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    Grass Of Paranassus
    Grass Of Paranassus
    Grass Of Paranassus
    Ebook65 pages41 minutes

    Grass Of Paranassus

    By Andrew Lang

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    About this ebook

    Andrew Lang was a Scottish poet, novelist, literary critic, and contributor to the field of anthropology. He is best known as a collector of folk and fairy tales.
    LanguageEnglish
    Publisheranamsaleem
    Release dateDec 3, 2018
    ISBN9788829572410
    Grass Of Paranassus
    Author

    Andrew Lang

    Andrew Lang (1844–1912) was a Scottish scholar and writer, best known for his folklore and mythological tales. After college, he moved to London and began working as a journalist. He began collecting fairytales and folklore stories for his first collection, The Blue Fairy Book. The Fairy Books contained hundreds of pages of folklore stories, which Lang edited while his wife helped translate. Receiving acclaim, the books totaled in 427 stories combined in twelve collections. Lang also produced his own original writing, including novels, literary criticism, and poetry, but his work did not attain the same literary recognition.

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      Book preview

      Grass Of Paranassus - Andrew Lang

      Grass of Parnassus

      Andrew Lang

      .

      GRASS OF PARNASSUS.

      Pale star that by the lochs of Galloway,

      In wet green places 'twixt the depth and height

      Dost keep thine hour while Autumn ebbs away,

      When now the moors have doffed the heather bright,

      Grass of Parnassus, flower of my delight,

      How gladly with the unpermitted bay--

      Garlands not mine, and leaves that not decay--

      How gladly would I twine thee if I might!

      The bays are out of reach! But far below

      The peaks forbidden of the Muses' Hill,

      Grass of Parnassus, thy returning snow

      Between September and October chill

      Doth speak to me of Autumns long ago,

      And these kind faces that are with me still.

      DEEDS OF MEN

      [Greek text]

      To Colonel Ian Hamilton.

      To you, who know the face of war,

      You, that for England wander far,

      You that have seen the Ghazis fly

      From English lads not sworn to die,

      You that have lain where, deadly chill,

      The mist crept o'er the Shameful Hill,

      You that have conquered, mile by mile,

      The currents of unfriendly Nile,

      And cheered the march, and eased the strain

      When Politics made valour vain,

      Ian, to you, from banks of Ken,

      We send our lays of Englishmen!

      SEEKERS FOR A CITY.

      "Believe me, if that blissful, that beautiful place, were set on a hill visible to all the world, I should long ago have journeyed thither. . . But the number and variety of the ways! For you know, THERE IS BUT ONE ROAD THAT LEADS TO CORINTH."

      HERMOTIMUS (Mr Pater's Version).

      "The Poet says, DEAR CITY OF CECROPS, and wilt thou not say, DEAR CITY OF ZEUS?"

      M. ANTONINUS.

      TO CORINTH LEADS ONE ROAD, you say:

      Is there a Corinth, or a way?

      Each bland or blatant preacher hath

      His painful or his primrose path,

      And not a soul of all of these

      But knows the city 'twixt the seas,

      Her fair unnumbered homes and all

      Her gleaming amethystine wall!

      Blind are the guides who know the way,

      The guides who write, and preach, and pray,

      I watch their lives, and I divine

      They differ not from yours and mine!

      One man we knew, and only one,

      Whose seeking for a city's done,

      For what he greatly sought he found,

      A city girt with fire around,

      A city in an empty land

      Between the wastes of sky and sand,

      A city on a river-side,

      Where by the folk he loved, he died. {1}

      Alas! it is not ours to tread

      That path wherein his life he led,

      Not ours his heart to dare and feel,

      Keen as the fragrant Syrian steel;

      Yet are we not quite city-less,

      Not wholly left in our distress--

      Is it not said by One of old,

      Sheep have I of another fold?

      Ah! faint of heart, and weak of will,

      For us there is a city still!

      Dear city of Zeus, the Stoic says, {2}

      The Voice from Rome's imperial days,

      In Thee meet all things, and disperse,

      In Thee, for Thee, O Universe!

      To me all's fruit thy seasons bring,

      Alike thy summer and thy spring;

      The winds that wail, the suns that burn,

      From Thee proceed, to Thee return.

      Dear city of Zeus, shall WE not say,

      Home to which none can lose the way!

      Born in that city's flaming bound,

      We do not find her, but are found.

      Within her wide and

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