From these fascinating spring lyrics and idylls we pass to the romantic ballads.  One artistic faculty Miss Robinson certainly possesses—­the faculty of imitation.  There is an element of imitation in all the arts; it is to be found in literature as much as in painting, and the danger of valuing it too little is almost as great as the danger of setting too high a value upon it.  To catch, by dainty mimicry, the very mood and manner of antique work, and yet to retain that touch of modern passion without which the old form would be dull and empty; to win from long-silent lips some faint echo of their music, and to add to it a music of one’s own; to take the mode and fashion of a bygone age, and to experiment with it, and search curiously for its possibilities; there is a pleasure in all this.  It is a kind of literary acting, and has something of the charm of the art of the stage-player.  And how well, on the whole, Miss Robinson does it!  Here is the opening of the ballad of Rudel: 

   There was in all the world of France
      No singer half so sweet: 
   The first note of his viol brought
      A crowd into the street.

   He stepped as young, and bright, and glad
      As Angel Gabriel. 
   And only when we heard him sing
      Our eyes forgot Rudel.

   And as he sat in Avignon,
      With princes at their wine,
   In all that lusty company
      Was none so fresh and fine.

   His kirtle’s of the Arras-blue,
      His cap of pearls and green;
   His golden curls fall tumbling round
      The fairest face I’ve seen.

How Gautier would have liked this from the same poem!—­

   Hew the timbers of sandal-wood,
      And planks of ivory;
   Rear up the shining masts of gold,
      And let us put to sea.

   Sew the sails with a silken thread
      That all are silken too;
   Sew them with scarlet pomegranates
      Upon a sheet of blue.

   Rig the ship with a rope of gold
      And let us put to sea. 
   And now, good-bye to good Marseilles,
      And hey for Tripoli!

The ballad of the Duke of Gueldres’s wedding is very clever: 

   ’O welcome, Mary Harcourt,
      Thrice welcome, lady mine;
   There’s not a knight in all the world
      Shall be as true as thine.

   ’There’s venison in the aumbry, Mary,
      There’s claret in the vat;
   Come in, and breakfast in the hall
      Where once my mother sat!’

   O red, red is the wine that flows,
      And sweet the minstrel’s play,
   But white is Mary Harcourt
      Upon her wedding-day.

   O many are the wedding guests
      That sit on either side;
   But pale below her crimson flowers
      And homesick is the bride.