JC-NRLF 
 
/ b I R ., . t S Y"\ 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 I UNIVEBSITY Of 
 
 ^-/ 
 
HAILEYBURY VERSES. 
 
 HERTFORD : 
 
 STEPHEN AUSTIN AND SONS, FORE STREET. 
 1882. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
 HERTFORD : 
 
 PRINTED BY STEPHEN AUSTIN AND SONS. 
 
PRins 
 
 lm 
 
 TO 
 
 MRS. BRADBY, 
 
 AS A SLIGHT TOKEN OF GRATITUDE 
 FOR 
 
 THE KINDLY INFLUENCE 
 WHICH SHE HAS EXERCISED OVER THE SCHOOL, 
 
 jig 3Ltttie 
 
 IS DEDICATED. 
 
 533 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SOLITUDE . . . . .1 
 
 THE SLUGGARD . . . 2 
 
 THE RIVER . . . . -4 
 
 FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOTTEN ... 5 
 
 SONG . . . . . .6 
 
 HERODOTUS AT ATHENS . . . 7 
 
 SESQUIPEDALIA . . . . . IO 
 
 SONG . . . .12 
 
 A HAILEYBURY YARN . . . -13 
 
 IN MEMORIAM 19 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY'S EPITAPH . . .20 
 
 CURSORY RHYMES .... 21 
 
 SEA PICTURES . . . . .24 
 
 "INSCRIPTION ON A BUDDHIST BELL, YEZO, JAPAN" 26 
 
 THE TURN OF THE TIDE . . . .26 
 
 BABEL ..... 28 
 
 CARTHAGE . . . . . 32 
 A FACE . . . . .34 
 
 NIGHT AT AVIGNON . . . .35 
 
 SUNSET ..... 36 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 "THE POET'S DREAM" . . . .37 
 
 ORPHEUS' SONG .... 41 
 
 LUCCIOLE . . . . .43 
 
 "THE OLD CRIMEA" ... 45 
 
 FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS . . .46 
 
 MORNING ON THE THAMES ... 48 
 
 "YE ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH" . . -5* 
 
 THREE VOICES . . . . 6 1 
 
 SONNET . . . . .62 
 
 THE DEATH OF JUDAS MACCABEUS . . 63 
 
Vll 
 
 NOMS DE PLUME. 
 
 avptov afiiov . 
 EROS ... 
 
 N^(T09 ... 
 
 BOB ... 
 
 OLIM HAILEYBURIENSIS 
 
 L 
 
 MERLIN ... 
 
 R. H. D. 
 
 S 
 
 W. H. S. 
 
 REV. G. E. JEANS. 
 J. RENNELL RODD. 
 H. M'L. INNES. 
 R. H. B. SIMPSON. 
 H. ABELL. 
 R. G. LEGGE. 
 F. H. TRENCH. 
 
 R. H. DOMENICHETTI. 
 
 R. F. SHARP. 
 W. H. SAVILE. 
 
vin 
 
 WHILE yet from far we hear the sullen waves 
 That beat along the weary shores of life, 
 And still the murmur of the coming strife 
 Is but a sound for us, we that still be 
 Within the precincts of thine old grey walls, 
 O Haileybury, give thee heartfelt thanks ; 
 Thanks for the manhood thou hast striven to raise. 
 Thanks for the word, perchance in other days 
 To blossom into deed ; and when, as men, 
 Mayhap grown grey of years, we come again 
 And wander through the playing fields once more, 
 And hear the boyish laughter as of yore, 
 Or turn aside with eyes and heart half -sad 
 That such sweet idle hours are done for us ; 
 And enter ^vhere the shadowed dome of prayer 
 Stands golden-crossed aloft in sunny air, 
 Then shall grey-headed manhood kneel and pray 
 That, 'ere the peril of his future way, 
 Each lad may learn to choose the noblest goal, 
 And grave thy " Sursum Corda" on his soul. 
 
 MERLIN. 
 
HAILEYBURY VERSES. 
 
 SOLITUDE. 
 
 THE sun had dipt behind, an Alpine crest, 
 Leaving one blush on the last belt of snow, 
 
 That softly lay against the cold clear west. 
 All else was dark ; no sound of streamlet's flow 
 
 Rose from the depths of the ravine below. 
 
 The slumb'rous pines became weird shadowy 
 forms, 
 
 And in the death-deep calm forgot past storms. 
 
