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Ballade Of The Southern Cross

Fair islands of the silver fleece,

Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold,

Whose havens are the haunts of Peace,

Whose boys are in our quarrel bold;

OUR bolt is shot, our tale is told,

Our ship of state in storms may toss,

But ye are young if we are old,

Ye Islands of the Southern Cross!

Andrew Lang

The Burial Of Moliere

Dead--he is dead! The rouge has left a trace

On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear,

Even while the people laughed that held him dear

But yesterday. He died,--and not in grace,

And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace

To slander him whose Tartuffe made them fear,

And gold must win a passage for his bier,

And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place.

Andrew Lang

A Scot To Jeanne D’Arc

DARK Lily without blame,

Not upon us the shame,

Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true;

They, by the Maiden’s side,

Victorious fought and died;

One stood by thee that fiery torment through,

Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed,

And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last.

Andrew Lang

Ballades I - To Theocritus, In Winter

AH! leave the smoke, the wealth, the roar

Of London, leave the bustling street,

For still, by the Sicilian shore,

The murmur of the Muse is sweet.

Still, still, the suns of summer greet

The mountain-grave of Helike,

And shepherds still their songs repeat

Where breaks the blue Sicilian sea.

Andrew Lang

Ballade Of The Bookworm

Far in the Past I peer, and see

A Child upon the Nursery floor,

A Child with books upon his knee,

Who asks, like Oliver, for more!

The number of his years is IV,

And yet in Letters hath he skill,

How deep he dives in Fairy-lore!

The Books I loved, I love them still!

Andrew Lang

Ballades IV - Of Life

SAY, fair maids, maying

In gardens green,

In deep dells straying,

What end hath been

Two Mays between

Of the flowers that shone

And your own sweet queen?—

“They are dead and gone!”

Andrew Lang

Ballades V - Of His Choice Of A Sepulchre

HERE I ’d come when weariest!

Here the breast

Of the Windberg’s tufted over

Deep with bracken; here his crest

Takes the west,

Where the wide-winged hawk doth hover.

Silent here are lark and plover;

Andrew Lang

Ballades II - Of The Book-Hunter

IN torrid heats of late July,

In March, beneath the bitter bise,

He book-hunts while the loungers fly,

He book-hunts, though December freeze;

In breeches baggy at the knees,

And heedless of the public jeers,

For these, for these, he hoards his fees,—

Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

Andrew Lang

Aesop

HE sat among the woods; he heard

The sylvan merriment; he saw

The pranks of butterfly and bird,

The humors of the ape, the daw.

And in the lion or the frog,—

In all the life of moor and fen,—

In ass and peacock, stork and dog,

Andrew Lang

San Terenzo

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 gray.

Andrew Lang

Scythe Song

MOWERS, weary and brown, and blithe,

What is the word methinks ye know,

Endless over-word that the Scythe

Sings to the blades of the grass below?

Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,

Something, still, they say as they pass;

What is the word that, over and over,

Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass?

Andrew Lang

Three Portraits Of Prince Charles

1731

BEAUTIFUL face of a child,

Lighted with laughter and glee,

Mirthful, and tender, and wild,

My heart is heavy for thee!

1744

Beautiful face of a youth,

Andrew Lang