All this your master Villon knew and sung; Despised delights, and faint foredone desire; And shame, a deathless worm, a quenchless fire; And laughter from the heart’s last sorrow wrung, When half-repentance but makes evil whole, And prayer that cannot help wears out the soul. PIERRE RONSARD. 1560. MASTER, I see thee with the locks of grey, Crowned by the Muses with the laurel-wreath; I see the roses hiding underneath, Cassandra’s gift; she was less dear than they. Thou, Master, first hast roused the lyric lay, The sleeping song that the dead years bequeath, Hast sung sweet answer to the songs that breathe Through ages, and through ages far away. Yea, and in thee the pulse of ancient passion Leaped, and the nymphs amid the spring-water Made bare their lovely limbs in the old fashion, And birds’ song in the branches was astir. Ah, but thy songs are sad, thy roses wan, Thy bees have fed on yews Sardinian. GÉRARD DE NERVAL. OF all that were thy prisons—ah, untamed, Ah, light and sacred soul!—none holds thee now; No wall, no bar, no body of flesh, but thou Art free and happy in the lands unnamed, About whose gates, with weary wings and maimed, Thou most wert wont to linger, entering there A moment, and returning rapt, with fair Tidings that men or heeded not or blamed; And they would smile and wonder, seeing where Thou stood’st, to watch light leaves, or clouds, or wind, Dreamily murmuring a ballad air, Caught from the Valois peasants; dost thou find Old prophecies fulfilled now, old tales true In the new world, where all things are made new? THE DEATH OF MIRANDOLA. 1494. ‘The Queen of Heaven appeared, comforting him and promising that he should not utterly die.’—THOMAS MORE, _Life of Piens, Earl of Mirandola_. * * * * * STRANGE lilies came with autumn; new and old Were mingling, and the old world passed away, And the night gathered, and the shadows grey Dimmed the kind eyes and dimmed the locks of gold, And face beloved of Mirandola. The Virgin then, to comfort him and stay, Kissed the thin cheek, and kissed the lips acold, The lips unkissed of women many a day. Nor she alone, for queens of the old creed, Like rival queens that tended Arthur, there Were gathered, Venus in her mourning weed, Pallas and Dian; wise, and pure, and fair Was he they mourned, who living did not wrong One altar of its dues of wine and song. * * * * * LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET * * * * * FOOTNOTES {23} Aphrodite—Avril. {110} From the Romaic.