THE BALLAD OF PROSE AND RHYME. [BALLADE À DOUBLE REFRAIN.] @HEN the roads are heavy with mire and rut, 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 ! In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant-strut, In a changing quarrel of " Ayes" and "Noes," In a starched procession of "If" and "But," There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;— But whenever a soft glance softer grows, And the light hours dance to the trysting time, And the secret is told "that no one knows," Then hey!-for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! ENVOY. In the work-a-day world,—for its needs and woes, - There is place and enough for the pains of prose ; But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, Then hey-for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! AUSTIN DOBSON. X THE GOD OF WINE. [CHANT ROYAL.] B I. EHOLD, above the mountains there is light, bright With pale aëreal flame, that drives up higher The lurid airs that all the long night were Breasting the dark ravines and coverts bare; Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose, And down the vales a lyric people flows, Who dance to music, and in dancing fling. Their frantic robes to every wind that blows, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. II. Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight, The cone-tipped thyrsus of a god's desire ; Onward, with even pace, in stately rows With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows, And all the while their tribute-songs they bring, And newer glories of the past disclose, And deathless praises to the Vine-god sing. III. The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white, Smooth without wound of thorn, or fleck of mire, IV. And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire, Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight, And wandered forth through many a scourging brier, And waited shivering in the icy air, And wrapped the leopard-skin about them there, The time must come, that every poet knows, V. But oh within the heart of this great flight, |