THE PRODIGALS.

[BALLADE.]

RINCES!-and you, most valorous,
Nobles and barons of all degrees!
Hearken awhile to the prayer of us, -
Prodigals driven of destinies!

Nothing we ask or of gold or fees; Harry us not with the hounds we pray;

Lo, for the surcote's hem we seize,— Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday."

"Dames most delicate, amorous !

Damosels blithe as the belted bees! Beggars are we that pray thee thus,

Beggars outworn of miseries!

Nothing we ask of the things that please;

Weary are we, and old, and gray;

Lo,—for we clutch and we clasp your knees,

Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!"

"Damosels-Dames, be piteous!"

(But the dames rode fast by the roadway trees.) "Hear us, O Knights, magnanimous !

(But the knights pricked on in their panoplies.) Nothing they gat of hope or ease,

But only to beat on the breast and say :

"Life we drank to the dregs and lees; Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!"

ENVOY.

Youth, take heed to the prayer of these! Many there be by the dusty way,—

Many that cry to the rocks and seas

"Give us-ah! give us-but Yesterday!

AUSTIN DOBSON.

[BALLADE.]

I.

@HAT do we here who with reverted eyes

Turn back our longing from the modern

air

To the dim gold of long-evanished skies, When other songs in other mouths were fair? Why do we stay the load of life to bear, To measure still the weary worldly ways, Waiting upon the still-recurring sun, That ushers in another waste of days, Of roseless Junes and unenchanted Mays, Why but because our task is yet undone ?

II.

Were it not thus, could but our high emprise
Be once fulfilled, which of us would forbear
To seek that haven where contentment lies?

Who would not doff at once life's load of care
To be at peace among the silence there?

Ah, who alas ?-Across the heat and haze

Death beckons to us in the shadow dun-Favouring and fair-" My rest is sweet," he says: But we, reluctantly, avert our gaze,

Why but because our task is yet undone ?

III.

Songs have we sung, and many melodies

Have from our lips had issue rich and rare : But never yet the conquering chant did rise, That should ascend the very heaven's stair, To rescue life from anguish and despair. Often and again, drunk with delight of lays,

"Lo!" have we cried, "this is the golden one That shall deliver us!"-Alas! Hope's rays Die in the distance, and Life's sadness stays, Why but because our task is yet undone?

ENVOY.

Great God of Love, thou whom all poets praise,
Grant that the aim of rest for us be won ;
Let the light shine upon our life that strays
Disconsolate within the desert maze;

Why but because our task is yet undone?

JOHN PAYNE.

THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND

RHYME.

[BALLADE À DOUBLE REFRAIN.]

SHEN the roads 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 to the lattice climb,

And a Rosalind-face at the casement 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, When the mind (like a beard) has a "formal cut," There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, And the young year draws to the "golden prime,"And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose,

Then hey-for the ripple of laughing rhyme !