A Jongleur Strayed | Page 2

common Cabby, for the time being combining in himself
the several functions of guide-book, chattel-mortgage and writ of
habeas corpus on the person of the most popular literary idol of the
hour and all for the matter of maybe no more than half a crown,
including the pourboire!
Who would not have rejoiced to change places with that cabman! And
how might not Pegasus have envied that cab-horse!

Now after all these years it has come to pass that I am to change places
with the cabman.
Perched aloft in the driver's seat of the First Person Singular, it is my
proud privilege to crack the prefatory whip and start this newest and
best Le Gallienne Vehicle upon its course through the garlanded Via
Laurea to the Sign of the Golden Sheaf.
Look at it well, Dear People, before it starts, this golden vehicle of
Richard Le Gallienne.
Consider how it is built on the authentic lines of the best workmanship,
made to last for generations, maybe for ever.
Take note of its springs so perfectly hung that the Muse may ride in
luxurious ease, unjarred by metrical joltings as befits the Queen.
Mark the mirror smooth surface of the lacquer that only time and
tireless labour can apply.

Before this Master Coach of Poesy the rattle-jointed Tin Lizzie of Free
Verse and the painted jazz wagon of Futurism and the cheap imitation
of the Chinese palanquin must turn aside, they have no right of way,
these literary road-lice on the garlanded Via Laurea.
With angry thumb, the traffic cop Time will jerk them back to the side
streets and byways where they belong, to make way for the Golden
Coach of Richard Le Gallienne.
OLIVER HERFORD
I
AN ECHO FROM HORACE
_Lusisti est, et edisti, atque bibisti;
Tempus abire, tibi est._
Take away the dancing girls, quench the lights, remove
Golden cups
and garlands sere, all the feast; away
Lutes and lyres and Lalage;
close the gates, above
Write upon the lintel this; _Time is done for
play!
Thou hast had thy fill of love, eaten, drunk; the show
Ends at
last, 'twas long enough--time it is to go._
Thou hast played--ah! heart, how long!--past all count were they, Girls
of gold and ivory, bosomed deep, all snow,
Leopard swift, and velvet
loined, bronze for hair, wild clay Turning at a touch to flame, tense as a
strung bow.
Cruel as the circling hawk, tame at last as dove,--
Thou
hast had thy fill and more than enough of love.
Thou hast eaten; peacock's tongues,--fed thy carp with slaves,-- Nests
of Asiatic birds, brought from far Cathay,
Umbrian boars, and mullet
roes snatched from stormy waves; Half thy father's lands have gone one
strange meal to pay; For a morsel on thy plate ravished sea and shore;

Thou hast eaten--'tis enough, thou shalt eat no more.
Thou hast drunk--how hast thou drunk! mighty vats, whole seas;
Vineyards purpling half a world turned to gold thy throat, Falernian,

true Massic, the gods' own vintages,
Lakes thou hast swallowed deep
enough galleys tall to float; Wildness, wonder, wisdom, all,
drunkenness divine,
All that dreams within the grape, madness too,
were thine.
Time it is to go and sleep--draw the curtains close--
Tender strings
shall lull thee still, mellow flutes be blown, Still the spring shall shower
down on thy couch the rose, Still the laurels crown thine head, where
thou dreamest alone. Thou didst play, and thou didst eat, thou hast
drunken deep, Time at last it is to go, time it is to sleep.
BALLADE OF THE OLDEST DUEL IN THE WORLD
A battered swordsman, slashed and scarred,
I scarce had thought to
fight again,
But love of the old game dies hard,
So to't, my lady, if
you're fain!
I'm scarce the mettle to refrain,
I'll ask no quarter from
your art--
But what if we should both be slain!
I fight you, darling,
for your heart.
I warn you, though, be on your guard,
Nor an old swordsman's craft
disdain,
He jests at scars--what saith the Bard?
Love's wounds are
real, and fierce the pain;
If we should die of love, we twain!
You
laugh--en garde then--so we start;
Cyrano-like, here's my refrain:
I
fight you, darling, for your heart.
If compliments I interlard
Twixt feint and lunge, you'll not complain

Lacking your eyes, the night's un-starred,
The rose is beautiful in
vain,
In vain smells sweet--Rose-in-the-Brain,
Dizzying the
world--a touch! sweet smart!--
Only the envoi doth remain:
I fight
you, darling, for your heart.
ENVOI
Princess, I'm yours; the rose-red rain
Pours from my side--but see! I
dart
Within your guard--poor pretty stain!
I fight you, darling, for
your heart.

SORCERY
Face with the forest eyes,
And the wayward wild-wood hair,
How
shall a man be wise,
When a girl's so fair;
How, with her face once
seen,
Shall life be as it has been,
This many a year?
Beautiful fearful thing!
You undulant sorcery!
I dare not hear you
sing,
Dance not for me;
The whiteness of your breast,
Divinely
manifest
I must not see.
Too late, thou