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A Ballad of Suicide

The figure on the throne you see
Is nothing but a puppet, planned
To wear the regal bravery

Of silken coat and gilded wand.
Not so we Frenchmen understand
The Lord of lion's heart and glance,
And such a one would take command
If Villon were the King of France!

His counsellors are rogues, Perdie!

While men of honest mind are banned
To creak upon the Gallows Tree,
Or squeal in prisons over-manned;

We want a chief to bear the brand,
And bid the damned Burgundians dance.
God! Where the Oriflamme should stand
If Villon were the King of France!

1787

ENVOY

Louis the Little, play the grand;

Buffet the foe with sword and lance;
'Tis what would happen, by this hand,
If Villon were the King of France!
Justin Huntly McCarthy [1860-

A BALLADE OF SUICIDE

THE gallows in my garden, people say,
Is new and neat and adequately tall.
I tie the noose on in a knowing way

As one that knots his necktie for a ball;

But just as all the neighbors-on the wall-
Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!"
The strangest whim has seized me. After all

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

To-morrow is the time I get my pay-
My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall-
I see a little cloud all pink and gray-
Perhaps the rector's mother will not call-

I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall

That mushrooms could be cooked another way-
I never read the works of Juvenal-

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

The world will have another washing day;
The decadents decay; the pedants pall;
And H. G. Wells has found that children play,
And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall;
Rationalists are growing rational—

And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
So secret that the very sky seems small-

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

ENVOI

Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal,
The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way;
Even to-day your royal head may fall—

I think I will not hang myself to-day.

Gilbert Keith Chesterton [1874

CHIFFONS!

THROUGH this our city of delight,

This Paris of our joy and play,
This Paris perfumed, jeweled, bright,
Rouged, powdered, amorous, -ennuyé:
Across our gilded Quartier,

So fair to see, so frail au fond,

Echoes-mon Dieu!-the Ragman's bray:

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Foul, hunched, a plague to dainty sight,
He limps infect by park and quai,
Voicing (for those that hear aright)
His hunger-world, the dark Marais.
Sexton of all we waste and fray,
He bags at last pour tout de bon

Our trappings rare, our braveries gay,

"Marchand d'habits! Chiffons!"

The Court Historian

Their lot is ours! A grislier wight,

The Ragman Time, takes day by day
Our beauty's bloom, our manly might,
Our joie de vivre, our gods of clay;
Till torn and worn and soiled and gray
Hot life rejects us-nom de nom!-
Rags! and our only requiem lay,

1789

"Marchand d'habits! Chiffons!"

ENVOY

Princes take heed!--for where are they,
Valois, Navarre and Orléans?
Death drones the answer, far away,

William Samuel Johnson [1859

THE COURT HISTORIAN

LOWER EMPIRE. Circa A. D. 700

THE Monk Arnulphus uncorked his ink
That shone with a blood-red light

Just now as the sun began to sink;

His vellum was pumiced a silvery white; "The Basileus"---for so he began

"Is a royal sagacious Mars of a man,

Than the very lion bolder; ·

He has married the stately widow of Thrace-"
"Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

His palette gleamed with a burnished green,
Bright as a dragon-fly's skin:

His gold-leaf shone like the robe of a queen,
His azure glowed as a cloud worn thin,
Deep as the blue of the king-whale's lair:
"The Porphyrogenita Zoë the fair-

Is about to wed with a Prince much older,

Of an unpropitious mien and look—”
"Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

The red flowers trellised the parchment page,

The birds leaped up on the spray,

The yellow fruit swayed and drooped and swung,
It was Autumn mixed up with May.

(O, but his cheek was shrivelled and shrunk!)
"The child of the Basileus," wrote the Monk,

"Is golden-haired-tender the Queen's arms fold her. Her step-mother Zoë doth love her so-"

"Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

The Kings and Martyrs and Saints and Priests
All gathered to guard the text:

There was Daniel snug in the lions' den

Singing no whit perplexed

Brazen Samson with spear and helm

"The Queen," wrote the Monk, "rules firm this realm, For the King gets older and older.

The Norseman Thorkill is brave and fair-”

"Hush!" cried a voice at his shoulder.

Walter Thornbury [1828–1876]

MISS LOU

WHEN thin-strewn memory I look through,

I see most clearly poor Miss Loo,

Her tabby cat, her cage of birds,

Her nose, her hair-her muffled words,
And how she'd open her green eyes,
As if in some immense surprise,
Whenever as we sat at tea,

She made some small remark to me.

It's always drowsy summer when
From out the past she comes again;
The westering sunshine in a pool
Floats in her parlor still and cool;

While the slim bird its lean wires shakes,

As into piercing song it breaks;

Till Peter's pale-green eyes ajar

Dream, wake; wake, dream, in one brief bar;

And I am sitting, dull and shy,

And she with gaze of vacancy,

The Poet and the Wood-Louse

And large hands folded on the tray,
Musing the afternoon away;
Her satin bosom heaving slow
With sighs that softly ebb and flow,
And her plain face in such dismay,
It seems unkind to look her way;
Until all cheerful back will come
Her cheerful gleaming spirit home:

And one would think that poor Miss Loo
Asked nothing else, if she had you.

Walter De la Mare [1873

THE POET AND THE WOOD-LOUSE

A PORTLY Wood-louse, full of cares,

Transacted eminent affairs

Along a parapet where pears

Unripened fell

And vines embellished the sweet airs

With muscatel.

Day after day beheld him run

His scales a-twinkle in the sun

About his business never done;

Night's slender span he

Spent in the home his wealth had won-

A red-brick cranny.

Thus, as his Sense of Right directed,
He lived both honored and respected,
Cherished his children and protected
His duteous wife,

And naught of diffidence deflected

His useful life.

One mid-day, hastening to his Club,

He spied beside a water-tub

The owner of each plant and shrub

A humble Bard

Who turned upon the conscious grub
A mild regard.

"Eh?" quoth the Wood-louse, "Can it be
A Higher Power looks down to see

1791

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