Some might lament that I were cold, They might lament-for I am one Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 238 Percy Bysshe Shelley WHE HEN I have fears that I may cease to be Before high-pilèd books, in charact❜ry, Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain; When I behold, upon the night's starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; Of unreflecting love!-then on the shore John Keats 239 I IN THE SHADOWS F it must be; if it must be, O God! That I die young, and make no further moans; That underneath the unrespective sod, In unescutcheoned privacy, my bones Shall crumble soon,—then give me strength to bear I tremble from the edge of life, to dare David Gray 240 EPISTLE IN FORM OF A BALLAD TO HIS FRIENDS1 [AVE pity, pity, friends, have pity on me, HAVE Thus much at least, may it please you, of your grace! I lie not under hazel or hawthorn-tree Down in this dungeon ditch, mine exile's place Throats clear as bells that ring the kine to shed, Singers that sing at pleasure, lawlessly, Light, laughing, gay of word and deed, that race And run like folk light-witted as ye be And have in hand nor current coin nor base, Ye wait too long, for now he's dying apace. Rhymers of lays and roundels sung and read, 1 Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne. Ye'll brew him broth too late when he lies dead. Nor wind nor lightning, sunbeam nor fresh air, O noble folk from tithes and taxes free, Come and behold him in this piteous case, Which makes his teeth like rakes; and when he hath fed Must drench his bowels with much cold watery fare, With board nor stool, but low on earth instead; Princes afore-named, old and young foresaid, So swine will help each other ill bested, For where one squeaks they run in heaps ahead. François Villon 241 THE EPITAPH IN FORM OF A BALLAD WHICH VILLON MADE FOR HIMSELF AND HIS COMRADES, EX PECTING TO BE HANGED ALONG WITH THEM EN, brother men, that after us yet live, MEN Let not your hearts too hard against us be; For if some pity of us poor men ye give, 1 Translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne. 1 And here the flesh that all too well we fed But pray to God that he forgive us all. If we call on you, brothers, to forgive, Ye should not hold our prayer in scorn, though we With him that of a virgin's womb was bred, For us, nor let hell's thunder on us fall; The rain has washed and laundered us all five, Prince Jesus, that of all art lord and head, Be not ye therefore of our fellowhead, François Villon 242 I A BARD'S EPITAPH S there a whim-inspired fool, Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, And owre this grassy heap sing dool, Is there a bard of rustic song, But, with a frater-feeling strong, Is there a man whose judgment clear Here pause—and, thro' the starting tear, The poor inhabitant below Was quick to learn, and wise to know, But thoughtless follies laid him low, Blate: bashful Dool: grief Snool: fawn |