Poems you ought to know . im, The father was of Tuscan song!There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide;Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his Hfe was, but a fight;Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite?To that cold Ghibelines gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions cameOf beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame ? The lips as Cumass cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within,D
Poems you ought to know . im, The father was of Tuscan song!There but the burning sense of wrong, Perpetual care and scorn abide;Small friendship for the lordly throng; Distrust of all the world Faithful if this wan image be, No dream his Hfe was, but a fight;Could any Beatrice see A lover in that anchorite?To that cold Ghibelines gloomy sight Who could have guessed the visions cameOf beauty, veiled with heavenly light, In circles of eternal flame ? The lips as Cumass cavern close, The cheeks with fast and sorrow thin,The rigid front, almost morose, But for the patient hope within,Declare a life whose course hath been Unsullied still, though still severe;Which, through the wavering days of sin. Kept itself icy-chaste and clear. Peace dwells not here—this rugged face Betrays no spirit of repose;The sullen warrior sole we trace. The marble man of many was his mien when first arose The thought of that strange tale divine,When hell he peopled with his foes. The scourge of many a guilty 127 BALLAD OF OLD TIME LADIES. BY FEANCOIS VILLON. This ballad, of which we give Dante Gabriel Rossettis translation,was written by Villon in 1450. There are many translations of thepoems of that beggar, poet, thief—that first lucid poet of France. An-drew Lang has interpreted him in one way, John Payne in following translation is, perhaps, the happiest of this particularpoem, though the ballad cannot but lose some of its spirit in an Knglishrendering. Tell me, now, in what hidden way is Lady Flora the lovely Roman?.Wheres Hipparchia, and where is Thais— Neither of them the fairer woman?.Where is Echo, beheld of no man, Only heard on river and mere—She whose beauty was more than human? But where are the snows of yesteryear? Wheres Heloise, the learned nun. For whose sake Abeillard, I ween,Lost manhood and put priesthood on? (From love he won such dule and teen!)JAnd where, I pray you, is the Queen Who willed that Buridan should steer,Sewed i
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