( AFTER HOLBEIN )

H E is the despots' Despot. All must bide,
Later or soon, the message of his might;
Princes and potentates their heads must hide,
Touched by the awful sigil of his right;
Beside the Kaiser he at eve doth wait
And pours a potion in his cup of state;
The stately Queen his bidding must obey;
No keen-eyed Cardinal shall him affray;
And to the Dame that wantoneth he saith —
" Let be, Sweet-heart, to junket and to play. "
There is no King more terrible than Death.

Goddess of pleasure, where thy golden car?
Rides it on zephyrs through the unclouded sky?
Or mov'st thou with silken sails and silver
Oars down the smooth river, sported around
By daughters of the sea, fann'd by the wings
Of smiling loves; or on its shady bank
Do'st thou repose, lull'd by distant music
Stealing soft o'er its calm bosom? or sit'st
Thou in more cool retreat, some grotto dark
Of living marble hewn by nature's hand,
Catching the sound of mighty water-fall
Borne on the wind? Though 'neath unclouded skies

He is stark mad, who ever says,
That he hath been in love an hour,
Yet not that love so soon decays,
But that it can ten in less space devour;
Who will believe me, if I swear
That I have had the plague a year?
Who would not laugh at me, if I should say,
I saw a flask of powder burn a day?

Ah, what a trifle is a heart,
If once into love's hands it come!
All other griefs allow a part
To other griefs, and ask themselves but some;
They come to us, but us Love draws,
He swallows us, and never chaws:

He is not John the gardener,
And yet the whole day long
Employs himself most usefully,
The flower beds among.

He is not Tom the pussy cat,
And yet the other day,
With stealthy stride and glistening eye,
He crept upon his prey.

He is not Dash the dear old dog,
And yet, perhaps, if you
Took pains with him and petted him,
You'd come to love him too.

He's not a blackbird, though he chirps,
And though he once was black;
And now he wears a loose grey coat,
All wrinkled on the back.

Turn not from him, who asks of thee
A portion of thy store;
Though thou canst give no charity,
Thou canst do what is more.

The balm of comfort thou canst pour
Into his grieving mind,
Who oft is turn'd from wealth's proud door,
With many a word unkind.

Does any from the false world find,
Nought but reproach and scorn;
Does any, stung by words unkind,
Wish that he ne'er was born;

Do thou raise up his drooping heart;
Restore his wounded mind;
Though nought of wealth thou canst impart,
Yet still thou canst be kind.

The sound of children
playfully blowing
straw whistles
wakes me from my
summer afternoon nap.

He is dead, the beautiful youth,
The heart of honor, the tongue of truth,
He, the life and light of us all,
Whose voice was blithe as a bugle-call,
Whom all eyes followed with one consent,
The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night, as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,
He was humming the words of some old song:
"Two red roses he had on his cap
And another he bore at the point of his sword."

He hie fie finger
speak in simple sound
feels much better
lying down.

He toes is broken
all he foot go
rotten
now. He look

he hurt bad, see
danger all around he
no see before
come down on him.

He hears with gladdened heart the thunder
Peal, and loves the falling dew;
He knows the earth above and under —
Sits and is content to view.

He sits beside the dying ember,
God for hope and man for friend,
Content to see, glad to remember,
Expectant of the certain end.

He has come the way of the fighting men and fought by the rules of the game.
And out of Life he has gathered — what? A living — and little fame.
Ever and ever the Goal looms near — seeming each time worth while,
But ever it proves a mirage fair — ever the grim gods smile.
And so, with lips hard set and white, he buries the hope that is gone —
His fight is lost — and he knows it is lost — and yet he is fighting on.

Out of the smoke of the battle-line, watching men win their way
And cheering with those who cheer success, he enters again the fray,