CHAUNCEY WETMORE WELLS 
 
 1872-1933 
 
 & 
 
 This book belonged to Chauncey Wetmore Wells. He taught in 
 Yale College, of which he was a graduate, from 1897 to 1901, and 
 from 1901 to 1933 at this University. 
 
 Chauncey Wells was, essentially, a scholar. The range of his read- 
 ing was wide, the breadth of his literary sympathy as uncommon 
 as the breadth, of his human sympathy. He was less concerned 
 with the collection of facts than with meditation upon their sig- 
 nificance. His distinctive power lay in his ability to give to his 
 students a subtle perception of the inner implications of form, 
 of manners, of taste, of the really disciplined and discriminating 
 mind. And this perception appeared not only in his thinking and 
 teaching but also in all his relations with books and with men. 
 
 University of California Berkeley 
 
THE SCRANNEL PIPE 
 A BOOK OF VERSE 
 BY LEONARD BACON 
 
University of California Berkeley 
 
* l 
 
 \ { 
 
 A 
 
 THE SCRANNEL PIPE 
 A BOOK OF VERSE 
 
 BY LEONARD BACON 
 
 u 
 
 And, when they list, their If an and flashy songs 
 Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw. 
 
 PRIVATELY PRINTED 
 
 NEW HAVEN 
 
 1909 
 
IN MEMORIAL 
 
There were three men on Golgotha 
 
 Nailed on the gallozvs tree, 
 And Mary the Lady of Life came there, 
 
 Weeping before the three. 
 
 And Christ that was Dead spake from the tree: 
 
 "Mother, what care thee grieves?" 
 And Mary the Mother answered him: 
 
 "Dear Son, I weep for the thieves." 
 
 And a thief that was dead looked down on her 
 
 From the tree whereon he hung, 
 And his bloody hair blew out on the wind, 
 
 And he spake with a living tongue: 
 
 "They have split my palms with the piercing nails, 
 "They have broken me with spears, 
 
 "But they cannot slay the spirit in me, 
 "Nor the triumph in my ears. 
 
 "I was a King in the North Country, 
 
 "A man and a maker of men, 
 "And I wrought great evil in sorrow and shame, 
 
 "But my heart is born again. 
 
 "Men shall die in torment and fear 
 
 "Reaping the bitter sheaves. 
 "This they remember when they die, 
 
 "Mary wept for the thieves" 
 
 862671 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 INTERPLANETARY i 
 
 A BALLADE OF NEW ORLEANS 4 
 
 THE MARCHING 5 
 
 THE DEAD MUSE 7 
 
 THE LAST RIDING OF THE ROMANS g 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE BOATMAN n 
 
 THE BYZANTINE CAESARS I4 
 
 BALLAD OF THE MERCENARIES 15 
 
 FREE BALLADE OF THE GOLDEN HORN 20 
 
 BALLADE OF COUNT STILICHO THE CONSUL 22 
 
 BALLADE OF CAESAR'S GATE 24 
 
 BALLADE OF HERACLIUS THE GREAT 26 
 
 BALLADE OF LEO THE ISAURIAN 28 
 
 BALLADE OF NICEPHORUS 1 30 
 
 BALLADE OF THE WAIL OF THE WOMEN OF BYZANT 32 
 
 BALLADE OF CvESAR'S HOUR 34 
 
 BALLADE OF THE CARDINAL BESSARION 36 
 
 THE BUDGET 39 
 
 THE LEE SHORE 4 r 
 
 NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 2 sth, 1909 42 
 
 BALLADE OF QUEEN HORTENSE 43 
 
 BALLADE OF THE MARSHAL RADETZKY 45 
 
 THE BALLADE OF HICKS PASHA 47 
 
 FREE BALLADE OF KING FERDINAND 49 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE TWO RIDERS 51 
 
 FURTHER AMPLIFICATION OF THE SENSATIONS OF A CELE- 
 BRATED MEDIAEVAL POET WHO WAS TO BE HANGED WITH 
 
 HIS COMPANIONS FOR THIEVERY 54 
 
 TO THE DISTANT PRINCESS 57 
 
 FREE BALLADE OF MYSELF AND MONSIEUR RABELAIS 58 
 
 PROEM 60 
 
 DRAWN BATTLE 61 
 
 NEW HOPE 62 
 
 RISING TIDE 63 
 
 VICTORY 6 4 
 
 THE WITS OF LONDON 65 
 
 ENVOY... - 66 
 
INTERPLANETARY. 
 
 "Christ keep the Hollow Land'' William Morris. 
 
 the forgotten silences of sleep 
 I canje there, upward through a quiet space 
 Of absolute death of being; then awoke. 
 My feet were firm on that abiding star, 
 Treading strong steps down a far swerving slope 
 Of sown magnificence, made beautiful 
 With amaranth, and hyacinth, and spears 
 Of rosy hardback spiring over fern. 
 Down underneath, terrace by terrace down 
 Went the charmed land. Its burden of still towers 
 Grew iridescent as Pompeian glass, 
 And the white walls of unimagined cities 
 Failed on the far horizon, as I looked, 
 Half lost between the distance and the haze. 
 I heard a song below me in the vale 
 Chorus of many voices. Melodies 
 Greeted the dawn, and splendid might of song 
 Noble and old, and sounding like the sea 
 Surging along some purple southern coast, 
 Whose islands are phantasms of the gods. 
 Then through a most high music of deep sound, 
 Concord of sweetness came she forth to me, 
 And, failing at the top of its desire, 
 My spirit knew the darkness once again. 
 
Waking came on me rushing splendidly, 
 
 White waves .of life surging across a sea 
 
 Of the, .'de^rl; spirit's dumb forgetfulness. 
 
 The < violet cities -of the sun's decline, 
 
 Ramparted soV'rtwi holiness of flame, 
 
 Reared on a Western strength unspeakable. 
 
 And like a sea bird at the cliffs of song 
 
 She hovered on wings of music beside me there. 
 
 Threnos of nations overpassed and gone, 
 
 Desire of lovelier creatures yet to be, 
 
 Beat through the chords in splendor half unheard, 
 
 Till somewhere through a mystery of sound 
 
 Came richest surges of Parnassian song. 
 
 The veils of silence that encompassed me 
 
 With shadowy violet darkness fell away 
 
 As haze before the sea wind. As the sea 
 
 Comes forth beneath the splendor, and the curve 
 
 Of breakers storming shoreward without halt 
 
 Grows marvelous to the eye, even so in me 
 
 The vivid sea arose in answering waves 
 
 Of wonderful music-begotten speech. 
 
 The ecstasy of ecstasies I knew, 
 
 The birth of an unspeakable hope made great, 
 
 Triumph that took me and lifted like a fire 
 
 Wonderfully onward to my victories. 
 
 And I remember after many years 
 
 Her lips on mine, and then a written scroll 
 
 Of stranger letters yet intelligible. 
 
 Thereafter was that troublous keen delight 
 
 Preluding all the song's magnificence, 
 
 And deep-hid splendor took the strength of life. 
 
Wherefore I had all that a man might have. 
 Then without sorrow, facing the far dawn, 
 Glad of our magic sacrifice we died, 
 She on her golden planet, I on mine 
 Amid my smoky cities of desire. 
 And all of the undying heart of me 
 Blazes like fire through a forgotten song. 
 
