Still on life's anvil Forge they the rhyme. Still the rapt faces Breath of the smithy Scorches their brows. Yea, and thou hear'st them? So shall the hammers Fashion not vainly Verses of gold. II Lo, with the ancient Passion of song. Ever Love fans it, Ever Life feeds it; Nay, what is Nature's Trees in their blooming, God on His throne is Floweth from all things, Poured without pause, Cease we to echo IV So let the songsmith Grey grows thy count'nance, Full of the ages; Time on thy forehead Sits like a dream: Song is the potion Fountain of morn. Deemest thou, labour Solemn is joy. Song is no bauble Slight not the songsmith, England my mother, III Therefore deride not Speech of the muses, England my mother, Maker of men. 55 Nations are mortal, Fragile is greatness; Fortune may fly thee, Song the all-girdling, Not while the choric 5 A moment's fantasy, the vision came Piling the fagots, hour by doomful hour. 1893 THE SAINT AND THE SATYR For all the gods I loved have died, 'Silent, in Paphos, Venus sleeps, And Jove, on Ida, mute; "The Faun, his laughing heart is broke; 'A God more beautiful than mine Laugh thy girlish laughter; Laugh thy golden laughter, 1893 1895 15 20 5 5 10 * Verse, Inclusive Edition, Doubleday, Page & Co. Copyright, 1891-1919. By permission of Author and Publishers. To blunder down by Garden Reach The tale the Hughli told the shoal "T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house, Where sailor-men reside, 5 And there were men of all the ports That neither gifts nor gain Can hold a winking Light o' Love Or Fancy's flight restrain, When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes On Hans the blue-eyed Dane. Since Life is strife, and strife means knife, And he may die before the dawn In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house We woo while yet we may. But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, And laughter shook the chest beneath The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm. Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks, Collinga knew her fame, From Tarnau in Galicia To Jaun Bazaar she came, To eat the bread of infamy And take the wage of shame. She held a dozen men to heel In Anne of Austria's trembling hands, The weary head fell low: 45 'I ship mineselfs to-morrow, straight For Besser in Saro; |