Six Studies In Exotic Forms Of Verse Poem by Emily Pfeiffer

I.—TRIOLET.

Warm from the wall she chose a peach,
She took the wasps for councillors;
She said: ‘such little things can teach:’
Warm from the wall she chose a peach;
She waved the fruit within my reach,
Then passed it to a friend of hers:—
Warm from the wall she chose a peach,
She took the wasps for councillors.


II.—RONDEAU.

I go my gait, and if my way
Is cheered by song and roundelay,
Or if I bear upon my road,
Like Issacher, a double load,
I sing and bear as best I may.
But lo a rondeau! Can I say
While halting thus my toll to pay
Before a stile now a la mode,
I go my gate?

Ay truly; if for once I stray
Into the treadmill,—'tis in play;
I will not own its narrow code,
It shall not be my cramped abode,
Free of the fields, in open day
I go my gait!


III.—RONDEL.

Oh modern singers, ye who vote
Our times for song unfit,
Your Pegasus is smooth of coat
And patient of the bit;

But lost the freedom of his throat
And dulled his prairie wit,
Oh modern singers, ye who vote
Our times for song unfit!

If kin, fame, critics, age, you quote
As fain to thwart and twit,
Just try to feel your wings, and float
Above the scornful kit:—
Oh modern singers, ye who vote
Our times for song unfit?


IV.—VILLANELLE.

O summer time so passing sweet,
But heavy with the breath of flowers,
But languid with the fervent heat.

They chide amiss who call thee fleet,
Thee with thy weight of daylight hours,
O summer time so passing sweet!

Young summer thou art too replete,
Too rich in choice of joys and powers,
But languid with the fervent heat.

Adieu! my face is set to meet
Bleak winter with his pallid showers,
O summer time so passing sweet!

Old winter steps with swifter feet
He lingers not in wayside bowers,
He is not languid with the heat;

His rounded day, a pearl complete,
Gleams on the unknown night that lowers;
O summer time so passing sweet,
But languid with the fervent heat!


V.—A BALLAD OF THE THUNER-SEE.

Soft on the lake's soft bosom, we twain
Float in the haze of a dim delight,
While the wavelets cradle the sleepless brain,
And the eyes are glad of the lessening light,
And the east with a fading glory is bright—
The lingering smile of a sun that is set,—
And the earth in its tender sorrow is dight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet!

Oh the mellow beam of the suns that wane,
Of the joys, ah me! that are taking flight,
Oh the sting of a rapture too near to pain,
And of love that loveth in death's despite!
But the hour is ours, and its beauty's might
Subdues our souls to a still regret,
While the Blumlis'-alp unveils to the night
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

Now we set our prow to the land again,
And our backs to those splendours ghostly white,
But a mirrored star with a watery train
We hold in our wake as a golden kite;
When we near the shore with its darkening height,
And its darker shade on the waters set,
Lo! the dim shade fleeth before our sight,
And the shadow that falleth hath spared us yet.

ENVOY: From the jewelled circles where I indite
This song which my faithless tears make wet,
We trail the light till its gemmed rings smite
The shadow—that falleth! and spares us yet.


VI.—THE CHANT OF THE CHILDREN OF THE MIST.

I waited on a mountain's midmost side,
The lifting of a cloud, and standing there
Keeping my soul in patience, far and wide
Beheld faint shadows wandering, felt the air
Stirred as with voices which in passing by
Still dulled its weary weight with many a sigh.
No band of pilgrims or of soldiers they—
Those children of the mist—who took their way,
Each one aloof, perplexed or pondering,
With steps untimed to music, grave or gay;—
This was a people who had lost their king.

In happier days of old, it was their pride
To serve him on their knees, and some were 'ware
E'en of his voice and presence, as they plied
Their daily task, or ate their simple fare.
Now in new glory shrouded, far and nigh
He had withdrawn himself from ear and eye;
Scorning such service as they knew to pay,
His ministers were as the golden ray
Shot from the sun when he would wake the spring
Swift to perform and plaint to obey;
This was a people, who had lost their king.

Single as beasts, or if allied, allied
But as the wolf who leaves his dusky lair
To hound for common need, which scarce supplied,
He lone returns with his disputed share,—
Even so sole, so scornful, or so shy,
Each man of these pursued his way on high,
But high and higher, seeking through the grey
Gloom of the mist, the lord of yesterday.
Dim, serviceless, bereft, and sorrowing,—
Shadows continuing never in one stay;—
This was a people who had lost their king.

Then as the day wore on, and none descried,
The longed-for presence, as the way grew bare,
As strength declined, and hope within them died,
A sad new birth,—the fruit of their despair,—
Stirred in their midst, and with a human cry
Awoke a human love, and flushed a dry
Sweet spring of tears, whose fertilising play
Broke up the hard, cold barriers of their clay,
Till hands were stretched in help, or seen to cling
In fealty, that had only joined to pray:
This was a people who had lost their king.

So blent in heart and hand, so myriad-eyed,
With gathering power, and ever-lessening care,
The veiled beguilements of the way defied,
They cleave the cloud, and climb that mountain fair;
Till lo upon its crown at last they vie
In songs of rapture as they hail the sky,
And track their lost one through the vast array
Of tuneful suns, which keep not now at bay
Their questing love, but help to waft and wing;
And over all a voice which seems to say'
This was a people who had lost their king!

ENVOY: Lord of our lives! Thou scornedst us that day
When at thy feet a scattered host we lay,
Behold us one! One mighty heart we bring
Strong for thy tasks, and level to thy sway:
This was a people who had lost their king!