Part 3

Catch the Toy while yet it whirls! Cleanse the Toy, and end our playing!_ --For the Fates are captious girls. III LIBITINA “_Mort, j’appelle de ta rigueur_” 17 ACCORDING TO THEIR FOLLY “_Ce que vous faites-là n’importe pas_” --CHARLES GARNIER. Ye that made merry through mirthless ages, And jeered in the thick of the knights’ mêlée, And derided all wrangles of sophists and sages, And toasted your toes round an auto-da-fé,-- Do ye grieve, in your coffins, now worms assay That motley logic of quip and pun And elvish laughter?--or still do ye say, _Whatever ye do there matters to none_? Chuckling and shrugging, ye clutched such wages As life allotted; then went your way Into the dark, where no conflict rages, No wrangles follow, no cruelties stray. --LE GLORIEUX, ARMSTRONG, PATCH, BRUSQUET, And SOMMERS! rest ye, for jesting is done, And ye need not joke now as yesterday, For whatever ye do there matters to none. And a dream that he found in his tomb assuages The brutish sorrows of TRIBOULET; And DAGONET sleeps, and no more engages To follow his master in any fray; And CHICOT, too, makes his bed of clay-- Whither wins never the Gascon sun,-- Where baubles and sceptres alike decay, And whatever ye do there matters to none. My prince! it is better to quote than obey The precepts of Solon and Solomon; Yet the world they admonished is larger than they, And whatever ye do there matters to none. 18 FOOT-NOTES FOR IDYLS “_Le Sicilien chantait--mais c’est, ma foy, bien drôle_” --THÉODORE PASSERAT. _’Mongst all immortals tardiest is their tread! Dear and desired, they tread with dainty feet, By whose dear advent all are comforted ’Mongst mortal men!_ Thus, thus, thy verses greet The Coming Hours--those Hours that from the heat And mirth and friendly girls of Sicily, Unheeding, haled thee to hell’s minstrels’-seat, To edify austere Persephonê. _The living may forget; only the dead Are hopeless!_ sang blithe Corydon, where beat Bright waves upon bright sands, and overhead Pines murmured benisons.

Now is it sweet To rhyme of this in thy less glad retreat, THEOCRITUS, who badest that song be Immortal? and dost thou find that song meet To edify austere Persephonê? Now all old hours and all old years are sped What profits it with thee if men repeat Or all or anything thy live lips said? Thou hast forgot Bombyca’s _ivory feet_, The shrill cicalæ’s chirp, the lambkins’ bleat, And Lacon’s _honied song on Helykê_. What profits thee the honied sound of it To edify austere Persephonê? Lord of glad songs, for us the winding-sheet. For thee the funeral pyre--_built near the sea_,-- Bids singing cease, and songless lips compete To edify austere Persephonê. 19 THE GOD-FATHER “_Primus in orbe deos fecit timor; ardua cœlo_” --PETRONIUS ARBITER. Always was fear the god’s ambassador, Since first in traverse of high-tumbling seas Man quailed and out of thunderings made Thor; Or mid the desert’s dumb infinities He shuddered, dreaming of Tanit and the Sphinx; Or noting life’s large cruelty, surmised Plethoric Zeus, with twinkling eyes that roam Alcmena-ward.--Still as man fears, man thinks; And presently each dread is canonized, And duly terror is wheedled and exorcised, And given his priest, and shrine, and hecatomb. Fearing, we loathe, and to the thing abhorred Bow down; and terror and fancy beget a god A while evaded, and a while adored, And afterward bemocked.