A BALLADE OF NEW ORLEANS. 
 
 Sun like liquor, and wind like light, 
 
 And every puddle a diamond stain 
 On streets of silver and blazing white, 
 
 Banked in colors that change and remain. 
 Orange and scarlet wax and wane 
 
 In curtains of shadow, and sun aglance, 
 And sweet in the spirit flower again 
 
 The Spanish vision, the dream of France. 
 
 Where the riven sunset burns in the height 
 
 Over the bosom of Pontchartrain ; 
 And far on the edge of the fire line, night 
 
 Binds the day in his brilliant chain; 
 And outstretched water and low brown plain 
 
 Marry and meet in one dark expanse, 
 The West's red ramparts a space retain 
 
 The Spanish vision,, the dream of France. 
 
 Rusty balconies flight on flight 
 
 Calico laden, where Lady Disdain 
 Drowsed with her novel, or breathed delight 
 
 In the soft wind in from the Spanish main. 
 The silence whispered : "France" and "Spain." 
 
 And the spirit knew, in her fragrant trance 
 Like odor of lilacs after rain, 
 
 The Spanish vision, the dream of France. 
 
 Fierce-eyed Commerce mid strife and strain 
 Unweaves it all in her strong advance. 
 
 Shall her labor and travail yet attain 
 
 The Spanish vision, the dream of France? 
 
THE MARCHING. 
 
 Poem read at the Class Day Exercises of the Class of 1909, 
 Yale University. 
 
 Past the house of the dear, dear mother 
 The sons of her splendid strength went by, 
 Singing and calling one to another, 
 And glad their song and the sound of their cry. 
 
 They sang : The East and the West shall know us, 
 The tower in the city, the hut on the hill ; 
 And the four free winds of God shall blow us 
 Over the world, as they work their will. 
 
 We seek, in the greatness thy spirit taught us, 
 The city of men, where the men are gods, 
 The Vision of Visions our fathers brought us, 
 To dream a blossoming out of the clods. 
 
 Their hope ariseth alive and vernal ; 
 Thee it bore, it is borne of thee; 
 And the youth in us tastes of its sempiternal 
 Savor of things that have been and shall be. 
 
 Men say the city our hands are building, 
 The solemn city of our desire, 
 Is naught but the sun of a dead day gilding 
 The somnolent ramparts of night with fire. 
 
 But that city is strengthened with blood of the spirit, 
 The blood of the spirit of God, and we, 
 
Even as angels of God, inherit 
 Its might and steadfast eternity. 
 
 And we shall know thee splendid and tender, 
 When we live and die for thee all day long, 
 When we give our souls in the deep surrender 
 Of labor to labor and song to song. 
 
 When the doors of to-morrow shut before us, 
 And all the gates of the future close ; 
 When the victory comes not that shall restore us ; 
 We will be strong in our overthrows. 
 
 Dreaming of thee and thy ways that master, 
 The ear that heareth, the eyes that see, 
 The courage outliving the time's disaster, 
 The virginal spirit of splendor in thee. 
 
 What we have seen shall the years hereafter 
 Anew discover, anew forget, 
 And our sons' sons will remember our laughter, 
 And know the passion of our regret. 
 
 Mother, we go from the kiss of our weaning, 
 Lift our lips from thy breast and go, 
 Though as yet we know not thy perfect meaning, 
 Thy love shall teach us at last to know. 
 
 Therefore bless us beneath thy portal, 
 The brightness and beautiful pride of thy gate, 
 For mortal, thy blessings shall make us immortal, 
 And out of thy strength shall our hearts create. 
 
THE DEAD MUSE. 
 
 The daughter of dead dawning lay alone, 
 
 White and outstretched upon an ill-made bier, 
 
 Her living glory seemingly all gone ; 
 
 Her place was full of blackness, none drew near ; 
 
 No faithful one for her would shed a tear 
 
 Save ancient baffled seekers of the bay ; 
 
 So lone she was at the drear end of day. 
 
 When she was living, ah but it was sweet 
 To see her coming at the first of morn, 
 To mark the tripping of her silver feet, 
 To hear her sing amid the standing corn, 
 To catch the scent from far-off lilies borne, 
 And with her, in the long, sweet, meadow grass, 
 Dream out the day, and let the sorrow pass. 
 
 The glory of the summer sunset West 
 Was on her brow, and splendor in her eyes ; 
 And in her glance the weary one found rest, 
 And in her voice were lingering rhapsodies, 
 That seemed to sing of golden Paradise, 
 Beyond the thunder and the whirl of things, 
 Beyond the tears and dreary sorrowings. 
 
 The clear, God-prompted music of her lips 
 Was like the glorious melody we hear 
 When the great singing star of morning slips 
 Into the breast of some majestic mere, 
 
A murmur of the greater gods anear, 
 A song of morning, peace and quietness 
 And crowning love, and utter loveliness. 
 
 And now is she gone from us, and we hear 
 No quiet music, and no melting song, 
 No voice that ringeth in the morning clear, 
 When the rapt hills are lost in echoings long, 
 Deep sounding thunder, rolling sweet and strong 
 For she that wrought it is long past and dead, 
 And all our light with her fair spirit fled. 
 
 But joyfully she whispered, e'er she died, 
 That she would move among us yet once more, 
 Strong and unconquerable as the tide, 
 That, singing, rushes up the whitening shore, 
 Fairer and lovelier than she was before 
 A glorious being, splendid to aspire, 
 Reborn amid the thunder and the fire. 
 
THE LAST RIDING OF THE ROMANS. 
 
 Legions of locked disorder, columns of disarray, 
 Into the town the Romans rode, at the ending of the day, 
 In from the purple heather, in from the splendid down, 
 No Caesar or pride with them did ride, when the Romans 
 
 came to town. 
 I went to the foremost horseman, a word in the ear I 
 
 spoke ; 
 What did they care for a Gorgio, the wonderful Gypsy 
 
 folk? 
 I gave them the city's freedom, I made them free of the 
 
 town; 
 But what did they care for the city, the lords of the open 
 
 down? 
 
 I called to Jerry and Jasper, Isopel, Sinfi, and all, 
 They would not hearken my summons, they would not 
 
 come at my call. 
 This was never their custom, they should have answered 
 
 me fair, 
 The lads with the eyes of sea-hawks, the girls with the 
 
 long black hair. 
 So I saw that something was over, that something was 
 
 wicked and wrong, 
 And I said, "Is it ill with the sheriff, for robbery, stiff 
 
 and strong? 
 "Have you set a charm on a woman, have you poisoned 
 
 cattle or swine?" 
 Then they said, "Is the business of Egypt the business of 
 
 thee or of thine? 
 
Can a Gorgio wot of our riding, where the roof tree 
 
 shelters his head ? 
 He knows not the wind in the nostril, nor the roar of 
 
 the stallion's tread. 
 We go from the happy wayside, from the camp on the 
 
 edge of the road ; 
 We have reaped the terrible harvest that never a crop 
 
 have sowed 
 This is the endmost riding, ere the last free horseshoe 
 
 fails, 
 Of them that were lords of the highway, in Edom, and 
 
 Ind, and Wales, 
 
 Anvil-emperors of Russia, Istria, Carthage, and Spain, 
 We ride on the Roman riding, and we never shall ride 
 
 again. 
 
