Mimnermus in Church She had part in these,―akin What the glass was, when therein Beamed the face of glad Nell Gwynne, To the honest soul of Nell. 1767 Laman Blanchard [1804-1845] MIMNERMUS IN CHURCH You promise heavens free from strife, So sweet, I fain would breathe it still: You say there is no substance here, Back from that void I shrink in fear, And child-like hide myself in love: Show me what angels fell. Till then, I cling, a mere weak man, to men. You bid me lift my mean desires From faltering lips and fitful veins Unwearied voices, wordless strains: Forsooth the present we must give To that which cannot pass away; All beauteous things for which we live By laws of time and space decay. But oh, the very reason why I clasp them, is because they die. CLAY "WE are but clay," the preacher saith; Well, let the preacher have it so, And clay we are, and clay shall be; Why iterate?-for this I know, That clay does very well for me. When clay has such red mouths to kiss, How can I take it aught amiss We are not made of rarer stuff? And if one tempt you to believe His choice would be immortal gold, Question him, Can you then conceive A warmer heart than clay can hold? Or richer joys than clay can feel? And when perforce he falters nay, AUCASSIN AND NICOLETE WHAT magic halo rings thy head, What charm of faerie round thee hovers, What power yet makes our pulses thrill Ballade of Summer True maiden art thou in thy dread; And ah! what heart of stone or steel Thy slender limbs in boyish dress, O happy lover, happy maid, Forgive the hand that here is baring Yet, Nicolete, why fear'st thou fame? Nor, Aucassin, need'st thou to fear What flower considers if its blooms 1769 BALLADE OF SUMMER WHEN strawberry pottles are common and cheap, Ere elms be black, or limes be sere, When midnight dances are murdering sleep, Then comes in the sweet o' the year! And far from Fleet Street, far from here, When clamor that doves in the lindens keep Than a palace in town, and a prince's cheer, When big trout late in the twilight leap, When cuckoo clamoreth far and near, ENVOY Friend, with the fops, while we dawdle here, Andrew Lang [1844-1912] THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME WHEN the ways are heavy with mire and rut, In November fogs, in December snows, When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut,— There is place and enough for the pains of prose; But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars at the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme! When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, When the reason stands on its squarest toes, In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, There is place and enough for the pains of prose; And the secret is told "that no one knows,”Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme! ENVOY In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes, "GOOD-NIGHT, BABETTE!” Si vieillesse pouvait ! SCENE.-A small neat Room. In a high Voltaire Chair sits a white-haired old Gentleman. MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS BABETTE M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously) BABETTE (entering hurriedly) Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks |