A Marlow Madrigal

2501

I'm glad young men

should go

the pace,

I half forgive Old Rapid!

These louts disgrace their name and race

So vicious and so vapid!

Worse times may come. Bon ton, indeed,

Will then be quite forgotten,

And all we much revere will speed
From ripe to worse than rotten:

Let grass then sprout between yon stones,
And owls then roost at Boodle's,
For Echo will hurl back the tones
Of screaming Yankee Doodles.

I love the haunts of old Cockaigne,
Where wit and wealth were squandered;
The halls that tell of hoop and train,
Where grace and rank have wandered;
Those halls where ladies fair and leal
First ventured to adore me!
Something of that old love I feel

For this old Street before me.

Frederick Locker-Lampson [1821-1895]

A MARLOW MADRIGAL

Он, Bisham Banks are fresh and fair,
And Quarry Woods are green,
And pure and sparkling is the air,
Enchanting is the scene!

I love the music of the weir,

As swift the stream runs down, For oh, the water's deep and clear That flows by Marlow town!

When London's getting hot and dry,
And half the season's done,
To Marlow you should quickly fly,

And bask there in the sun.

There pleasant quarters you may find,--
The "Angler" or the "Crown"
Will suit you well, if you're inclined
To stay in Marlow town.

I paddle up to Harleyford,

And sometimes I incline

To cushions take with lunch aboard,
And play with rod and line;
For in a punt I love to laze,
And let my face get brown;
And dream away the sunny days
By dear old Marlow town.

I go to luncheon at the Lawn,
I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;
I headers take at early dawn,
I list to All Saints' chime.
And in the river, flashing bright,
Dull care I strive to drown,-
And get a famous appetite

At pleasant Marlow town.

So when no longer London life

You feel you can endure,

Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,

And try the "Marlow cure."

You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow,

And scare away each frown,—

Feel young again once more, I vow,

At quaint old Marlow town.

Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,

And wandered o'er the leas; And sung and drifted in his boat

Beneath the Bisham trees.

So let me sing, although I'm no

Great poet of renown,

Of hours that much too quickly go

At good old Marlow town!

Sweet Innisfallen

2503

EDINBURGH

CITY of mist and rain and blown gray spaces,
Dashed with wild wet color and gleam of tears,
Dreaming in Holyrood halls of the passionate faces

Lifted to one Queen's face that has conquered the years, Are not the halls of thy memory haunted places?

Cometh there not as a moon (where the blood-rust sears Floors a-flutter of old with silks and laces),

Gliding, a ghostly Queen, through a mist of tears?

Proudly here, with a loftier pinnacled splendor,

Throned in his northern Athens, what spells remain
Still on the marble lips of the Wizard, and render
Silent the gazer on glory without a stain!

Here and here, do we whisper, with hearts more tender,
Tusitala wandered through mist and rain;
Rainbow-eyed and frail and gallant and slender,
Dreaming of pirate-isles in a jewelled main.

Up the Cannongate climbeth, cleft asunder

Raggedly here, with a glimpse of the distant sea Flashed through a crumbling alley, a glimpse of wonder, Nay, for the City is throned on Eternity! Hark! from the soaring castle a cannon's thunder

Closes an hour for the world and an æon for me, Gazing at last from the martial heights whereunder Deathless memories roll to an ageless sea.

Alfred Noyes [1880

SWEET INNISFALLEN

SWEET Innisfallen, fare thee well,
May calm and sunshine long be thine!
How fair thou art let others tell,—
To feel how fair shall long be mine.

Sweet Innisfallen, long shall dwell
In memory's dream that sunny smile,
Which o'er thee on that evening fell,
When first I saw thy fairy isle.

"Twas light, indeed, too blest for one,
Who had to turn to paths of care-
Through crowded haunts again to run,
And leave thee bright and silent there;
No more unto thy shores to come,
But, on the world's rude ocean tossed,
Dream of thee sometimes, as a home
Of sunshine he had seen and lost.

Far better in thy weeping hours
To part from thee, as I do now,
When mist is o'er thy blooming bowers,
Like sorrow's veil on beauty's brow.

For, though unrivalled still thy grace,
Thou dost not look, as then, too blest,
But thus in shadow seem'st a place
Where erring man might hope to rest.-

Might hope to rest, and find in thee
A gloom like Eden's, on the day
He left its shade, when every tree,

Like thine, hung weeping o'er his way.

Weeping or smiling, lovely isle!
And all the lovelier for thy tears,
For though but rare thy sunny smile,
'Tis heaven's own glance when it appears.

Like feeling hearts, whose joys are few,
But, when indeed they come, divine-
The brightest light the sun e'er threw
Is lifeless to one gleam of thine!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"AH, SWEET IS TIPPERARY "

Ан, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year,

When the hawthorn's whiter than the snow,

When the feathered folk assemble and the air is all a-tremble With their singing and their winging to and fro;

The Groves of Blarney

2505

When queenly Slievenamon puts her verdant vesture on, And smiles to hear the news the breezes bring;

When the sun begins to glance on the rivulets that dance— Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year,
When the mists are rising from the lea,

When the Golden Vale is smiling with a beauty all beguiling,

And the Suir goes crooning to the sea;

When the shadows and the showers only multiply the flowers
That the lavish hand of May will fling;

When in unfrequented ways, fairy music softly plays--
Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the springtime of the year,

When life like the year is young,

When the soul is just awaking like a lily blossom breaking,

And love words linger on the tongue;

When the blue of Irish skies is the hue of Irish eyes,

And love-dreams cluster and cling

Round the heart and round the brain, half of pleasure, half

of pain

Ah, sweet is Tipperary in the spring!

Denis Florence McCarthy [1817-1882]

THE GROVES OF BLARNEY

THE groves of Blarney they look so charming,
Down by the purling of sweet, silent brooks,
All decked with posies, that spontaneous grow there
Planted in order in the rocky nooks.

'Tis there the daisy, and the sweet carnation,
The blooming pink, and the rose so fair;
Likewise the lily, and the daffodilly-

All flowers that scent the sweet, fragrant air.

'Tis Lady Jeffers owns this plantation,
Like Alexander, or like Helen fair;
There's no commander in all the nation

For regulation can with her compare.