 Never again the dingle, the kettle set on the fire, 
 And Rhona frying a herring, the best the heart could 
 
 desire, 
 
 Never the Gypsy quiet, never the Roman Peace, 
 The chaffinch deep in the hawthorn, and the greeting in 
 
 Rommanese ; 
 
 The tidings of the Romans, of horse fairs near and far, 
 The breaking of mares and stallions, with never a bit nor 
 
 a bar. 
 
 Romans that ruled the empire, the riders of the steed, 
 This is the last great riding, put up and better the speed." 
 The stallions started together, the mares went free with 
 
 a bound, 
 The Romans whistled the oncall, they never turned them 
 
 around. 
 
 Out on the white macadam, pressing the heel to goad, 
 Away for ever and ever, the last of the Romans rode. 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE BOATMAN. 
 
 We were three boatmen beside the river, 
 John the Singer and Richard and I. 
 We were three boatmen beside the river 
 In the splendid dawn of the days gone by. 
 
 And John could sing like the warbler yellow, 
 And Richard played on the pleasant pipe, 
 But I was only an idle fellow 
 That knew when strawberry shoots were ripe. 
 
 And one morn a maid came down to the water, 
 To our merry hut beside the shore, 
 Crying : "Carry me over the water. 
 Boatmen! Boatmen! Ferry me o'er." 
 
 And up rose John all wild with singing, 
 With a laugh on his lips as he left the door ; 
 "Oh Maiden, Maiden! Oh Flower Upspringing! 
 'Tis I will merrily ferry thee o'er." 
 
 And the silver mist hovered over the river, 
 And hid from our sight the path of the boat, 
 Yet his singing went on with a golden quiver, 
 Like the morning song of the speckle-throat. 
 
 But he came not back, and the mist never parted, 
 Though it drew at last to the falling of night, 
 And we waited sad and sorrowful-hearted, 
 And morning wept for our lost delight. 
 
 ii 
 
Oh weary it was beside the river 
 
 For Richard would not play on the pipe 
 
 And the white mist drifted over the river, 
 
 And the strawberries rotted ere they were ripe. 
 
 And one eve a Maid came down by the water, 
 To our dreary hut upon the shore, 
 Crying : "Carry me over the water. 
 Boatmen! Boatmen! Ferry me o'er." 
 
 Up Richard rose, where he lay a-sighing, 
 And laughed aloud as he left the door ; 
 "Oh, marvelous Maiden, cease thy crying, 
 'Tis I will merrily carry thee o'er." 
 
 And away they went on the misty river, 
 And were gone from sight like a stone in the sea; 
 And the winds arose and winnowed the river 
 But Richard never came back to me. 
 
 Yet a maiden came unto me thereafter, 
 About the midst of the summering year, 
 When the little wave lifted aloft in laughter, 
 To the wind in heaven a-calling clear. 
 
 For she came adown to the wondrous water 
 And the lonely hut beside the shore, 
 Crying: "Ferry me over the water. 
 Boatman! Boatman! Carry me o'er." 
 
 And out we went on the winding river, 
 While Summer was singing along the shore 
 And we were alone on the winding river 
 And just at sunset I brought her o'er. 
 
 12 
 
And she smiled upon me solemn and splendid 
 And my eyes were opened as darkness fell, 
 And I saw that the first of my life was ended, 
 And dreamed in my heart that all was well. 
 
 But she looked upon me with wondrous pity, 
 And her eyes were even as fire afar, 
 As she said : "You must search for the silver city 
 And the lovely land where your comrades are." 
 
 "For still they are seeking who long have sought me, 
 And the time is nearing when they shall find, 
 And the splendor, wherewith the Gods have fraught me, 
 Shall open the seeing eyes that were blind." 
 
 E'en so she spoke, and speaking departed ; 
 And I heard her sing as she crossed the plain, 
 And her singing made me gentle-hearted, 
 And sorrow lifted and lifeless pain. 
 
 And I know that she dwells in her place of splendor, 
 Garlanded, glorious, girt with wings; 
 And I know that her eyes are splendid and tender, 
 And the air is magical as she sings, 
 
 Arbutus and Hyacinth all around her, 
 
 Not so sweet as the sound of her song, 
 
 And I know that Richard and John have found her, 
 
 And I know that sorrow is not for long. 
 
THE BYZANTINE C^SARS. 
 
 Oh rulers of a slain eternity 
 Of battle and disaster! You that hold 
 My spirit with your iron and bloody gold, 
 Why has your greatness gripped and girdled me? 
 So that my dreams behold your anciently, 
 And visions of the night your strength untold, 
 Till I am drunk with mysteries manifold 
 And un forget fulness of empery. 
 
 But your dead mastery rules a wider range 
 Than walled Amorium, or Armeniac bounds. 
 And all your cycles old shall be reborn, 
 When Balkan Europe roars beneath the strange 
 Clamor of armament, that shakes and sounds 
 Against the gateways of the Golden Horn. 
 
BALLAD OF THE MERCENARIES. 
 
 Circa 1150 A. D. 
 
 Captains mighty together, gallant children of kings, 
 We are apart from your joyance, share not your pon- 
 der ings ; 
 Know not the sweet of your triumph, nor the bitter of 
 
 your defeat, 
 Yet desire your height of desire, and entreat what you 
 
 would entreat. 
 Brown arms of the world-wide conqueror, swift hands 
 
 of the stars control, 
 
 Lifted aloft in your service, yoked to draw at your pole; 
 We are kingless before you, yet bitter well we know 
 The sorrow of the Caesars and the Palseologian woe. 
 Do we wot of the horror of failure, of the province fallen 
 
 astray, 
 
 Lying allies that leave us, cities that die and decay ; 
 Redemption of death and dishonor wrenched from a 
 
 feeble foe; 
 Bought victories, poisonous treaties, deadly, eating, and 
 
 slow^ 
 Fear in the phalanx forsaken, betrayed and slaughtered 
 
 for gold; 
 
 Defense of disastrous cities, no devil in Hell could hold. 
 Ah God, the horrible frontier! The shaken terror that 
 
 burns 
 The face the color of ashes! Ah, strength that never 
 
 returns ! 
 
 15 
 
No trust in ourselves forever, deep scorn of the loath- 
 some shame 
 
 That stamps us cowards or heroes, marshals of evil fame. 
 Slaves of an alien power, bought in the sale of the 
 
 swords, 
 Bound to down-wheeling fortunes with bonds that are 
 
 keener than cords. 
 Our wounds do they wrinkle and fester, do the throats 
 
 of our suffering strain, 
 And vomit the blood of our sorrow, we must plough in 
 
 the field again. 
 
 Doth the Boukellarion murmur, Nicsea shake and rebel, 
 We must control and cajole them, and betray, and 
 
 destroy, and expel. 
 The Caliph conceiveth a battle, the Slovack passeth the 
 
 bound, 
 We must divide and defeat, and suborn, and subdue, and 
 
 surround. 
 Do we come back with a triumph, you know us for what 
 
 we are, 
 Your daughters withdraw them from us, your sons 
 
 denounce and debar, 
 Our captains despise and revile us, our servants complain 
 
 of our pride; 
 Our cowardice gaineth no champion, our courage is 
 
 doubted, denied. 
 No nation to own or bewail us, no woman to love or 
 
 embrace, 
 No man to befriend and support us, we stand in an evil 
 
 place. 
 Oh whips of the street smite harshly! chariots hard 
 
 on the rein! 
 
