RAGLAN

АH! not because our Soldier died before his field was won ;

Ah! not because life would not last till life's long task were done. Wreathe one less leaf, grieve with less grief, — of all our hosts that led Not last in work and worth approv'd, Lord Raglan lieth dead.

His nobleness he had of none, War's Master taught him war,

And prouder praise that Master gave than meaner lips can mar;

Gone to his grave, his duty done; if farther any seek,

He left his life to answer them,— a soldier's, let it speak!

'T was his to sway a blunted sword, to fight a fated field,

While idle tongues talk'd victory, to struggle not to yield ;

Light task for placeman's ready pen to plan a field for fight,

Hard work and hot with steel and shot to win that field aright.

Tears have been shed for the brave dead mourn him who mourn'd for all! Praise hath been given for strife well striven; praise him who strove o'er all, Nor count that conquest little, though no banner flaunt it far,

That under him our English hearts beat Pain and Plague and War.

And if he held those English hearts too

good to pave the path

To idle victories, shall we grudge what noble palm he hath ?

Like ancient Chief he fought a-front, and mid his soldiers seen,

His work was aye as stern as theirs; oh!

make his grave as green.

They know him well, the Dead who died that Russian wrong should cease, Where Fortune doth not measure men,

their souls and his have peace ; Ay! as well spent in sad sick tent as they in bloody strife,

For English Homes our English Chief gave what he had, — his life.

VERSAILLES

(1784)

IN Carnival we were, and supp'd that night In a long room that overlook'd the Square, When that strange matter happ'd of which you ask.

We rang all pleasure's carillon that week; Feasts and rich shows, and hunting in the woods,

Light love that liv'd on change, deep drinking, mirth

As mad as Nero's on the Palatine ;

The women were as wild as we, and, like The King's, our money flew about in showers.

They said, "The people starv'd"; it could not be ;

We spent a million on the Carnival.

And now for fifty years gone by I have heard

"The people starve”

useless beasts

Why then do the

Pale as that madman Damiens on the day He met the torture and across the bar He lean'd, and saw the white square in the

moon.

Men mock'd, and let him be they knew his mood;

One of his Highland trances, so they said; But I kept watch the grim gray North in him, Midst of our Gallic lightness, pleas'd me well.

I watch'd and mark'd above his head the moon,

That shone like pearl amid the western heaven,

Suddenly swallow'd up by a vast cloud, With edges like red lightning, but the rest Of the sky and stars was clear, and the rushing noise

Now louder swell'd, like cataracts of rain. And then I saw how Drummond toss'd his

And laughter please the night — when momently

The moon went out, and from the darkness stream'd

A hissing flood of rain that where it fell Changed into blood, and 'twixt the courtyard stones

Blood well'd as water from a mountain moss;

And the gay crowd, unwitting, walk'd in it :

Bubbling it rose past ankle, knee, and waist, From waist to throat; and still they walk'd as if

They knew it not, until a fierce wind lash'd The crimson sea, and beat it into waves, And when its waves smote on their faces, then

They'knew and shriek'd, but all in vain; the blood,

Storming upon them, whelm'd and drown'd them all;

At which a blinding lightning like a knife Gash'd the cloud's breast, and dooming thunder peal'd.

I woke, and crying 'Horror' knew no

He takes our wages keeps

writes us down, but

A place in d'Artois' stable !" These are the scum

That Drummond fear'd

the man.

Artois shall flog

THE JUNGFRAU'S CRY

I, VIRGIN of the Snows, have liv'd
Uncounted years apart;

Mated with Sunlight, Stars and Heaven,
But I am cold at heart.

High mates! Ye teach me purity, And lonely thought and truth; But I have never liv'd, and yet

I have eternal youth.

Blow, tropic winds, and warm rains, fall, And melt my snowy crest;

Let soft woods clothe my shoulders fair, Deep grass lie on my breast.

And let me feed a thousand herds,
And hear the tinkling bells,
Till the brown châlets cluster close
In all my stream-fed dells.

So may
I hear the sweep of scythes,
And beating of the flails,

My maidens singing as they spin, And the voice of nightingales.

And little children in their joy,

And, where my violets hide,
Soft interchange of lovers' vows,
Sweet hymns at eventide.

Alas! cold Sunlight, Stars and Heaven,
My high companions, call.
The ice-clad life is pure and stern:
I am weary of it`all.

SONGS FROM "RIQUET OF THE

TUFT"

QUEEN'S SONG

YOUNG Sir Guyon proudly said, "Love shall never be my fate." "None can say so but the dead," Shriek'd the witch wife at his gate.

"Go and dare my shadow'd dell,
Love will quell your happy mood."
Guyon, laughing his farewell,
Rode into the faery wood.

There he met a maiden wild,
By a tree she stood alone;
When she look'd at him and smil'd,
At a breath his heart was gone.

In her arms she twin'd him fast, And, like wax within the flame, Melted memory of the past, Soul and body, name and fame.

Late at night the steed came back, "Where's our good knight?" cried his

men;

Far and near they sought his track, But Guyon no one saw again.

PRINCE RIQUET'S SONG

O LONG ago, when Faery-land
Arose new born, King Oberon
Walk'd pensive on the yellow strand,
And wearied, for he liv'd alone.

Why have I none, he said, to love?"
When soft a wind began to fleet
Across the moonlit sea, and drove
A lonely shallop to his feet.

Of pearl, and rubies red, and gold,
That shell was made, and in it lay
Titania fast asleep, and roll'd
In roses, and in flowers of May.

He wak'd her with a loving kiss,
Her arms around him softly clung;
And none can ever tell the bliss
These had when Faery-land was young.