Britannia, when thy hearth's a-cold, When o'er thy grave has grown the moss, Still Rule Australia shall be trolled In Islands of the Southern Cross!

BALLADE OF AUCa.s.sIN

Where smooth the southern waters run By rustling leagues of poplars grey, Beneath a veiled soft southern sun, We wandered out of yesterday, Went maying through that ancient May Whose fallen flowers are fragrant yet, And loitered by the fountain spray With Auca.s.sin and Nicolette.

The gra.s.s-grown paths are trod of none Where through the woods they went astray.

The spider's traceries are spun Across the darkling forest way.

There come no knights that ride to slay, No pilgrims through the gra.s.ses wet, No shepherd lads that sang their say With Auca.s.sin and Nicolette!

'Twas here by Nicolette begun Her bower of boughs and gra.s.ses gay; 'Scaped from the cell of marble dun 'Twas here the lover found the fay, Ah, lovers fond! ah, foolish play!

How hard we find it to forget Who fain would dwell with them as they, With Auca.s.sin and Nicolette.

ENVOY.

Prince, 'tis a melancholy lay!

For youth, for love we both regret.

How fair they seem, how far away, With Auca.s.sin and Nicolette!

BALLADE AMOUREUSE.

AFTER FROISSART.

Not Jason nor Medea wise, I crave to see, nor win much lore, Nor list to Orpheus' minstrelsies; Nor Her'cles would I see, that o'er The wide world roamed from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e; Nor, by St. James, Penelope, - Nor pure Lucrece, such wrong that bore: To see my Love suffices me!

Virgil and Cato, no man vies With them in wealth of clerkly store; I would not see them with mine eyes; Nor him that sailed, sans sail nor oar, Across the barren sea and h.o.a.r, And all for love of his ladye; Nor pearl nor sapphire takes me more: To see my Love suffices me!

I heed not Pegasus, that flies As swift as shafts the bowmen pour; Nor famed Pygmalion's artifice, Whereof the like was ne'er before; Nor Oleus, that drank of yore The salt wave of the whole great sea: Why? dost thou ask? 'Tis as I swore - To see my Love suffices me!

BALLADE OF QUEEN ANNE.

The modish Airs, The Tansey Brew, The SWAINS and FAIRS In curtained Pew; Nymphs KNELLER drew, Books BENTLEY read, - Who knows them, who?

QUEEN ANNE is dead!

We buy her Chairs, Her China blue, Her red-brick Squares We build anew; But ah! we rue, When all is said, The tale o'er-true, QUEEN ANNE is dead!

Now BULLS and BEARS, A ruffling Crew, With Stocks and Shares, With Turk and Jew, Go bubbling through The Town ill-bred: The World's askew, QUEEN ANNE is dead!

ENVOY.

Friend, praise the new; The old is fled: Vivat FROU-FROU!

QUEEN ANNE is dead!

BALLADE OF BLIND LOVE.

(AFTER LYONNET DE COISMES.)

Who have loved and ceased to love, forget That ever they loved in their lives, they say; Only remember the fever and fret, And the pain of Love, that was all his pay; All the delight of him pa.s.ses away From hearts that hoped, and from lips that met - Too late did I love you, my love, and yet I shall never forget till my dying day.

Too late were we 'ware of the secret net That meshes the feet in the flowers that stray; There were we taken and snared, Lisette, In the dungeon of La Fausse Amistie; Help was there none in the wide world's fray, Joy was there none in the gift and the debt; Too late we knew it, too long regret - I shall never forget till my dying day!

We must live our lives, though the sun be set, Must meet in the masque where parts we play, Must cross in the maze of Life's minuet; Our yea is yea, and our nay is nay: But while snows of winter or flowers of May Are the sad year's shroud or coronet, In the season of rose or of violet, I shall never forget till my dying day!

ENVOY.

Queen, when the clay is my coverlet, When I am dead, and when you are grey, Vow, where the gra.s.s of the grave is wet, "I shall never forget till my dying day!"

BALLADE OF HIS CHOICE OF A SEPULCHRE.

Here I'd come when weariest!

Here the breast Of the Windburg's tufted over Deep with bracken; here his crest Takes the west, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Silent here are lark and plover; In the cover Deep below the cushat best Loves his mate, and croons above her O'er their nest, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Bring me here, Life's tired-out guest, To the blest Bed that waits the weary rover, Here should failure be confessed; Ends my quest, Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!

ENVOY.

Friend, or stranger kind, or lover, Ah, fulfil a last behest, Let me rest Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover!

DIZAIN.

As, to the pipe, with rhythmic feet In windings of some old-world dance, The smiling couples cross and meet, Join hands, and then in line advance, So, to these fair old tunes of France, Through all their maze of to-and-fro, The light-heeled numbers laughing go, Retreat, return, and ere they flee, One moment pause in panting row, And seem to say--Vos plaudite!

A.D.