That none shall aught refuse
To Love of Love's fair dues;—
That none dear Love shall scoff
Or deem foul shame thereof;—
That none shall traitor be
To Love's own secrecy;—
Avert,—avert it, Queen!
Debarred thy listed sports,
Let me at least be seen
An usher in thy courts,
Outworn, but still indued
With badge of servitude.
When I no more may go,
As one who treads on air,
To string-notes soft and slow,
By maids found sweet and fair—
When I no more may be
Of Love's blithe company;—
When I no more may sit
Within thine own pleasànce,
To weave, in sentence fit,
Thy golden dalliance;
When other hands than these
Record thy soft decrees;—
Leave me at least to sing
About thine outer wall,
To tell thy pleasuring,
Thy mirth, thy festival;
Yea, let my swan-song be
Thy grace, thy sanctity.
[Here ended André's words:
But One that writeth, saith—
Betwixt his stricken chords
He heard the Wheels of Death;
And knew the fruits Love bare
But Dead-Sea apples were.]
THE WATER OF GOLD.
"Buy,—who'll buy?" In the market-place,
Out of the market din and clatter,
The quack with his puckered persuasive face
Patters away in the ancient patter.
"Buy,—who'll buy? In this flask I hold—
In this little flask that I tap with my stick, Sir—
Is the famed, infallible Water of Gold,—
The One, Original, True Elixir!
"Buy—who'll buy? There's a maiden there,—
She with the ell-long flaxen tresses,—
Here is a draught that will make you fair,
Fit for an emperor's own caresses!