Lays and Legends (Second Series)

And life's wheel too must go —
But all their clamour has not drowned
A voice I used to know.
Her window's blank. The garden's bare
As her chill new-made mound,
But still my heart's delight is there,
And still the wheel goes round.

RONDEAU

A red, red rose, all wet with dew,
With leaves of green by red shot through,
And sharp, thin thorns, and scent that brings
Delicious memories of lost things,
A red rose, sweet – yet sad as rue.

'Twas a red rose you gave me – you
Whose gifts so sacred were, and few —
And that is why your lover sings
A red, red rose.

I sing – with lute untuned, untrue,
And worse than other lovers do,
Because perplexing memory stings —
Because from your green grave there springs,
With your spilt life-blood coloured through,
A red, red rose.

A MÉSALLIANCE

I hear sweet music, rich gowns I wear,
I live in splendour and state;
But I'd give it all to be young once more,
And steal through the old low-lintelled door,
To watch at the orchard gate.

There are flowers by thousands these ball-rooms bear,
Fair blossoms, wondrous and new;
But all the flowers that a hot-house grows
I would give for the scent of a certain rose
That a cottage garden grew!

Oh, diamonds that sparkle on bosom and hair,
Oh, rubies that glimmer and glow —
I am tired of my bargain and tired of you!
I would give you all for a daisy or two
From a little grave I know.

THE LAST THOUGHT

It's weary lying here,
While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,
And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,
When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom —
Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are —
So far away, so far!

They say that I shall die —
And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:
But oh! my red-roofed village – I should die with more content
Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,
And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,
For one who comes no more.

APOLLO AND THE MEN OF CYMÉ

(Herodotus, I. 157-160.)

"What be these messengers who come fleet-footed
Between the images that guard our roadway,
Beneath the heavy shadow of the laurels —
Whence be these men, and wherefore have they come?"

"We come to crave the counsel of Apollo —
The men of Cymé he has counselled often —
Ask of the god an answer to our question,
Ask of Apollo here in Branchĭdæ.

"Pactyes the Lydian, flying from the Persian,
Has sought in Cymé refuge and protection;
The Persian bids us yield – our hearts bid shield him,
What does Apollo bid his servants do?"

The Oracle replied – and straight returning
To Cymé ran the messengers fleet-footed,
Brought to the citizens the Sun-god's answer:
"Apollo bids you yield to Persia's will".

So when the men of Cymé heard the answer,
They set in hand at once to yield their suppliant,
But Aristodicus, loved of the city,
Withstood their will, – and thus to them spake he.

"Your messengers have lied – they have made merry
In their own homes, they have not sought Apollo;
The god in Branchĭdæ had never counselled
That we should yield our suppliant to the foe.

"Wait. I, myself, with others of your choosing,
Will seek the god, and bring you back his answer,