 Then, slowly 'merging from the hollow gloom, 
 On dusky pinions flapping round and round 
 With sudden swoop, two mountain vultures loom 
 
 Above the precipices silence-bound, 
 Wheeling this way and that, as though they found 
 No other scope for their ill-boding flight 
 But in the awful spaces of the night. 
 
2 THE SLUGGARD. 
 
 Until at length a smile of dawn began 
 
 To flicker on the snows, and as it stole 
 From peak to peak and quite removed the ban, 
 The mountains, like some great sad human 
 
 soul, 
 From which long-brooding clouds of sorrow 
 
 roll, 
 
 Looked up upon the sky's fresh face above, 
 All happy for the sweet return of love. 
 
 w. H. s. 
 
 THE SLUGGARD. 
 
 AWAY with the Sluggard, who drowsily sleeps 
 
 Till the chapel warningly rings, 
 Then quick from the mattress he hurriedly leaps, 
 
 And hastens to pull on his things. 
 
 He tugs at his boots with a strength of despair, 
 Gets perfectly wild with the laces ; 
 
 The labouring linen subsides in a tear, 
 And crack go the much-mended braces. 
 
THE SLUGGARD. 3 
 
 Then a hunt for the tooth-brush, till losing all 
 hope, 
 
 He discovers it under his bed ; 
 Just a swish of the sponge, and a twirl of the soap, 
 
 And he hurriedly towels his head. 
 
 Then the buttons fly here and the collar stud 
 
 there, 
 
 As he enters his shirt with a rush ; 
 And, supposing there's time, he will favour his 
 
 hair 
 With a cursory sweep of the brush. 
 
 Then his tie must be tied, and his waistcoat 
 pulled on, 
 
 And his cap (which was lost in the fray) ; 
 And his coat, but the buttoning needn't be done : 
 
 It will do very well on the way. 
 
 Then away to the chapel ; he's nearly got there, 
 When the pitiless clock sounds his knell, 
 
 And Campbell stands by with a business-like air, 
 Triumphantly tinkling his bell. 
 
THE RIVER. 
 
 DOWN from the rocks with music making murmur, 
 Then through the green fields, bubbling o'er the 
 
 pebbles ; 
 
 Swelled here and there by other little streamlets, 
 Flows on the river. 
 
 Now through some garden full of coloured flowers, 
 Where, in the summer, basking in the shadows, 
 Birds, of a plumage brilliant, pour their ditties 
 Into the welkin. 
 
 Now through the woodlands, where the sacred 
 
 Naiads 
 
 Lead up their dances on thy mossy margin ; 
 Then when they've finished, dip their virgin bodies 
 Into the water. 
 
 Here now a grayling sleeps among the rushes ; 
 Here on thy waters floats a swan majestic : 
 Thus flows the fleeting river, till at length it 
 Reaches the ocean. 
 
 THOMAS PERCY SWIFT. 
 
FORGIVEN, NOT FORGOTTEN. 
 
 CHILD of the dark eyes, do you know 
 What it is makes me kiss you so ? 
 'Tis that your eyes are dark and deep, 
 And Love in their low depths seems to sleep 
 As in those of my love when he kissed me so, 
 Long ago, ah, long ago ! 
 
 Child of the dark hair, can you guess 
 Why from your head I cut a tress ? 
 Because his lock of the same dark hue 
 I burnt in scorn when he proved untrue ; 
 But now I could look on it calmly, so, 
 It was so long, so long ago ! 
 
 ISAMON. 
 
 v k 
 
SONG. 
 
 So long have I missed thee, come once more, 
 
 Spirit of holy wonder ; 
 Bring back to this dull cold heart of mine 
 The magic glow of the soft sunshine 
 
 And the cataract's voice of thunder. 
 Show me new depths of mystic lore 
 In the heart of the sea, on the face of the shore ; 
 Spirit of wonder, come once more ! 
 
 Thou that dcrst haunt the child's still mind 
 
 As the dawn of his years is breaking, 
 And the eyes of womankind fathomless, 
 Through a depth of love they would fain express, 
 
 When first love's voice is speaking : 
 Come to the older world-worn mind, 
 Lest a film spread over and make it blind 
 To all that is fair before and behind. 
 
 w. H. s. 
 
HERODOTUS AT ATHENS. 
 
