id="page44"/>She can fence, she can put with a cleek,
   But her forte’s to evaluate π.

She has lectured on Scopas and Myrton,
   Coins, vases, mosaics, the antique,
Old tiles with the secular dirt on,
   Old marbles with noses to seek.
And her Cobet she quotes by the week,
   And she’s written on κεν and on καὶ,
And her service is swift and oblique,
   But her forte’s to evaluate π.

Envoy.

Princess, like a rose is her cheek,
   And her eyes are as blue as the sky,
And I’d speak, had I courage to speak,
   But—her forte’s to evaluate pi.

RONSARD’S GRAVE.

Ye wells, ye founts that fall
From the steep mountain wall,
   That fall, and flash, and fleet
      With silver feet,

Ye woods, ye streams that lave
The meadows with your wave,
   Ye hills, and valley fair,
      Attend my prayer!

When Heaven and Fate decree
My latest hour for me,
   When I must pass away
      From pleasant day,

I ask that none my break
The marble for my sake,
   Wishful to make more fair
      My sepulchre.

Only a laurel tree
Shall shade the grave of me,
   Only Apollo’s bough
      Shall guard me now!

Now shall I be at rest
Among the spirits blest,
   The happy dead that dwell—
      Where,—who may tell?

The snow and wind and hail
May never there prevail,
   Nor ever thunder fall
      Nor storm at all.

But always fadeless there
The woods are green and fair,
   And faithful ever more
      Spring to that shore!

There shall I ever hear
Alcaeus’ music clear,
   And sweetest of all things
      There Sappho sings.

SAN TERENZO.

(The village in the bay of Spezia, near which Shelley was living before the wreck of the Don Juan.)

Mid April seemed like some November day,
   When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,
Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,
   Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,
   Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay
Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,
The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,—
   His house, a place deserted, bleak and grey.

The waves broke on the door-step; fishermen
   Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
   Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,
When suddenly the forest glades were stirred
   With waving pinions, and a great sea bird
Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!

1880.

ROMANCE.

My Love dwelt in a Northern land.
   A grey tower in a forest green
Was hers, and far on either hand
   The long wash of the waves was seen,
And leagues on leagues of yellow sand,
   The woven forest boughs between!

And through the silver Northern night
   The sunset slowly died away,
And herds of strange deer, lily-white,
   Stole forth among the branches grey;
About the coming of the light,
   They fled like ghosts before the day!

I know not if the forest green
   Still girdles round that castle grey;
I know not if the boughs between
   The white deer vanish ere the day;
Above my Love the grass is green,
   My heart is colder than the clay!

BALLADE OF HIS OWN COUNTRY.

I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves
   Among the shining salmon-flies;
A song for summer-time that grieves
   I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves.
   Between grey sea and golden sheaves,
Beneath the soft wet Morvern skies,
I scribbled on a fly-book’s leaves
   Among the shining salmon-flies.

TO C. H. ARKCOLL

Let them boast of Arabia, oppressed
   By the odour of myrrh on the breeze;
In the isles of the East and the West
   That are sweet with the cinnamon trees
Let the sandal-wood perfume the seas;
   Give the roses to Rhodes and to Crete,
We are more than content, if you please,
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

Though Dan Virgil enjoyed himself best
   With the scent of the limes, when the bees
Hummed low ’round the doves in their nest,
   While the vintagers lay at their ease,
Had he sung in our northern degrees,
   He’d have sought a securer retreat,
He’d have dwelt, where the heart of us flees,
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

Oh, the broom has a chivalrous crest
   And the daffodil’s fair on the leas,
And the soul of the Southron might rest,
   And be perfectly happy with these;
But we, that were nursed on the knees
   Of the hills of the North, we would fleet
Where our hearts might their longing appease
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

Envoy.

Ah Constance, the land of our quest
   It is far from the sounds of the street,
Where the Kingdom of Galloway’s blest
   With the smell of bog-myrtle and peat!

VILLANELLE

(TO M. JOSEPH BOULMIER, AUTHOR OF “LES VILLANELLES.”)

Villanelle, why art thou mute?
      Hath the singer ceased to sing?
Hath the Master lost his lute?

Many a pipe and scrannel flute
      On the breeze their discords fling;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?

Sound of tumult and dispute,
      Noise of war the echoes bring;
Hath the Master lost his lute?

Once he sang of bud and shoot
      In the season of the Spring;
Villanelle, why art thou mute?

Fading leaf and falling fruit
      Say, “The year is on the wing,
Hath the Master lost his lute?”

Ere the axe lie at the root,
      Ere the winter come as king,
Villanelle, why art thou mute?
Hath the Master lost his lute?

TRIOLETS AFTER MOSCHUS.

Αίαῖ