The Battle of the Bays by Owen Seaman 1.A SONG OF RENUNCIATION. (AFTER A. C. S.) In the days of my season of salad, When the down was as dew on my cheek, And for French I was bred on the ballad, For Greek on the writers of Greek, -- Then I sang of the rose that is ruddy, Of 'pleasure that winces and stings, ' Of white women and wine that is bloody, And similar things. Of Delight that is dear as Desi-er, And Desire that is dear as Delight; Of the fangs of the flame that is fi-er, Of the bruises of kisses that bite; Of embraces that clasp and that sever, Of blushes that flutter and flee Round the limbs of Dolores, whoever Dolores may be. I sang of false faith that is fleeting As froth of the swallowing seas, Time's curse that is fatal as Keating Is fatal to amorous fleas; Of the wanness of woe that is whelp of The lust that is blind as a bat-- By the help of my Muse and the help of The relative THAT Panatheist, bruiser and breaker Of kings and the creatures of kings, I shouted on Freedom to shake her Feet loose of the fetter that clings; Far rolling my ravenous red eye, And lifting a mutinous lid, To all monarchs and matrons I said I Would shock them-and did. Thee I sang, and thy loves, O Thalassian, O 'noble and nude and antique!' Unashamed in the 'fearless old fashion' Ere washing was done by the week; When the 'roses and rapture' that girt you Were visions of delicate vice, And the 'lilies and languors of virtue' Not nearly so nice. O delights of the time of my teething, Félise, Fragoletta, Yolande! Foam-yeast of a youth in its seething On blasted and blithering sand! Snake-crowned on your tresses and belted With blossoms that coil and decay, Ye are gone; ye are lost; ye are melted Like ices in May. Hushed now is the bibulous bubble Of 'lithe and lascivious' throats; Long stript and extinct is the stubble Of hoary and harvested oats; From the sweets that are sour as the sorrel's The bees have abortively swarmed; And Algernon's earlier morals Are fairly reformed. I have written a loyal Armada, And posed in a Jubilee pose; I have babbled of babies and played a New tune on the turn of their toes; Washed white from the stain of Astarte, My books any virgin may buy; And I hear I am praised by a party Called Something Mackay! When erased are the records, and rotten The meshes of memory's net; When the grace that forgives has forgotten The things that are good to forget; When the trill of my juvenile trumpet Is dead and its echoes are dead; Then the laurel shall lie on the crumpet And crown of my head! 2.FOR THE ALBUMS OF CROWNED HEADS ONLY. (AFTER SIR E. A.) 1. From the third Sa'dine Box of the eighth Gazelle of Ghazal. Yá Yá! Best-Belovéd! I look to thy dimples and drink; Tiddlihî! to thy cheek-pits and chin-pit, my Tulip, my Pink! See my heart rises up like a bubble, and bursts in my throat, And the dimples that draw it are Three, like the Men in a Boat.... We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public. The aim of our publishing program is to facilitate rapid access to this vast reservoir of literature, and our view is that this is a significant literary work, which deserves to be brought back into print after many decades. The contents of the vast majority of titles in the Classic Library have been scanned from the original works. To ensure a high quality product, each title has been meticulously hand curated by our staff. Our philosophy has been guided by a desire to provide the reader with a book that is as close as possible to ownership of the original work. We hope that you will enjoy this wonderful classic work, and that for you it becomes an enriching experience.