XXXII Ballades in Blue China [1885]

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 damnable!  ’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 God’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 compass 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 hellish thrall,
Escobar makes a primrose path to heaven!

BALLADE OF DEAD CITIES

TO E. W. GOSSE

The dust of Carthage and the dust
Of Babel on the desert wold,
The loves of Corinth, and the lust,
Orchomenos increased with gold;