As with a rod Time smote the lords of Nineveh and Khem, And raised the dreams which Hellas deemed divine; As presently the grosser gods of Rome Turned ghost, and Saturn’s pilfered diadem Rolled at Christ’s bleeding feet.--What praise was thine That art most feared of all? what gilded shrine, Cajoling priest, and steaming hecatomb? Scant need to wheedle Death! men said. Our life, With all the pain and passion of the whole, With all the toil, the sorrow and the strife, Is but a passing onward to the goal Where Death awaits us. Mid his votaries Our birth-cry ranked us; nor may any art Avail to save us, while the years consume As ashes smoulder when their fervor dies Insensibly; and he that lies apart In darkness hears the pulsing of Death’s heart, And knows that Death waits near him in the gloom. _Yea, of all gods thou only lovest not gifts!_ Others we placate; or in smiting we Evade them. When thou smitest with what shifts May we evade thee? or how placate thee? Thou wilt not hearken to any prayer of ours; Thou biddest emperors and popes as well As witless clowns, _Be still and bide thy fate!_-- Whose altar we have wreathed with fitting flowers-- With purple lupine, crumpled poppy-bell, Ambiguous mandrake, and pale asphodel,-- Since praise thee or blame thee, thou art obdurate. And nor to wheedle thee, nor to demand Favor of thee or any pity of thee, We come. Beneath a lifted sword we stand And praise thee, knowing, whatever gods may be, Thy altar is not shaken: though the creeds And outworn faiths of dreaming seer and priest Endure as sinister shadows, or endure As marsh-fires glittering round a path that leads Nowhither; and the night be, and the east Sleep, and the sun not waken;--yet at least, Though all things else be doubtful, death is sure.

We praise thee, knowing how vainly fancy spans With timorous dreams the grave’s unplumbed abyss. Vainly we famed the calm Olympians, And vainly Ammon-Ra, and Artemis, And Neith, and Krishna. Comfort we have had Of kindlier lords whose fabled potency With shadows decked the darkness lest the dread Of darkness absolute should drive us mad,-- But Time discrowns them. Time endures. But he Discrowns thee never, and endures by thee Endured, against that time when Time be dead. 20 BALLAD OF THE DESTROYER “_Ainsi nous applaudons la mort, la mort qui vient_” --NICOLAS DE CAEN. We laud him thus, that comes unto the king, And lightly plucks him from the cushioned throne; And drowns his glory and his warfaring In unrecorded dim oblivion; And girds another with the sword thereof; And sets another in his stead to reign; And ousts the remnant, nakedly to gain Styx’ formless shore and nakedly complain Midst twittering ghosts lamenting life and love. For Death is merciless: a crack-brained king He raises in the place of Prester John, Smites Priam, and mid-course in conquering Bids Cæsar pause; the wit of Solomon, The wealth of Nero and the pride thereof, And battle-prowess--or of Tamburlaine, Darius, Jeshua, or Charlemaigne,-- Wheedle and bribe and surfeit Death in vain, And get no grace of him nor any love. Incuriously he smites the armored king And tricks his counsellors;--as, later on, Death will, half-idly, still our pleasuring, And change for fevered laughter in the sun Sleep such as Merlin’s,--and excess thereof,-- Whence we, divorceless Death our Viviaine Implacable, may never more regain The unforgotten rapture, and the pain And grief and ecstasy of life and love.

For, presently, as quiet as the king Sleeps now that planned the keeps of Ilion, We, too, will sleep, whilst overhead the spring Rules, and young lovers laugh--as we have done,-- And kiss--as we, that take no heed thereof, But slumber very soundly, and disdain The world-wide heralding of winter’s wane And swift sweet ripple of the April rain Running about the world to waken love. We shall have done with love, and Death be king And turn our nimble bodies carrion, Our red lips dusty;--yet our live lips cling Despite that age-long severance, and are one Despite the grave and the vain grief thereof,-- Which we will baffle, if in Death’s domain Fond memories may enter, and we twain May dream a little, and rehearse again In that unending sleep our present love. Speed forth to her in halting unison, My rhymes; and say no hindrance may restrain Love from his aim when Love is bent thereon; And that were love at my disposal lain-- All mine to take!--and Death had said, _Refrain, Lest I, even I, exact the cost thereof_, I know that even as the weather-vane Follows the wind so would I follow Love. 21 EXHORTATION TOWARD ALMSGIVING “_Faulse beaulté, qui tant me couste cher_” --FRANÇOIS VILLON. O Beauty of her, whereby I am undone! O Grace of her, that hath no grace for me! O Love of her, the bit that guides me on To sorrow and to grievous misery! O felon Charms, my poor heart’s enemy! O furtive murderous Pride!

