I had found out what

Richard was in,

And was spurring for England to push on the ransom.

How I scorned the dull souls that sat guzzling around

And knew not my secret nor recked my derision!

Let the world sink or swim, John or Richard be crowned,

All one, so the beer-tax got lenient revision.

How little I dreamed, as I tramped up and down,

That granting our wish one of Fate's saddest jokes is !

I had mine with a vengeance, - my king got his crown,

And made his whole business to break other folks's.

I might as well join in the safe old tum, tum:

A hero's an excellent loadstar,

bless ye,

but,

What infinite odds 'twixt a hero to come And your only too palpable hero in esse ! Precisely the odds (such examples are rife)

"Twixt the poem conceived and the rhyme we make show of,

"Twixt the boy's morning dream and the wake-up of life,

"Twixt the Blondel God meant and a Blondel I know of!

But the world's better off, I'm convinced of it now,

Than if heroes, like buns, could be bought for a penny To regard all mankind as their haltered milch-cow,

And just care for themselves. Well, God cares for the many; For somehow the poor old Earth blunders along,

Each son of hers adding his mite of unfitness,

And, choosing the sure way of coming out wrong,

Gets to port as the next generation will witness.

You think her old ribs have come all

crashing through,

And our sins cannot push the Lord's right hand from under.

Better one honest man who can wait for God's mind

In our poor shifting scene here though heroes were plenty!

Better one bite, at forty, of Truth's bitter rind,

Than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty!

I see it all now: when I wanted a king, 'Twas the kingship that failed in myself I was seeking,

'Tis so much less easy to do than to sing,

So much simpler to reign by a proxy than be king!

Yes, I think I do see: after all's said and sung,

Take this one rule of life and you

never will rue it,

'Tis but do your own duty and hold your own tongue

And Blondel were royal himself, if he knew it !

MEMORIÆ POSITUM.

R. G. SHAW

I.

BENEATH the trees,

My lifelong friends in this dear spot,
Sad now for eyes that see them not,
I hear the autumnal breeze

Wake the dry leaves to sigh for gladness gone,

Whispering vague omens of oblivion,
Hear, restless as the seas,
Time's grim feet rustling through the
withered grace

Of many a spreading realm and strongstemmed race,

Even as my own through these.

Why make we moan

For loss that doth enrich us yet With upward yearnings of regret? Bleaker than unmossed stone

cobweb asunder;

No lore of Greece or Rome, No science peddling with the names of things,

Or reading stars to find inglorious fates,
Čan lift our life with wings
Far from Death's idle gulf that for the
many waits,

And lengthen out our dates With that clear fame whose memory sings In manly hearts to come, and nerves them and dilates:

Nor such thy teaching, Mother of us all!
Not such the trumpet-call
Of thy diviner mood,
That could thy sons entice
From happy homes and toils, the fruit-
ful nest

Of those half-virtues which the world calls best,

Into War's tumult rude;

But rather far that stern device The sponsors chose that round thy cradle stood

In the dim, unventured wood,

The VERITAS that lurks beneath The letter's unprolific sheath, Life of whate'er makes life worth Seed-grain of high emprise, immortal living,

food,

One heavenly thing whereof earth hath the giving.

Amid the dust of books to find her, Content at last, for guerdon of their toil, With the cast mantle she hath left behind her.

Many in sad faith sought for her, Many with crossed hands sighed for her;

But these, our brothers, fought for
her

At life's dear peril wrought for her,
So loved her that they died for her,
Tasting the raptured fleetness
Of her divine completeness:

Their higher instinct knew Those love her best who to themselves are true,

And what they dare to dream of, dare to

do;

They followed her and found her Where all may hope to find,