BALLADE OF HIS BOOKS.
Here stand my books, line upon line
They reach the roof, and row by row,
They speak of faded tastes of mine,
And things I did, but do not, know:
Old school books, useless long ago,
Old Logics, where the spirit, railed in,
Could scarcely answer “yes” or “no”—
The many things I’ve tried and failed in!
Here’s Villon, in morocco fine,
(The Poet starved, in mud and snow,)
Glatigny does not crave to dine,
And René’s tears forget to flow.
And here’s a work by Mrs. Crowe,
With hosts of ghosts and bogies jailed in;
Ah, all my ghosts have gone below—
The many things I’ve tried and failed in!
He’s touched, this mouldy Greek divine,
The Princess D’Este’s hand of snow;
And here the arms of D’Hoym shine,
And there’s a tear-bestained Rousseau:
Here’s Carlyle shrieking “woe on woe”
(The first edition, this, he wailed in);
I once believed in him—but oh,
The many things I’ve tried and failed in!
ENVOY.
Prince, tastes may differ; mine and thine
Quite other balances are scaled in;
May you succeed, though I repine—
“The many things I’ve tried and failed in!”
BALLADE OF THE DREAM.
Swift as sound of music fled
When no more the organ sighs,
Sped as all old days are sped,
So your lips, love, and your eyes,
So your gentle-voiced replies
Mine one hour in sleep that seem,
Rise and flit when slumber flies,
Following darkness like a dream!
Like the scent from roses red,
Like the dawn from golden skies,
Like the semblance of the dead
From the living love that hies,
Like the shifting shade that lies
On the moonlight-silvered stream,
So you rise when dreams arise,
Following darkness like a dream!
Could some spell, or sung or said,
Could some kindly witch and wise,
Lull for aye this dreaming head
In a mist of memories,
I would lie like him who lies
Where the lights on Latmos gleam,—
Wake not, find not Paradise
Following darkness like a dream!