 16 
 
Praetorian Varangs together, out to the wars of your 
 
 pain; 
 
 Fail ! Fail fiercely in battle, the fear hath fallen afar. 
 Shout! Keen sons of disaster, the War, the Wolves of 
 
 the War. 
 
BALLADES OF THE LOWER EMPIRE 
 
 There was never in all the world empire like unto this empire. 
 For her walls are iron and her gates wrought silver. She has over- 
 come great kings and their armies ; and the hand of her might lies 
 heavy on the necks of nations. Yet there cometh a day when she 
 shall stagger as a tree that feeleth the whirlwind in his branches. 
 Her gates shall be as the gates of Babylon, and her greatness as the 
 greatness of Sodom. For the heart of her people is wholly given 
 unto evil. The Golden Book of John of Adrianople, A. D. 1160. 
 
PROEM. 
 FREE BALLADE OF THE GOLDEN HORN. 
 
 We were mariners long agone, 
 
 Or ever the ages termagant 
 Had torn the gold from the gonfalon, 
 
 That flew at our forepeak arrogant. 
 And whenever the winds were hesitant, 
 
 And the sail fell slack in the silent morn, 
 The bent oar swung to "Byzant ! Byzant ! 
 
 Hark away for the Golden Horn." 
 
 And when the last of the isles were gone, 
 
 And the low wind singing and odorant, 
 Through the silver channels bore us on, 
 
 Stirring in mainsail and top-gallant, 
 High on ratline and spar aslant 
 
 We sang, where the splendid flags were borne, 
 And oh ! but our hearts were jubilant, 
 
 There in the bight of the Golden Horn. 
 
 The Soldan of Antioch hath won 
 
 The city of silver and adamant; 
 And our high venturing galleon 
 
 Was burned with a fire excoriant, 
 There by the sea gates resonant. 
 
 And we are wounded and wretched and worn, 
 And know the whips of the flagellant 
 
 Beyond the curve of the Golden Horn. 
 
 20 
 
Princes ! ye whom the years enchant, 
 Ye too will drink of the dregs of scorn, 
 
 Ye will sell your souls for a new Byzant, 
 And die for a glimpse of the Golden Horn. 
 
I. 
 
 BALLADE OF COUNT STILICHO THE CONSUL. 
 
 V Century. 
 Loquitur pro Stilichone Claudianus Poeta. 
 
 Baltic traitor, vainglorious, 
 
 Are there any proofs of your prophecy ? 
 Is there no fruit of the laborious 
 
 Planting of such a victory ? 
 You won no diadems from me 
 
 Save a crown of swords that overcome, 
 And a failure past recovery. 
 
 These be the ransomings of Rome. 
 
 What do you know, Honorius, 
 
 Of the winning of this empery? 
 Was not Ravenna the inglorious 
 
 City of your security? 
 You triumphed there most splendidly, 
 
 Safe in the wide-coursed hippodrome, 
 Forgetful of my chivalry. 
 
 These be the ransomings of Rome. 
 
 You are drunken legions uproarious 
 
 With Gothic plunder and mastery. 
 What then of your wreaths victorious, 
 
 And your slaughter, and your revelry ? 
 Did you win my battle with bravery? 
 
 Did your splendor of courage bring you home? 
 
 22 
 
Think of my guile and my constancy ; 
 These be the ransomings of Rome. 
 
 Pollentia, your name shall be 
 
 Drowned in the tumult of time to come. 
 Death, and Terror, and Treachery, 
 
 These be the ransomings of Rome. 
 
 23 
 
II. 
 
 BALLADE OF CAESAR'S GATE. 
 
 VI Century. 
 
 On with the guards in purple and steel, 
 
 Stepping together they march along, 
 Shoulder close to the chariot wheel, 
 
 Hands lashed tight with the rawhide throng, 
 Hearts that are weary, hearts that are strong, 
 
 Hark to their chorus desolate, 
 As they set their souls in the burdened song : 
 
 "We are come unto Caesar's Gate." 
 
 Rent and tattered, with welt and weal, 
 
 The halt and the blind, the withered and young, 
 Feet that stagger, and heads that reel, 
 
 Dead that stand in the crushing throng. 
 The roads were desert they went among, 
 
 Their eyes are frantic with fear and fate, 
 But hark the bitter word on their tongue : 
 
 "We are come unto Caesar's Gate." 
 
 Up on the gallows, under the heel. 
 
 Passionate dead whose bodies are wrung 
 
 With living anguish, living that feel 
 Pain, whose passions to death belong. 
 
 Never they pray, whose hands have clung 
 To the knees of Chance inviolate, 
 
Only their voice like a broken gong : 
 "We are come unto Caesar's Gate." 
 
 Will he deliver us unto the prong, 
 
 Or the whirling wheel and fire of his hate ? 
 
 Will he avenge us or will he wrong ? 
 We are come unto Caesar's Gate. 
 
III. 
 
 BALLADE OF HERACLIUS THE GREAT. 
 
 Circa 628 A. D. 
 
 I was a god on the splendid seas, 
 
 When I sailed from Carchedon long ago 
 To chasten a coward's cruelties,, 
 
 Whence every evil on earth did flow. 
 We dealt him a bitter blow for a blow. 
 
 Wherewith did my emperorship begin ; 
 But I said, as his evil corpse fell low : 
 
 "My battle of battles is yet to win." 
 
 The Persians harried the provinces, 
 
 Leagued and bound with an ancient foe. 
 I fed them the venom of victories, 
 
 Till they were drunken with overthrow. 
 Irak's ridges of iron, I trow, 
 
 Saw them fall in the driven din. 
 But I said, as their flight began to grow : 
 
 "My battle of battles is yet to win." 
 
 You of Damascus, be at ease, 
 
 For I am coming, and even so 
 Will I slaughter this speaker of prophecies, 
 
 And shortly his stricken side shall glow 
 With imposition of stripes arow. 
 
 There is no salve that shall heal his skin, 
 
 26 
 
But I dread that a victory will show 
 My battle of battles is yet to win. 
 
 Farewell, Syria, ere I go 
 
 Hellward to deal with my soul for sin. 
 Heaven, and hell, and the empire know 
 
 My battle of battles is yet to win. 
 
 27 
 
IV. 
 BALLADE OF LEO THE ISAURIAN. 
 
 VIII Century. 
 
 Afar in the scarlet Armeniac, 
 
 They say that the caliph's bolt is shot ; 
 And none of his armies struggled back 
 
 From the raid on the strong Cibyrraiot ; 
 And that great war fleet Cypriot 
 
 Hath thrown the rebels into flight ; 
 And that is the end of their plan and plot. 
 
 How I shall triumph in this my might ! 
 
 My ships from Pontus and Egypt track 
 
 Laden with victories I had thought 
 Too mighty for me. Nor do I lack 
 
 The splendor their travailing oars have got. 
 And the sun of my strength is high and hot, 
 
 On the legions marching in from my fight, 
 Ranked in phalanx and chariot. 
 
 How I shall triumph in this my might ! 
 
 But I am a sail that is fallen slack, 
 And no wind speedeth my galliot. 
 