O pitiless, great, Cold Eyes of her! have done with cruelty! Have pity upon me ere it be too late! Happier for me if elsewhere I had gone For pity,--ah, far happier for me, Since never of her may any grace be won, And lest dishonor slay me, I must flee. _Haro!_ I cry, (and cry how uselessly!) _Haro!_ I cry to folk of all estate, For I must die unless it chance that she Have pity upon me ere it be too late. M’amye, that day in whose disastrous sun Your beauty’s flower must fade and wane and be No longer beautiful, draws near,--whereon I will nor plead nor mock;--not I, for we Shall both be old and vigorless! M’amye, Drink deep of love, drink deep, nor hesitate Until the spring run dry, but speedily Have pity upon me--ere it be too late! Lord Love, that all love’s lordship hast in fee, Lighten, ah, lighten thy displeasure’s weight. For all true hearts should, of Christ’s charity, Have pity upon me ere it be too late. 22 COMFORT FOR CENTENARIANS --After NICOLAS DE CAEN. Marvel not if my words are bold; Though the sound be rude, yet the sense is true: Too long you have flouted a tale oft-told By the stammering tongues of men that woo, And woo you vainly.

Your brain is askew For pride in your body’s magnificence, And its color and curving so fair to view;-- And what will it matter a hundred years hence? My burden, I grant you, is blunt and old: Yet time will sharpen its sting when you-- Even you yourself!--and the things you hold At so dear a price are a bone or two; And those wonderful eyes, whose heaven-like blue Is the crown of your beauty’s excellence, Are unsavory holes that a worm crawls through;-- And what will it matter a hundred years hence? Encrusted and tainted with churchyard mould, Your dear perfections must lie perdue; Take on such favor as few behold With liking, and certainly none pursue; And your beauty be reft of all revenue, And suffer the blind worm’s insolence, Who recks not at all of height, hair and hue,-- And what will it matter a hundred years hence? ETTARRE, I proffer my love anew, And life with a jest at the world’s expense; And if for your favor I vainly sue-- Why, what will it matter a hundred years hence? 23 THE CONQUEROR PASSES “_Non dormatz plus! les messatges de douz pascor_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. Awaken! for the servitors of Spring Proclaim his triumph! ah, make haste to see With what tempestuous pageantry they bring The victor homeward! haste, for this is he That cast out Winter, and all woes that cling To Winter’s garments, and bade April be! And now that Spring is master, let us be Content, and laugh as anciently in spring The battle-wearied Tristran laughed, when he Was come again Tintagel-ward, to bring Glad news of Arthur’s victory--and see Ysoude, with parted lips, that waver and cling. Not yet in Brittany must Tristran cling To this or that sad memory, and be Alone, as she in Cornwall; for in spring Love sows against far harvestings,--and he Is blind, and scatters baleful seed that bring Such fruitage as blind Love lacks eyes to see. Love sows, but lovers reap: and ye will see The loved eyes lighten, feel the loved lips cling, Never again when in the grave ye be Incurious of your happiness in spring, And get no grace of Love there, whither he That bartered life for love no love may bring.

No braggart Heracles avails to bring Alcestis hence; nor here may Roland see The eyes of Aude; nor here the wakening spring Vex any man with memories: for there be No memories that cling as cerements cling, No force that baffles Death, more strong than he. Us hath he noted, and for us hath he An hour appointed; and that hour will bring Oblivion.--Then laugh! Laugh, dear, and see The tyrant mocked, while yet our bosoms cling, While yet our lips obey us, and we be Untrammeled in our little hour of spring! Thus in the spring we jeer at Death, though he Will see our children perish, and will bring Asunder all that cling while love may be. 24 THE MENDICANTS “_Domna, de totz bos aips complida_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. O Madam Destiny, omnipotent, Be not too obdurate to us who pray That this our transient grant of youth be spent In laughter as befits a holiday,-- From which the evening summons us away, From which to-morrow wakens us to strife And toil and grief and wisdom,--and to-day Grudge us not life! O Madam Destiny, omnipotent, Why need our elders trouble us at play? We know that very soon we shall repent The idle follies of our holiday. And being old, shall be as wise as they: But now we are not wise, and lute and fife Plead sweetlier than axioms,--so to-day Grudge us not life!

