BALLADE 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 h.o.a.rds his fees, - Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

No dismal stall escapes his eye, He turns o'er tomes of low degrees, There soiled romanticists may lie, Or Restoration comedies; Each tract that flutters in the breeze For him is charged with hopes and fears, In mouldy novels fancy sees Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs.

With restless eyes that peer and spy, Sad eyes that heed not skies nor trees, In dismal nooks he loves to pry, Whose motto evermore is Spes!

But ah! the fabled treasure flees; Grown rarer with the fleeting years, In rich men's shelves they take their ease, - Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs!

ENVOY.

Prince, all the things that tease and please, - Fame, hope, wealth, kisses, cheers, and tears, What are they but such toys as these - Aldines, Bodonis, Elzevirs?

BALLADE OF THE VOYAGE TO CYTHERA.

AFTER THEODORE DE BANVILLE.

I know Cythera long is desolate; I know the winds have stripp'd the gardens green.

Alas, my friends! beneath the fierce sun's weight A barren reef lies where Love's flowers have been, Nor ever lover on that coast is seen!

So be it, but we seek a fabled sh.o.r.e, To lull our vague desires with mystic lore, To wander where Love's labyrinths beguile; There let us land, there dream for evermore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle."

The sea may be our sepulchre. If Fate, If tempests wreak their wrath on us, serene We watch the bolt of heaven, and scorn the hate Of angry G.o.ds that smite us in their spleen.

Perchance the jealous mists are but the screen That veils the fairy coast we would explore.

Come, though the sea be vex'd, and breakers roar, Come, for the air of this old world is vile, Haste we, and toil, and faint not at the oar; "It may be we shall touch the happy isle."

Grey serpents trail in temples desecrate Where Cypris smiled, the golden maid, the queen, And ruined is the palace of our state; But happy Loves flit round the mast, and keen The shrill wind sings the silken cords between.

Heroes are we, with wearied hearts and sore, Whose flower is faded and whose locks are h.o.a.r, Yet haste, light skiffs, where myrtle thickets smile; Love's panthers sleep 'mid roses, as of yore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle!"

ENVOY.

Sad eyes! the blue sea laughs, as heretofore.

Ah, singing birds your happy music pour!

Ah, poets, leave the sordid earth awhile; Flit to these ancient G.o.ds we still adore: "It may be we shall touch the happy isle!"

BALLADE OF THE SUMMER TERM.

(Being a Pet.i.tion, in the form of a Ballade, praying the University Commissioners to spare the Summer Term.)

When Lent and Responsions are ended, When May with fritillaries waits, When the flower of the chestnut is splendid, When drags are at all of the gates (Those drags the philosopher "slates"

With a scorn that is truly sublime), {1} Life wins from the grasp of the Fates Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

When wickets are bowl'd and defended, When Isis is glad with "the Eights,"

When music and sunset are blended, When Youth and the summer are mates, When Freshmen are heedless of "Greats,"

And when note-books are cover'd with rhyme, Ah, these are the hours that one rates - Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

When the brow of the Dean is unbended At luncheons and mild tete-a-tetes, When the Tutor's in love, nor offended By blunders in tenses or dates; When bouquets are purchased of Bates, When the bells in their melody chime, When unheeded the Lecturer prates - Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

ENVOY.

Reformers of Schools and of States, Is mirth so tremendous a crime?

Ah! spare what grim pedantry hates - Sweet hours and the fleetest of time!

BALLADE OF THE MUSE Quem tu, Melpomene, semel.

The man whom once, Melpomene, Thou look'st on with benignant sight, Shall never at the Isthmus be A boxer eminent in fight, Nor fares he foremost in the flight Of Grecian cars to victory, Nor goes with Delian laurels dight, The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!

Not him the Capitol shall see, As who hath crush'd the threats and might Of monarchs, march triumphantly; But Fame shall crown him, in his right Of all the Roman lyre that smite The first; so woods of Tivoli Proclaim him, so her waters bright, The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!

The sons of queenly Rome count ME, Me too, with them whose chants delight, - The poets' kindly company; Now broken is the tooth of spite, But thou, that temperest aright The golden lyre, all, all to thee He owes--life, fame, and fortune's height - The man thou lov'st, Melpomene!

ENVOY.

Queen, that to mute lips could'st unite The wild swan's dying melody!

Thy gifts, ah! how shall he requite - The man thou lov'st, Melpomene?

BALLADE AGAINST THE JESUITS.

AFTER LA FONTAINE.

Rome does right well to censure all the vain Talk of Jansenius, and of them who preach That earthly joys are d.a.m.nable! 'Tis plain We need not charge at Heaven as at a breach; No, amble on! We'll gain it, one and all; The narrow path's a dream fantastical, And Arnauld's quite superfluously driven Mirth from the world. We'll scale the heavenly wall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

He does not hold a man may well be slain Who vexes with unseasonable speech, You MAY do murder for five ducats gain, NOT for a pin, a ribbon, or a peach; He ventures (most consistently) to teach That there are certain cases that befall When perjury need no good man appal, And life of love (he says) may keep a leaven.

Sure, hearing this, a grateful world will bawl, "Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!"

"For G.o.d's sake read me somewhat in the strain Of his most cheering volumes, I beseech!"

Why should I name them all? a mighty train - So many, none may know the name of each.

Make these your compa.s.s to the heavenly beach, These only in your library instal: Burn Pascal and his fellows, great and small, Dolts that in vain with Escobar have striven; I tell you, and the common voice doth call, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

ENVOY.

SATAN, that pride did hurry to thy fall, Thou porter of the grim infernal hall - Thou keeper of the courts of souls unshriven!

To shun thy shafts, to 'scape thy h.e.l.lish thrall, Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!