 For all the timbers of empire crack, 
 
 And the beams of my conquest rend and rot ; 
 
 The weeds and the worms destroy and blot 
 With a temporal and devouring blight. 
 
 28 
 
And victor, already full well I wot 
 How I shall triumph in this my might. 
 
 Legions of victory, you cannot 
 Cast a realm in the moulds of fight. 
 
 All my labor is all unwrought. 
 
 How I shall triumph in this my might ! 
 
 29 
 
V. 
 
 BALLADE OF NICEPHORUS I. 
 
 IX Century. 
 
 Once I captained an armament, 
 
 But that was a season of hours ago, 
 And now I am spent as a coin is spent, 
 
 And bartered and bargained to and fro. 
 Little track will be left to show 
 
 Whither my wanderings have led, 
 And the naked sworoUedge whispers low : 
 
 "What is the price of an emperor's head?" 
 
 Unto disaster I have lent 
 
 The whole broad empire's strength. Although 
 I wrought in grandeur of intent, 
 
 I profited in overthrow 
 And massacre, and murderous woe 
 
 Of broken brethren of the dead, 
 And open shame, that the whirlwinds blow : 
 
 "What is the price of an emperor's head?" 
 
 My purposes magnificent 
 
 (Seeds for the harvest I meant to sow) 
 Are stifled with conquest insolent, 
 
 And their dead promise can never grow. 
 Bitter the hope, that was so slow, 
 
 And trampled under a tempest's tread. 
 
 30 
 
Only an emperor wots, I trow, 
 
 What is the price of an emperor's head. 
 
 Irene ! Stabrakios ! you who go 
 Before and after me, season-led, 
 
 Before the devil and God you know 
 What is the price of an emperor's head. 
 
VI. 
 
 BALLADE OF THE WAIL OF THE WOMEN OF 
 BYZANT. 
 
 Any Century. 
 
 What is the sound of sorrow unseen, 
 
 Crying of women far and near, 
 When all the city is serene 
 
 With fortunate victory, and cheer 
 Of conquest on the keen frontier? 
 
 Why this fierce misery clamitant? 
 Wherefore, O Emperor, falls so clear 
 
 The wail of the women of Byzant? 
 
 Ever lust and the lash have been 
 
 Lords of the city without peer ; 
 And the gateways, where her kings come in, 
 
 Have owned their sovereigns this thousand year. 
 But there is no battle nor tumult here, 
 
 Fruit of Rebellion tonitrant, 
 That there should come on the troubled ear 
 
 The wail of the women of Byzant. 
 
 What is the harvest they would glean? 
 
 What bitter largess of their fear ? 
 Is it some vision that must mean 
 
 Evil to come, or else the sheer 
 Forecast of wars, where disappear 
 
 Armies and nations arrogant ? 
 
 32 
 
Is it born of evil deep and dear, 
 The wail of the women of Byzant ? 
 
 Satan, your halls are foul and drear, 
 
 Shame and Death are the gifts you grant, 
 
 Whereby the nadir of hell shall hear 
 The wail of the women of Byzant. 
 
 33 
 
VII. 
 
 BALLADE OF CAESAR'S HOUR. 
 
 Constantine XIII loquitur A. D. 1453. 
 
 Silver and gold abroad in the state, 
 
 And I am clad in crimson and pall. 
 This is the pleasant place of the great, 
 
 And I am the master over all. 
 Never topsail may hoist or haul, 
 
 Nor galley anchor save by my power 
 Sacrosanct and imperial. 
 
 This is the splendor of Caesar's hour. 
 
 My fathers vended the Exarchate 
 
 To princes of Alamain and Gaul, 
 And the lordships of Asia are desolate, 
 
 Where the Caliph holdeth festival. 
 He has taken the marches past recall, 
 
 He has beaten my men in a stricken stour, 
 Without the ramparts his leaguers brawl. 
 
 This is the splendor of Csesar's hour. 
 
 Set new guards on the Blachern gate! 
 
 Look to the harbor, admiral ! 
 Patriarch, march in your wonted state 
 
 And pray with a higher ritual ! 
 Stand to it, captains-general ! 
 
 Gallant spirits that can not cower, 
 
 34 
 
What though our labor be broken and small ? 
 This is the splendor of Caesar's hour. 
 
 Captains, they are storming the wall, 
 
 They have ta'en the gate and the strongest tower. 
 What is it to Caesar, if Caesar fall? 
 
 This is the splendor of Caesar's hour. 
 
 35 
 
IX. 
 BALLADE OF THE CARDINAL BESSARION. 
 
 Circa 1500 A. D. 
 
 City my heart cannot forget, 
 
 Circled about with a silent sea, 
 How your greatness abideth yet, 
 
 And the deep strength of your mystery. 
 Your emperor holds no empery 
 
 Over the near or the farther themes, 
 Yet he rules in all my revery ; 
 
 I have dreamed in the city of dreams. 
 
 Cardinal prince, my hands are set 
 
 To plow for the Pope in Italy ; 
 But your beautiful empire will not let 
 
 My spirit bow to his heresy. 
 Out of the past your memory 
 
 Ransoms my heart, and its strength redeems 
 The world with a moment of majesty. 
 
 I have dreamed in the city of dreams. 
 
 Ramp and palace and parapet 
 
 Are shattered in your infirmity, 
 And the courtyards where your Caesars met, 
 
 Are sad with a Soldan's revelry. 
 He has smitten with indignity 
 
 Your dromonds and your quinqueremes. 
 
 36 
 
He is battle and blood and iniquity. 
 I have dreamed in the city of dreams. 
 
 "Bessarion," saith my soul to me, 
 "Thou are mighty by this, meseems, 
 
 Because thou sayest with verity, 
 
 'I have dreamed in the city of dreams.' " 
 
 37 
 
In this year fell the great and far renowned city of Constantinople 
 that was the place of Caesar. Whereby we are sore put to it, having 
 now no greatly eminent city surpassing all others in beauty and 
 power. And shortly we of this monastery needs must labor at 
 the making of manuscripts, for God alone knows when the light 
 of learning shall be made to shine again. Th<e Chronicle of Raymond 
 of M alines, A. D. 1453. 
 
THE BUDGET. 
 
 Circa 1510 A. D. 
 
 Naught but peace from the provinces, 
 
 And the subject cities over seas. 
 
 In Yemen they have abased the Khan, 
 
 The Vali of Egypt is taken and slain, 
 
 And the rebel captain of Kurdistan 
 
 Has got the bit in his teeth again. 
 
 The Tunis corn ships are overdue, 
 
 But Brian of Malta's Christian crew 
 
 Was seen but a se'ennight since off Crete, 
 
 And God knows what has become of the fleet. 
 
 Naught of mark from the palace court 
 
 But a new decree of the Sacred Porte : 
 
 This year the turbans of Samarcand 
 
 Are forbid by law, and the Sultan's hand 
 
 And seal will be set thereto to-day. 
 
 The Sheik-ul-Islam will have his way. 
 
 Yestre'en, up on the Belvedere, 
 
 The eunuchs strangled the grand vizier, 
 
 And the Sultan's favorite bayadere. 
 
 Allah is great, but isn't it queer? 
 
 Naught from the city, nay but wait, 
 
 This morning under the golden gate 
 
 A falling roof -tile broke the pate 
 
 Of Mehamet AH, the cobbler's son ; 
 
 Poor lad, his stitching days are done. 
 
