( THE VANGUARD II )

They say, in all kindness, I'm out of the hunt —
Too old and too deaf to be sent to the Front.
A scribbler of stories, a maker of songs,
To the fireside and armchair my valour belongs!
Yet in campaigns all hopeless, in bitterest strife,
I have been at the Front all the days of my life.

O your girl feels a princess, your people are proud,
As you march down the street, to the cheers of the crowd;
And the Nation's behind you and cloudless your sky,

O Love, O Life, our faith and sight
Thy presence maketh one!
As through transfigured clouds of white
We trace the noonday sun,
So, to our mortal eyes subdued,
Flesh-veiled, but not concealed,
We know in thee the fatherhood
And heart of God revealed.

We faintly hear, we dimly see,
In differing phrase we pray,
But, dim or clear, we own in thee
The Light, the Truth, the Way;
And thou art Master of us all,
Whate'er our name or sign;
We own thy sway, we hear thy call,
We test our lives by thine.

I've been fond of dewlaps since
first reading about them in Joyce —
you know, when the young Stephen Dedalus's
father is imitating a hotel keeper by saying,
" He's very moist and watery about the dewlaps,
God bless him, " a few pages before he utters
another phrasal marvel, " the Pope's nose, "
to name the butt-flap on the Christmas turkey.
Now I'm growing my own,
a mortal observation of the mystery
of gravity working upon meat

Still, I choose to celebrate dewlaps,
and for this undertaking I select

In Rome there is a glorious flight of stone,
Great steps, as leading to a giant's throne;
Or to a temple of Titanic gods,
This marvellous height, up which the pilgrim plods,
Breathless halfway, seems like a stairway tracked
By myriad feet of some wild cataract;
Like those where Nilus, with his flag of spray,
Leads his wild Abyssinian floods away.

Below this giant stairway, in the square,
There springs a cooling murmur in the air;
The liquid music of a tinkling rill;
A stolen naiad from the Sabine hill,

In Praise of the worthy patriotic C HAMBERLAIN , Sir T HEODORE J ANSSEN .

When Vice triumphant lords it in a State,
And foulest Actions stigmatize the Great,
Who but with Honesty of Soul must praise
That Man, whose Conduct in these canker'd Days ,
Can stand the Test, above Detraction's Brawl,
And makes Integrity his All in All?
Nor think I paint too high — I'll give you Proof,
J ANSSEN'S that Man — e'en Envy speaks this Truth.

A younger poet wrote to ask
an older for a blurb.
The older poet said Perhaps,
which meant Do Not Disturb

But when the older poet saw
a photo of the lad,
the older man dipped his pen
and wrote that he'd be glad

to offer up the richest praise:
If Bishop wed Magritte,
these villanelles would be their spawn.
And maybe they should meet.

The younger poet cleaned his room.
He wore his tightest shirt:
when he fawned, he squeezed his arms,
his flex a sort of flirt.

They drank. The day went dark, then dead

A tall, slight, English gentleman,
With an eyeglass to his eye;
He mostly says " Good-Bai " to you,
When he means to say " Good-bye " ;
He shakes hands like a ladies' man,
For all the world to see —
But they know, in Corners of the World,
No ladies' man is he.

A tall, slight English gentleman,
Who hates to soil his hands;
He takes his mother's drawing-room
To the most outlandish lands;
And when, through Hells we dream not of
His battery prevails,
He cleans the grime of gunpowder
And blue blood from his nails.

The loud Vitura rings along the way,
White as the road with dust. The purple day,
O'er Monte Mario, dies from off the dome,
And, lo! the first star leads us into Rome.

Oh, glorious city! Through the deep'ning shade
A thousand heroes, like the gods arrayed,
And bards, with laurel rustling on their hair,
Walk proudly, and speak grandly, till the air
Is full of solemn majesty, and night
Is half way robbed by temples marble white.
Yon tramping steeds, and yonder glittering wheel—
Chariot a Cæsar—while the commonweal

With the Laws terrors that the heart affright,
Insuing him that follows not aright,
Living sans guidance of that holy Law ,
Living without all conscience, feare, or aw,
In threatning wise him from his sin to drive,
A mingled balm of mercy, to revive,
Much terrifi'd thereby, the drooping heart,

My Reverend Lord, thou dost full well impart.
Very well Law and Gospell mingled right,
Rightly the Gospell heals, as Law doth fright.
Rightcousnesse most straight doth Law require;
And Gods good Gospel no more doth desire,

Is help to your own soul, by Theory
Of the well practized divinity;
So help to others souls you do afford,
Ever revealing to them Gods blest Word,
Publishing it, that all men who attend,
Hearing may thereby save thee in the end.

Help unto some your books do well afford,
And unto others, like a Reverend Lord,
Lively your bounty in their wants appeare,
Letting such know, that Oh all help is here.