O Madam Destiny, omnipotent, You have given us youth--and must we cast away The cup undrained and our one coin unspent Because our elders’ beards and hearts are gray? They have forgotten that if we delay Death claps us on the shoulder, and with knife Or cord or fever, flouts the prayer we pray-- _Grudge us not life_! Madam, recall that in the sun we play But for an hour, then have the worm for wife, The tomb for habitation,--and to-day Grudge us not life! IV HORTENSIS “_Dedans le boys je m’en allay_” 25 ALONE IN APRIL “_In un boschetto trovai pastorella_” --? GUERZO DI MONTECANTI. Rustling leaves of the willow-tree Peering downward at you and me, And no man else in the world to see. Only the birds, whose dusty coats Show dark in the green--whose throbbing throats Turn joy to music and love to notes. Lean your body against the tree, Lifting your red lips up to me, Ettarre, and kiss, with no man to see!

And let us laugh for a little.--Yea, Let love and laughter herald the day When laughter and love will be put away. Then you will remember the willow-tree And this very hour, and remember me, Ettarre,--whose face you will no more see! So swift, so swift the glad time goes, And Eld and Death with their countless woes Draw near, and the end thereof no man knows. Lean your body against the tree, Lifting your red lips up to me, Ettarre, and kiss, with no man to see! 26 “--BUT WISDOM IS JUSTIFIED OF HER CHILDREN” “_Oramai quando flore_” --ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI. Phyllida, spring wakes about us-- Wakes to mock at us and flout us That so coldly do delay: When the very birds are mating, Pray you, why should we be waiting-- We that might be wed to-day? _Life is brief_, the wise men tell us;-- Even those dusty, musty fellows That have done with life,--and pass Where the wraith of Aristotle Hankers, vainly, for a bottle, Youth and some frank Grecian lass. Ah, I warrant you;--and Zeno Would not reason, now, could he know One more chance to live and love: For, at best, the merry May-time Is a very fleeting playtime;-- Why, then, waste an hour thereof? Plato, Solon, Periander, Seneca, Anaximander, Pyrrho, and Parmenides! Were one hour alone remaining Would ye spend it in attaining Learning, or to lips like these?

Thus, I demonstrate by reason Now is our predestined season For the garnering of all bliss; Prudence is but long-faced folly; Cry a fig for melancholy! Seal the bargain with a kiss. 27 THE LOVERS’ DOXOLOGY “_O voi che per la via d’amor passate_” --ALESSANDRO DE MEDICI. Listen, all lovers! the spring is here, And the world is not amiss; As long as laughter is good to hear, And lips are good to kiss,-- As long as Youth and Spring endure,-- There is never an evil past a cure, And the world is never amiss. O lovers all, I bid ye declare The world is a pleasant place;-- Give thanks to God for the gift so fair, Give thanks for His singular grace! Give thanks for Youth and Love and Spring! Give thanks, as gentlefolk should, and sing, _The world is a pleasant place_! 28 OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY “_Be m play lo dous temp de pascor_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. Now I loiter, and dream to the branches’ swaying In furtive conference,--high overhead,-- A-tingle with rumors that Winter is sped And over his ruins a world goes maying. Somewhere--impressively,--people are saying Intelligent things (which their grandmothers said), While I loiter, and dream to the branches’ swaying In furtive conference, high overhead.

Here the hand of April, unwashed from slaying Earth’s fallen tyrant--for Winter is dead,-- Uncloses anemones, staining them red; And her daffodils guard me, in squads,--displaying Intrepid lances lest wisdom tread Where I loiter and dream to the branches’ swaying. 29 OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY-FIVE “_Quant erba vertz e fuelha par_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. April wakes, and the gifts are good Which April grants in this lonely wood, Mid the wistful sounds of a solitude Whose immemorial murmuring Is the voice of Spring And murmurs the burden of burgeoning. April wakes, and her heart is high, For the Bassarids and the Fauns are nigh, And prosperous leaves lisp busily Over fluttered brakes, whence the breezes bring Vext twittering To swell the burden of burgeoning. April wakes, and afield, astray, She calls to whom at the end I say, _Heart o’ My Heart, I am thine alway_,-- And I follow, follow her carolling, For I hear her sing Above the burden of burgeoning. April wakes;--it were good to live (_Yet April passes_), though April give No other gift for our pleasuring Than the old, old burden of burgeoning. 30 OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY-EIGHT “_Era m requier sa custum’e son us pascor_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. May shows with godlike showing To-day for each that sees May’s magic overthrowing All musty memories In him whom May decrees To be love’s own. He saith, _I wear love’s liveries Until released by death_. Thus all we laud May’s sowing, Nor heed how harvests please When nowhere grain worth growing Greets autumn’s questing breeze, And garnerers garner these-- Vain words and wasted breath And spilth and tasteless lees,-- Until released by death.