 He died at noon. 
 
 39 
 
What? What? Dead? 
 Yea, by a tile from overhead. 
 Ha, Yusuf, they are evil days, 
 That slay a man in the midst of his ways ; 
 The women are weeping and drooping the head, 
 Mehamet Ali our friend is dead, 
 "So it is written," the prophet said. 
 Naught from the provinces, naught from the court, 
 Save battle and murder and music and sport, 
 But Mehamet Ali our friend is dead. 
 
 40 
 
THE LEE SHORE. 
 
 Beside the shore I saw great armaments 
 
 Of ships, that struggled with a baffling tide 
 
 And a strong wind, that scarce would be denied. 
 
 And some, close hauled, made good their way from 
 
 thence, 
 
 And gaining mastery of the elements, 
 Drew off to windward. The more part, o'er tried 
 By the great sea, drove leeward in their pride, 
 And the reefs garnered their magnificence. 
 
 Disastrous navies of a losing fight, 
 
 Whose present victors shall be overthrown 
 
 Or late or soon by the incessant sea; 
 
 Though ye make head, ye still shall waste your might 
 
 And all the stake that ye had set thereon 
 
 Who throw a wager with eternity. 
 
NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 25th, 1909. 
 
 Guarded and girded with iron sea-born power, 
 
 Her beautiful head crowned high with wonderful wings, 
 
 I saw her bloom through the years' encirclings, 
 
 Violently lovely as a tropic flower. 
 
 The flame-wrought line of parapet and tower 
 
 Burned with her greatness, and the trumpetings 
 
 And thunder of the armament of kings 
 
 Hailed the nobility of this her hour. 
 
 Her head was lightning and her feet were fire, 
 Yet, underneath the arches of her pride 
 Her clear eyes glanced a little space aside, 
 Marking her people's mirth, their toils surcease. 
 "And this," she said, "is my best loved desire, 
 The triple triumph of the swords of peace." 
 
BALLADE OF QUEEN HORTENSE. 
 A. D. 1815. 
 
 This is the greatness of my day, 
 
 The first of summer after my spring, 
 And a nation's waif, and a realm's estray 
 
 Are one a queen and the other a king. 
 The bells of my beautiful triumph ring 
 
 Up on the tower the whole day long ; 
 But I rejoice in a better thing ; 
 
 France forever shall sing my song. 
 
 Out in the courtyards the fountains play, 
 
 And the winds in the bending linden swing, 
 And I dream of my brother Beauharnais 
 
 And the end of our adventuring. 
 Tidings are good my couriers bring, 
 
 And the empire's hope is splendid and strong ; 
 We win from the centuries bargaining. 
 
 France forever shall sing my song. 
 
 They have murdered Brune, they have butchered Ney, 
 
 The whips of Europe flicker and sting. 
 And the world's whole strength is fallen away 
 
 In the Eagle's last endeavoring. 
 Spent the spirit, broken the wing 
 
 That bore us over the nation's throng. 
 This is the fruit of my laboring ; 
 
 France forever shall sing my song. 
 
 43 
 
Music ! My spirit yearns to sing 
 In stress or quiet, or right or wrong, 
 
 Till the end of man's remembering, 
 France forever shall sing my song. 
 
 44 
 
BALLADE OF THE MARSHAL RADETZKY. 
 
 A. D. 1855. 
 
 Here in the Quadrilateral, 
 
 Under the four great walls we wait 
 To dance in the Kaiser's carnival, 
 
 And reap his harvest of iron and hate. 
 The time is come of our battle's spate, 
 
 The brows of victory knit and frown, 
 And I know in my labors desolate, 
 
 Though I have stood shall the world go down. 
 
 Italy's soul is a funeral. 
 
 Austria's grave is within her gate. 
 And I stand her captain-general, 
 
 Locked in our leaguer castellate. 
 A war unwinnowed cannot abate, 
 
 And all for love of the Iron Crown 
 I must hold my hand to the shaken state. 
 
 Though I have stood shall the world go down. 
 
 Austria, hark how the bugles call ! 
 
 Austrians, shoulder the rifles straight ! 
 Out from Milan the armies crawl, 
 
 And the dinning drums reverberate ! 
 Charge, white Austrians ! God is great ! 
 
 God and the Kaiser of renown ! 
 Battle and terror their hands create. 
 
 Though I have stood shall the world go down. 
 
 45 
 
Mine is a sorrow no mirth can sate, 
 No death abolish, no wine can drown. 
 
 This is the horror of my fate, 
 
 Though I have stood shall the world go down. 
 
 4 6 
 
THE BALLADE OF HICKS PASHA. 
 A. D. 1883. 
 
 The desert is thirsty, the bushes are dry ; 
 
 Three days of drought and of bitter bread ; 
 The scouts are afar, but there is no cry ; 
 
 The white dust rises under the tread. 
 In the valley afar, where our lives sped 
 
 Easily on without let or bar, 
 Only one word is whispered or said : 
 
 "Sirdar Hicks Pasha is gone to the war." 
 
 On the edge of the gully, dusty and high, 
 
 Something aflash like a silver thread. 
 The mercenaries have turned to fly, 
 
 And men must die in the cowards' stead. 
 Surely a bitter thing is dread, 
 
 And none will help us anear or far. 
 Little honor alive or dead : 
 
 Sirdar Hicks Pasha is gone to war. 
 
 Taken and slaughtered terribly, 
 
 With blasted virtue and good lives shed, 
 We abide till our strength shall die, 
 
 Mown and strown by a scythe of lead 
 In a fool's hand. Our hearts have bled 
 
 The best of our blood, and the gash and scar 
 Shall throb in a land whose hope is fled. 
 
 Sirdar Hicks Pasha is gone to the war. 
 
 47 
 
Anguish! How can we lift the head? 
 
 For shame has cut like a scimetar, 
 And burned our foreheads bloody and red. 
 
 Sirdar Hicks Pasha is gone to the war. 
 
FREE BALLADE OF KING FERDINAND. 
 A. D. 1908. 
 
 Over the mountain pass 
 
 After nine hundred years, 
 Up from the river morass, 
 
 From the meadows and the meres, 
 In a clatter of pikes and spears, 
 
 Mid brandished rifle and brand, 
 Came the cry of cries to our ears : 
 
 "God save King Ferdinand!" 
 
 Laughter of lad and lass, 
 
 Women and old men's tears, 
 Drum roll and bellowing brass, 
 
 Roaring plaudits and cheers, 
 Shattering fall of fears, 
 
 Whose grip was hard on the land, 
 And the cry that west world hears : 
 
 "God save King Ferdinand!" 
 
 Up where the armies mass 
 
 Huzzars and carabineers ! 
 The sand runs slow in the glass 
 
 Till the Balkan vulture sheers 
 Down where his battle clears, 
 
 And his harvests of victory stand, 
 Spoil for him and his peers. 
 
 God save King Ferdinand ! 
 
 49 
 
God! the charge and the cheers; 
 
 The rifles are hot in the hand ; 
 Battle and terror and tears; 
 
 God save King Ferdinand ! 
 
THE BALLAD OF THE TWO RIDERS. 
 
