculate in Beauty's praise. Like this beguiling maze his sonnets seem Wherein the questing wanderer may find Harmonies haunting as the twilight wind, Charms as elusive as the shores of dream; Perfumes far-drifted from the Isles of Ind, And all of Beauty's glamour and its gleam. 46 TO THOMAS S. JONES, JB. I can recall within some orient land, Where every dawn is like a golden psalm, How in a mosque, beneath a stately palm, I saw a rare mosaic, deftly planned — Marble as stainless as is Beauty's hand; Deep chrysoberyl glistening like the calm Of ocean; agate like the tufted balm Burning in August woods when noons are bland. Aye, and the burnished bosom of the jade. The violet veins of lapis-lazuli. The topaz-heart that holds the sun in fee; Thus is your song-mosaic interlaid. Not only lovely to the outer eye, But to the inner sense a harmony! >^i- 47 The varied Book of Life, How hurriedly we con! Through pages sown with grief and strife We reach the colophon. We would peritse it still Despite its stress, but nay, It must be closed, saith the Great Wili, And laid aside for aye! ^