man's creed,

No wrinkled crones were they, as I had deemed,

But fair as yesterday, to-day, to-morrow, To mourner, lover, poet, ever seemed; Something too high for joy, too deep for

sorrow,

Thrilled in their tones, and from their faces gleamed.

"Still men and nations reap as they have strawn,"

So sang they, working at their task the while;

"The fatal raiment must be cleansed ere

dawn:

For Austria? Italy? the Sea-Queen's

isle ?

O'er what quenched grandeur must our shroud be drawn?

"Or is it for a younger, fairer corse, That gathered States like children round his knees,

That tamed the wave to be his posting-
Feller of forests, linker of the seas,
horse,
Bridge-builder, hammerer, youngest son

of Thor's ?

"What make we, murmur'st thou ? and what are we ?

When empires must be wound, we bring the shroud,

The time-old web of the implacable Three:

Is it too coarse for him, the young and proud?

Earth's mightiest deigned to wear it, why not he?

less brede,

Time shall be."

strong, so fair!

brook erewhile

66 SO

I turn in scorn to seek my king.

Shut in what tower of darkling chance Dream'st thou of battle-axe and lance Or dungeon of a narrow doom,

That for the Cross make crashing room?

Come with hushed breath the battle waits

In the wild van thy mace's swing;

BLONDEL.

Make thou thine own and ours, my

king!

O, strong to keep upright the old,
And wise to buttress with the new,
Prudent, as only are the bold,

Clear-eyed, as only are the true,
To foes benign, to friendship stern,

Intent to imp Law's broken wing, Who would not die, if death might earn The right to kiss thy hand, my king?

SCENE II. - An Inn near the Château of Chalus.

WELL, the whole thing is over, and here I sit

With one arm in a sling and a milk

score of gashes,

And this flagon of Cyprus must e'en warm my wit,

Since what's left of youth's flame is a head flecked with ashes.

I remember I sat in this very same

inn,

I was young then, and one young man thought I was handsome,

Richard was in,

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,

than you,

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, 'T was the kingship that failed in myself I was seeking,

'T is 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,

T is 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;