 The haze yet hung in the willows slender, 
 And the sun, behind the height of the hill, 
 Lit the clouds with a crimson splendor, 
 And field and forest were hushed and still, 
 
 When my brother and I went out a-riding, 
 Blithe as the linnet that woke nearby, 
 With wonder of all the world betiding, 
 Under the peace of the quiet sky. 
 
 And the road was white, and the dust thereover 
 Hovered and hung in the burning air, 
 And we heard the cry of the piping plover, 
 As she rose aloft in the morning glare. 
 
 And lo, by the wayside a woman gazing 
 Out to the west, 'neath her shading hand, 
 Alone in the heat of the full sun blazing, 
 And her look we might not understand. 
 
 But the rushing horses onward bore us, 
 And never a word to us she said ; 
 And a shudder of pity and fear came o'er us, 
 As we left her standing still as the dead. 
 
 Yet anew in our hearts awoke the singing, 
 As wonderfully onward the good steeds ran, 
 With a thunder of hoofs and iron ringing, 
 And we felt the joy of the might of man. 
 
 51 
 
And sudden along by the wayside wending 
 Two men came, plodding wearily on, 
 And their hearts were sad with sorrow unending, 
 And they sought the woman who stood alone. 
 
 And the eyes of the one were red from weeping, 
 And the lips of the other were white for pain, 
 And our merry hearts gave over leaping, 
 And we stayed the steeds with the bridle rein : 
 
 "Grace of God and the saints be to ye, 
 
 All in the merry summer day. 
 
 Say, is there aught that a man may do ye?" 
 
 And the first of the twain made answer : "Nay." 
 
 But quiet and gently answered the other : 
 "Thank ye, kind sirs, from a woeful one. 
 We do but seek for our Lady Mother, 
 Who standeth up by the hill alone." 
 
 Then on we rode, and the steeds went slowly, 
 And our hearts grew sad for another's woe; 
 Yet grief of soul did not hold us wholly, 
 Till we came on a maiden who lone did go. 
 
 And her eyes were glorious, wrought of splendor, 
 And her cheek was tinged with a gallant fire ; 
 And she was e'en as the poplar slender, 
 When the starling singeth of his desire. 
 
 But her glance was weary and full of sadness, 
 And joy had fled as a bird from her, 
 And naught was left but the deadly gladness 
 That she might win from the days that were. 
 
 52 
 
And we stayed the strength of the steeds beside her, 
 And I spake out: "May we give thee aid?" 
 But she answered stately and slow : "Fair Rider, 
 In naught may ye help a sorrowful maid. 
 
 "For I must onward and cease from sorrow, 
 And ye must wend aback to your home, 
 What time I pray for the merry morrow, 
 And the hope of the years that are to come." 
 
 And on she fared and the sun went with her, 
 And the light died out on the shadowy plain, 
 While the little breeze blew hither and thither 
 Whispering that even was come again. 
 
 When the stars came out of their day-long hiding, 
 And the moon was rising white and clear, 
 My brother and I came back from riding, 
 And, oh, but our hearts were sad and drear. 
 
 53 
 
FURTHER AMPLIFICATION OF THE SENSA- 
 TIONS OF A CELEBRATED MEDIAEVAL 
 POET WHO WAS TO BE HANGED 
 WITH HIS COMPANIONS 
 FOR THIEVERY. 
 
 In me the taste of my life was keener, 
 
 In me the heart of it sweet and dear, 
 
 And the whole of my soul was lovelier, cleaner, 
 
 Than these poor devils that whimper here. 
 
 I shall lose a world that is all in nothing, 
 A kiss and a bite in the very wind, 
 A lust and a love for all things, clothing 
 In solemn beauty my bitter mind ; 
 
 A love for these poor lads, evil seeming, 
 Who on the morrow shall swing with me, 
 A love of waking, of sleeping, and dreaming, 
 A love of the earth and the sky and the sea. 
 
 My way was ever the wilder and rougher, 
 My river ever ran dark and deep, 
 And mine was ever a heart to suffer, 
 A heart to be troubled, a heart to weep. 
 
 But oh, my mirth was beyond all laughter, 
 
 And oh, my joy was beyond all tears, 
 
 And my love shall bloom in its strength hereafter, 
 
 Through the thunder and throb of the thronging years. 
 
 54 
 
When the Kings are down, and the Captains are going, 
 When their strength is broken from flank to flank, 
 Let them hearken the song of my trumpets blowing; 
 They shall win with only my song to thank. 
 
 Courage and splendor and fire together, 
 Singing from me in the wind and the rain, 
 Dead and dank and blown like a feather 
 To and fro at the end of the chain. 
 
 Though the strong sea sever, the earth be sundered, 
 The night be broken, and day depart, 
 Enough for them to have known and pondered 
 Marvelous things in the deep of my heart. 
 
 I shaped my passion of iron and silver, 
 And purified in the burning fire, 
 Time shall not steal nor the seasons pilfer 
 The strength, that rose with the heart's desire. 
 
 Forth to the beautiful feet of her judgment. 
 Broken with greatness and death and doom, 
 I go from the fear, where my feet found lodgement, 
 To stand alone in a wider room. 
 
 Wider than earth and deeper than heaven, 
 Girded about as a prophet of God, 
 With a blessing given of God to leaven 
 The bread of my life that is cast abroad. 
 
 I come as a God to an holy city; 
 My heart is lifted as fire to rise; 
 And pure and perfect in passionate pity, 
 Deeper than God's have I seen her eyes. 
 
 55 
 
Oh, city set on the hills by the river ! 
 Oh, wide glad river that floweth by ! 
 Oh, lily and olive perfect forever ! 
 Oh, song that flames in my spirit's cry! 
 
 Sorrow and loneliness come, I care not, 
 
 Sorrow and loneliness, deadly fear. 
 
 What the brave men dread, and the cowards dare not, 
 
 Stands in my vision nor there nor here. 
 
 For I am strong in the unshook, single, 
 Splendid desire that is deep and divine, 
 And I die, and the hands of her greatness mingle 
 The water of death with undying wine. 
 
TO THE DISTANT PRINCESS. 
 
 I know not what the Western merchant bore 
 To Egypt, when he chaffered for the East, 
 For broideries all wrought with bird and beast, 
 And golden tankards chased of massive ore, 
 Opium and dreamy-hearted mandragore, 
 And royal opals, such as had released 
 Kings out of bondage, or that had increased 
 The dower of queens in castellate Rajore. 
 
 Even as such a merchant now am I, 
 
 That seeing heaps of Indian cloth of gold, 
 
 And sandalwood whose worth may not be told, 
 
 Knows that his offer is but mockery, 
 
 And even though he labor till he die 
 
 Still shall his prize be worth an hundred-fold. 
 
FREE BALLADE OF MYSELF AND MONSIEUR 
 RABELAIS. 
 
 King Henry hath his amber wine, 
 
 And Frank of Guise, as gossips tell, 
 Eats every day a capon fine, 
 
 And sneers at hock or hydromel. 
 But as for us we'd rather dwell 
 
 A little from the world away, 
 Although we love its cheer right well, 
 
 Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. 
 
 Of Panurge on the restless brine 
 
 He hath a jolly tale to tell, 
 Of how Gargantua did dine, 
 
 Or of the great Pantagruel, 
 And what adventure him befell, 
 
 To make one laugh a summer's day. 
 We get on marvelously well, 
 
 Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. 
 