Unwillingly foreknowing That love with May-time flees, We take this day’s bestowing, And feed on fantasies Such as love lends for ease Where none but travaileth, With lean infrequent fees, Until released by death. 31 OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT THIRTY “_Ai! chant d’ouzel comensa sa sazos_” --RAIMBAUT DE VAQUEIRAS. Now May awakes, and spring comes back; Now green fire creeps from tree to tree, And he that travels need not lack The sight of an anemone ’Twixt one sea and another sea; Now blithe birds build, and wan hearts quicken, Oblivious of dreams that sicken Drear ice-engirdled reverie. Now I in part forget ... recall In part ... how yonder throstle’s call Inveigles whither mirth is,-- Because so many lips have told The tale I told, once, who am old, However young the earth is. 32 THE DOTARD CONJURER “_Le Printemps est devenu comme un sorcier faible_” --PAUL VERVILLE. Spring is become a dotard conjurer, And his old magic works not any more! No more avails the whisper of friendly leaves; And now the forest is undenizened Of daydreams, which, like elfin outlaws, once Lay hid in wait for every passer-by And pilfered all his sorrows; dawn abates In wonder and tells flatly, _It is day_, And tells no more than that now; and the night Brews no more philtres; and the moon forgets That ancient wizardry which once was hers. Ah, the old magic works not any more, Though I have known its potency. Perchance, Somewhere a great way off, in Avalon, Atlantis, or the hushed Hesperides, Hearts lighten with the coming in of spring, Even as once. Yes, for this thing has been, And may be yet in far-off Avalon.

For it may be in far-off Avalon, Even as once--was it not yesterday?-- All forests are akin to Brocelaunde, And fear and beauty keep their heritage And breathe of something hidden in the woods Save birds, and trees, and flowers, and ravenous gnats,-- For they are haunted by those messengers That April sends about our woods no more On primal errands. But in Avalon, Fern-carpeted untroubled Avalon, When April wakes and rises, with wind-blown hair And steadfast eyes--when at the tip of the world The sun takes heart a little,--then sturdy April Exults, and summons tricksy ministers To color and flaunt in low, yet-dreaming fields The first flush of the apple-blossoms; and marshal The stout spears of the daffodils; and guide Frail baby clouds about the lonely heavens; And polish frost-nipped stars; and re-awaken Warm gracious land-winds where the restive waters Shout to the glistening sands and hunger all night With impotent desire of the naked moon. Yes; this may be, in far-off Avalon. Here the old magic works not any more: And Spring, a dotard conjurer, forgets The runes and sorceries of yesterday, And may at best evoke but tenuous visions,-- Faint-hearted dreams that people the turbid past With half-seen faces and derisive laughter;-- And there is nothing hidden in the woods Save birds, and trees, and flowers, and ravenous gnats, And, under all, dead and decaying leaves. _Nay, under all, dead and decaying leaves Enrich that mould which bred them, and whereby The tree is nourished and new leaves put forth._ V MELÆNIS “_De moy, pauvre, je veuil parler_” 33 UNCHARTED “_Un beau royaume nous cherchons_” --ANTOINE RICZI. There is a land those hereabout Ignore.... Its gates are barred By Titan twins, named Fear and Doubt. These mercifully guard That land we seek--the land so fair!-- And all the fields thereof, Where daffodils flaunt everywhere And ouzels chant of love,-- Lest we attain the Middle-Land, Whence clouded well-springs rise, And vipers from a slimy strand Lift glittering cold eyes. NOW, THE PARABLE ALL MAY UNDERSTAND, AND SURELY YOU KNOW THE NAME OF THE LAND!