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Grass of Parnassus

by Andrew Lang
Contents:

Grass of Parnassus
Deeds of men:

Seekers for a city
The white pacha

Midnight, January 25, 1886
Advance, Australia

Colonel Burnaby
Melville and Coghill

Rhodocleia:
To rhodocleia - on her melancholy singing

Ave:
Clevedon church

Twilight on Tweed *
Metempsychosis *

Lost in Hades *
A star in the night *

A sunset on yarrow *
Another way

Hesperothen:
The seekers for Phaeacia

A song of Phaeacia
The departure from Phaeacia

A ballad of departure
They hear the sirens for the second time

Circe's Isle revisited
The limit of lands

Verses:
Martial in town

April on Tweed
Tired of towns

Scythe song
Pen and ink

A dream
The singing rose

A review in rhyme
Colinette *

A sunset of Watteau *
Nightingale weather *

Love and wisdom *
Good-bye *

An old prayer *
A la belle Helene *

Sylvie et Aurelie *
A lost path *

The shade of Helen *
Sonnets:

She
Herodotus in Egypt

Gerard de Nerval *
Ronsard *

Love's miracle *
Dreams *

Two sonnets of the sirens *
Translations:

Hymn to the winds *
Moonlight *

The grave and the rose *
A vow to heavenly Venus *

Of his lady's old age *
Shadows of his lady *

April *
An old tune *

Old loves *
A lady of high degree *

Iannoula *
The milk-white doe *

Heliodore
The prophet

Lais
Clearista

The fisherman's tomb
Of his death

Rhodope
To a girl

To the ships
A late convert

The limit of life
To Daniel Elzevir

The last chance
To E. M. S.

Prima dicta mihi, summa dicenda Camena.
The years will pass, and hearts will range,

YOU conquer Time, and Care, and Change.
Though Time doth still delight to shed

The dust on many a younger head;
Though Care, oft coming, hath the guile

From younger lips to steal the smile;
Though Change makes younger hearts wax cold,

And sells new loves for loves of old,
Time, Change, nor Care, hath learned the art

To fleck your hair, to chill your heart,
To touch your tresses with the snow,

To mar your mirth of long ago.
Change, Care, nor Time, while life endure,

Shall spoil our ancient friendship sure,
The love which flows from sacred springs,

In 'old unhappyfar-off things,'
From sympathies in grief and joy,

Through all the years of man and boy.
Therefore, to you, the rhymes I strung

When even this 'brindled' head was young
I bring, and later rhymes I bring

That flit upon as weak a wing,
But still for you, for yours, they sing!

Many of the verses and translations in this volume were published
first in BALLADS AND LYRICS OF OLD FRANCE (1872). Though very

sensible that they have the demerits of imitative and even of
undergraduate rhyme, I print them again because people I like have

liked them. The rest are of different dates, and lack (though
doubtless they need) the excuse of having been written, like some

of the earlier pieces, during College Lectures. I would gladly
have added to this volume what other more or less serious rhymes I

have written, but circumstances over which I have no control have
bound them up with BALLADES, and other toys of that sort.

It may be as well to repeat in prose, what has already been said in
verse, that Grass of Parnassus, the pretty Autumn flower, grows in

the marshes at the foot of the Muses' Hill, and other hills, not at
the top by any means.

Several of the versions from the Greek Anthology have been
published in the FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW, and the sonnet on Colonel

Burnaby appeared in PUNCH. These, with pieces from other serials,
are reprinted by the courteouspermission of the Editors.

The verses that were published in BALLADES AND LYRICS, and in
BALLADS AND VERSES VAIN (Charles Scribner's Sons, New York), are

marked in the contents with an asterisk.
GRASS OF PARNASSUS.

Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway,
In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height

Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away,
When now the moors have doffed the heather bright,

Grass of Parnassus, flower of my delight,
How gladly with the unpermitted bay -

Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay -
How gladly would I twine thee if I might!

The bays are out of reach! But far below
The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill,

Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow
Between September and October chill

Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago,
And these kind faces that are with me still.

DEEDS OF MEN
[Greek text which cannot be reproduced]. To Colonel Ian Hamilton.

To you, who know the face of war,
You, that for England wander far,

You that have seen the Ghazis fly
From English lads not sworn to die,

You that have lain where, deadly chill,
The mist crept o'er the Shameful Hill,

You that have conquered, mile by mile,
The currents of unfriendly Nile,

And cheered the march, and eased the strain
When Politics made valour vain,

Ian, to you, from banks of Ken,
We send our lays of Englishmen!

SEEKERS FOR A CITY.
"Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a

hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed
thither. . . But the number and variety of the ways! For you know,

THERE IS BUT ONE ROAD THAT LEADS TO CORINTH."
HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater's Version).

"The Poet says, DEAR CITY OF CECROPS, and wilt thou not say, DEAR
CITY OF ZEUS?"

M. ANTONINUS.
"To Corinth leads one road," you say:

Is there a Corinth, or a way?
Each bland or blatant preacher" target="_blank" title="n.讲道者,传教士">preacher hath

His painful or his primrose path,
And not a soul of all of these

But knows the city 'twixt the seas,
Her fair unnumbered homes and all

Her gleaming amethystine wall!
Blind are the guides who know the way,

The guides who write, and preach, and pray,
I watch their lives, and I divine

They differ not from yours and mine!
One man we knew, and only one,

Whose seeking for a city's done,
For what he greatly sought he found,

A city girt with fire around,
A city in an empty land

Between the wastes of sky and sand,
A city on a river-side,

Where by the folk he loved, he died. (1)
Alas! it is not ours to tread

That path wherein his life he led,
Not ours his heart to dare and feel,

Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel;
Yet are we not quite city-less,

Not wholly left in our distress -
Is it not said by One of old,

"Sheep have I of another fold?"
Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will,

For us there is a city still!
"Dear city of Zeus," the Stoic says, (2)

The Voice from Rome's imperial days,
In Thee meet all things, and disperse,

In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!
To me all's fruit thy seasons bring,



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