 Though Churchman rant of wrath divine, 
 
 Or Saint of Sales our doom foretell, 
 " 'Twill all come right," as we opine, 
 
 Though Pope or Luther burn in Hell. 
 The mystery of the flask to spell 
 
 Brings better hope of judgment day, 
 Which comforts both of us full well, 
 
 Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. 
 
 58 
 
Prince ! in strict fact, although we dwell 
 Three merry centuries away, 
 
 We hob and nob surpassing well, 
 Myself and Monsieur Rabelais. 
 
PROEM. 
 
 My ships may go to ruin on the sea, 
 And I, who lived but in their wealth and pride, 
 Will sit me down close to the harbor-side, 
 Reckless of Corsairs out of Barbary, 
 And dream of some forgotten mystery, 
 Some song of silence, and the washing tide, 
 With its reiterant droning, shall deride 
 The fair ambition, that ennobled me. 
 
 And when the solemn evening darkeneth, 
 
 Far up a long, grey river will I go, 
 
 Pondering but little on my overthrow, 
 
 And in some bitter barren I will reap 
 
 My whirlwind harvest, till the dawn draws breath, 
 
 And then lie down between my sheaves and sleep. 
 
 60 
 
DRAWN BATTLE. 
 
 As I was pondering in the dead of night, 
 A sorrow suddenly arose in me: 
 "And if I die, shall I die utterly? 
 And all my infinite sorrow and delight 
 Wither away to naught beneath a blight? 
 And being be no more, and nothing be 
 Throughout the terror of eternity ? 
 And all be as a ship sunk out of sight?" 
 
 Then was I sad and made a bitter moan, 
 
 That the exceeding splendor I have seen 
 
 Should perish, leaving wretched chaff to glean. 
 
 But as I mourned my harvest spoiled and strown, 
 
 Came comfort in a deep-voiced undertone: 
 
 " Why weepest thou ? Sing rather: I have been." 
 
 61 
 
NEW HOPE. 
 
 Know, that though all thy being fade away, 
 And the whole strength of body and of mind 
 Go out like leaves before a veering wind, 
 Still shall thy soul and life resist and stay; 
 Changed, mayhap, as is lead, the stories say, 
 By the charmed stone the alchemist would find. 
 Shall the first sovran axiom cease to bind ? 
 "Nothing can die and nothing pass away." 
 
 Then terribly majestic thundered clear 
 A wild, immortal, vehement harmony, 
 That shook, and wakened, and ennobled me, 
 And swept away the passion of my fear. 
 And my renascent spirit knew the sheer 
 Splendor of resonant promise: "I shall be." 
 
 62 
 
RISING TIDE. 
 
 Is not thy life as water of the sea 
 
 Thrown by the high tide in a shallow pool, 
 
 Blown over by the hot wind and the cool, 
 
 And for an hour increasing ceaselessly 
 
 With strong salt water, furious and free, 
 
 Till the recession of the waves that rule? 
 
 What need to ask: "Where went the water?" Fool! 
 
 Was it not back into the thunderous sea ? 
 
 Yea, for the sea is as his image made 
 
 By the strong life-god, working out his will, 
 
 And all the sounding deeps for good or ill, 
 
 Are filled with morsels of his strength that fade, 
 
 Stretch forth, recede, retreat, return, invade; 
 
 That never die and never shall be still. 
 
 63 
 
VICTORY. 
 
 Yea by the strong- desire of heat and light, 
 Yea by the marvellous working of the wind, 
 That strength of living water goes behind 
 The splendor of the vapor veils of night. 
 E'en so our brethren vanish from our sight, 
 E'en so goes out the strength of creature kind, 
 Fused fatefully together, and combined 
 In one deep, manifold element of delight. 
 
 Whither or why I know not. Why with care 
 Search the unsearchable, or seek to know ? 
 When every sea-tide, in its ebb and flow, 
 Breathes up rich vapor of life into the air, 
 The mainland of the sunset, yet to bear 
 Harvests of flame, that only God can sow. 
 
THE WITS OF LONDON. 
 
 The wits of London, long ago, 
 They sang as men who do not know 
 Or care what mummers come behind 
 Youth's pageant of the quaint and kind. 
 The wine went swiftly to and fro 
 Before the ' "Mermaid's" hearth aglow. 
 They took the devil's quid-pro-quo ; 
 They reaped the storm, who sowed the wind, 
 The wits of London. 
 
 They wist not that it could be so, 
 That this their mirth could fail, although 
 They were not altogether blind. 
 They cast the dead time out of mind, 
 The dead time coming stern and slow, 
 The wits of London. 
 
ENVOY. 
 
 ^^_ Tuujh_ I JF * ^ > > > tkt <* f* 
 
 What's the good of living, when the're things that you're 
 
 Lrvmi^'s only courage anci dying's only fear. 
 What's the good of knowing when you don't kfrow what 
 you're made of? 
 
 4- V- ' * I * i ! * '. V. ' .>- 'um<i ^ ^j 
 
 What's the good of singing when the're better sorigs to 
 Tiear? 
 
 The wind is cold out doors and the heart is cold 
 
 within me, 
 
 And it's bitter cold beside the ash-choked fire. 
 And the "azure little devils" pessimistically pin me 
 Like a moth to every excellent and unfulfilled desire. 
 
 Once I thought I had invention, once I thought I had 
 
 ideas, 
 
 And now I know the meaning of it all, 
 For my embryonic statues didn't turn to Galateas 
 And I'm feeling mean, and comfortless, and desolate, and 
 
 small. 
 
 It means laboring forever with the mallet and the chisel, 
 
 And losing things you like when you are young. 
 
 It means swallowing your temper when the criticisms 
 
 sizzle 
 And enduring all the triply-pointed torments of the 
 
 tongue. 
 
 66 
 
The world is more than lovely. She has reared me very 
 
 gently 
 
 She was generous in comfort and in pelf, 
 But all she ever taught me was to criticize intently, 
 That moralizing idiot, I used to think myself. 
 
 He seemed hardly well adapted to so studious a scrutiny, 
 He couldn't stand examination well, 
 He seemed to be constructed out of selfishness and mutiny 
 And several of the thrice rejected corner-stones of Hell. 
 
 But praise to things in general, I'm pretty nearly through 
 
 with him, 
 
 I'm outbound for the Indies and the South, 
 And never, never, never will I shiver and be blue with 
 
 him, 
 When no song is in my spirit and no music in my mouth. 
 
 I've taken up the quest again across the hollow seas 
 
 to her, 
 
 Sea-enamoured Lady of the years, 
 And I bear the sword of triumph and the music of my 
 
 peace to her 
 To shake my shames with battle, and to batter off my 
 
 fears. 
 
 Cast away your dirty canvas all soiled with shame and 
 
 loathing, 
 
 Hoist aloft courageous wings anew, 
 We've thrown away our lading, that was naught and 
 
 good for nothing, 
 And we've strong new shrouds and rigging for the wind 
 
 to whistle through. 
 
 67 
 
Down the huddled harbor, where the scurrying catspaws 
 
 shudder, 
 
 Beyond the seawall where the tides are torn, 
 And we'll make the Happy Islands, if we have to eat the 
 
 rudder, 
 And chase the Flying Dutchman round the ramparts of 
 
 the Horn. 
 
 63 
 
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