The Home Book of Verse Volume Iv Part 15

All for her love he found a snare, A maimed poor monk in orders gray; And where's the Queen who willed to slay Buridan, that in a sack must go Afloat down Seine,--a perilous way-- Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

Where's that White Queen, a lily rare, With her sweet song, the Siren's lay?

Where's Bertha Broad-foot, Beatrice fair?

Alys and Ermengarde, where are they?

Good Joan, whom English did betray In Rouen town, and burned her? No, Maiden and Queen, no man may say; Nay, but where is the last year's snow?

ENVOY Prince, all this week thou needst not pray, Nor yet this year the thing to know.

One burden answers, ever and aye, "Nay, but where is the last year's snow?"

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

A BALLAD OF DEAD LADIES After Villon From "If I Were King"

I wonder in what Isle of Bliss Apollo's music fills the air; In what green valley Artemis For young Endymion spreads the snare: Where Venus lingers debonair: The Wind has blown them all away-- And Pan lies piping in his lair-- Where are the G.o.ds of Yesterday?

Say where the great Semiramis Sleeps in a rose-red tomb; and where The precious dust of Caesar is, Or Cleopatra's yellow hair: Where Alexander Do-and-Dare; The Wind has blown them all away-- And Redbeard of the Iron Chair; Where are the Dreams of Yesterday?

Where is the Queen of Herod's kiss, And Phryne in her beauty bare; By what strange sea does Tomyris With Dido and Ca.s.sandra share Divine Proserpina's despair; The Wind has blown them all away-- For what poor ghost does Helen care?

Where are the Girls of Yesterday?

ENVOY Alas for lovers! Pair by pair The Wind has blown them all away: The young and yare, the fond and fair: Where are the Snows of Yesterday?

Justin Huntly McCarthy [1860-1936]

IF I WERE KING After Villon From "If I Were King"

All French folk, whereso'er ye be, Who love your country, sail and sand, From Paris to the Breton sea, And back again to Norman strand, Forsooth ye seem a silly band, Sheep without shepherd, left to chance-- Far otherwise our Fatherland, If Villon were the King of France!

The figure on the throne you see Is nothing but a puppet, planned To wear the regal bravery Of silken coat and gilded wand.

Not so we Frenchmen understand The Lord of lion's heart and glance, And such a one would take command If Villon were the King of France!

His counsellors are rogues, Perdie!

While men of honest mind are banned To creak upon the Gallows Tree, Or squeal in prisons over-manned We want a chief to bear the brand, And bid the d.a.m.ned Burgundians dance.

G.o.d! Where the Oriflamme should stand If Villon were the King of France!

ENVOY Louis the Little, play the grand; Buffet the foe with sword and lance; 'Tis what would happen, by this hand, If Villon were the King of France!

Justin Huntly McCarthy [1860-1936]

A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall.

I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbors--on the wall-- Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"

The strangest whim has seized me... After all I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay-- My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-- I see a little cloud all pink and gray-- Perhaps the rector's mother will not call-- I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way-- I never read the works of Juvenal-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another was.h.i.+ng day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational-- And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall-- I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874-1936]

CHIFFONS!

Through this our city of delight, This Paris of our joy and play, This Paris perfumed, jeweled, bright, Rouged, powdered, amorous,--ennuye: Across our gilded Quartier, So fair to see, so frail au fond, Echoes--mon Dieu!--the Ragman's bray: "Mar--chand d'ha--bits! Chif--fons!"

Foul, hunched, a plague to dainty sight, He limps infect by park and quai, Voicing (for those that hear aright) His hunger-world, the dark Marais.

s.e.xton of all we waste and fray, He bags at last pour tout de bon Our trappings rare, our braveries gay, "Mar--chand d'ha--bits! Chif--fons!"

Their lot is ours! A grislier wight, The Ragman Time, takes day by day Our beauty's bloom, our manly might, Our joie de vivre, our G.o.ds of clay; Till torn and worn and soiled and gray Hot life rejects us--nom de nom!-- Rags! and our only requiem lay, "Mar--chand d'ha--bits! Chif--fons!"

ENVOY Princes take heed!--for where are they, Valois, Navarre and Orleans?...

Death drones the answer, far away, "Mar--chand d'ha--bits! Chif--fons!"

William Samuel Johnson [1859-

THE COURT HISTORIAN Lower Empire. Circa A. D. 700

The Monk Arnulphus uncorked his ink That shone with a blood-red light Just now as the sun began to sink; His vellum was pumiced a silvery white; "The Basileus"--for so he began-- "Is a royal sagacious Mars of a man, Than the very lion bolder; He has married the stately widow of Thrace--"

"Hus.h.!.+" cried a voice at his shoulder.

His palette gleamed with a burnished green, Bright as a dragon-fly's skin: His gold-leaf shone like the robe of a queen, His azure glowed as a cloud worn thin, Deep as the blue of the king-whale's lair: "The Porphyrogenita Zoe the fair Is about to wed with a Prince much older, Of an unpropitious mien and look--"

"Hus.h.!.+" cried a voice at his shoulder.

The red flowers trellised the parchment page, The birds leaped up on the spray, The yellow fruit swayed and drooped and swung, It was Autumn mixed up with May.

(O, but his cheek was shrivelled and shrunk!) "The child of the Basileus," wrote the Monk, "Is golden-haired--tender the Queen's arms fold her.

Her step-mother Zoe doth love her so--"

"Hus.h.!.+" cried a voice at his shoulder.

The Kings and Martyrs and Saints and Priests All gathered to guard the text: There was Daniel snug in the lions' den Singing no whit perplexed-- Brazen Samson with spear and helm-- "The Queen," wrote the Monk, "rules firm this realm, For the King gets older and older.