 FROM "HERODOTUS," PRIZE POEM, 1876. 
 
 # & ^ # # 
 
 AND, when the plaudits of the crowd are still, 
 A stranger rises, whom they do not know. 
 With thrilling voice, and words that seem to fill 
 Each heart with eager longing, till they grow 
 All wrapt in listening, and the words still flow 
 In limpid eloquent streams, he leads them on 
 Through all their history's maze, till o'er him 
 
 slow 
 
 Outspreads the radiance of the setting sun, 
 While peals his clear voice out the tale of 
 Marathon. 
 
 And they had sat long hours until this, 
 The climax of his story ; they had heard 
 Of giant town and giant wilderness, 
 With wistful wonder, till that magic word 
 Burst from his lips. Then, with one impulse 
 stirred, 
 
8 HERODOTUS AT ATHENS. 
 
 Ten thousand tongues were loosed with shouts 
 
 that fell 
 
 Upon the evening air, and undeterred 
 For all he waved them back, the rushing swell 
 As one in triumph bore him to the citadel. 
 
 They gave him talents of the golden dower 
 That Athens treasured, crowned his flowing 
 
 hair, 
 
 Unshorn from many wanderings ; his hour 
 Of triumph dawned at last, to make repair 
 For all the toils that he had vowed to bear. 
 Alas for earthly joys so soon o'erthrown ! 
 Alas for man's ingratitude ! so near 
 The goal of happiness, that was to crown 
 The cycle of his toils, and yet 'twas ne'er his own. 
 
 For glory is not lasting until death 
 
 Has set his seal upon it ; so it fell 
 
 That he was stricken by the envious breath 
 
 That jealousy out-poured. O was it well ? 
 
 O Athens ! Athens ! did thy pride rebel, 
 
 And turn from him thou shouldest have 
 
 adored ? 
 
 His throne should have been in thy citadel, 
 His feast for ever at thy public board, 
 Among the heroic band thou lovest to reward. 
 
HERODOTUS AT ATHENS. 9 
 
 ****** ^ 
 
 Yet shalt thou be remembered, for the birth 
 Of History was with thee ; and so, where'er 
 Men read the story of this ancient earth, 
 To thee their hearts turn fondly, to revere 
 Thy greatness, and to pay thy wrongs a tear. 
 Hadst thou not been, then all those things of 
 
 yore 
 Were perished quite ; but now from year to 
 
 year 
 
 Men build on stones that thou hast laid before, 
 And echo in new tales thy word for evermore. 
 
 J. RENNELL RODD. 
 
10 
 
 SESQUIPEDALIA. 
 
 O WONDERS sure will never cease, 
 For words it seems do still increase, 
 We're all so good and wise and grand ; 
 But Sesquipedalian crack-jaw jargon, 
 
 Cunningly hodge-podged Latin and Greek, 
 In bombastical twaddle we're all so far gone, 
 
 With our modern enlightened bubble and 
 squeak ! 
 
 There once was a town called London, they say, 
 But that place has long been improved away, 
 And we worship with pride black leagues of 
 
 streets, 
 
 Where all that is modern and civilised meets. 
 Our "great metropolis" glorious jargon, etc. 
 
 If a more than usually muddled noddle 
 On things in general pours out twaddle, 
 Setting right everything under the sun, 
 Oh no ! of him we never make fun. 
 
 For it's " Sociology" wonderful jargon, etc. 
 
 The " mob " is a term we never repeat, 
 And the " rabble " has long been obsolete ; 
 
SESQUIPEDALIA. 1 1 
 
 For the ruling class that we all adore 
 Must have their syllables, five or more. 
 
 As the " Proletariat," Frenchified jargon, etc. 
 
 We've no " Dissenters " syllables three 
 Won't do for those excellent men, you see, 
 So we give them a much more imposing name, 
 Though the sense, to be sure, is precisely the same. 
 Of " Nonconformity," pompous jargon, etc. 
 
 Ah, great was the man, surpassingly great, 
 Who coined from his Sesquipedalian pate 
 A word that should dazzle and awe and stun 
 That word of power, that wonderful " Un- 
 Denominationalism," for jargon, etc. 
 
 Then hail to the quacks that are mending our 
 
 tongue, 
 To the scribes that have scribbled, the bards that 
 
 have sung, 
 
 To Moses and Son, and to Rowland and Co., 
 And may civilisation unceasingly grow. 
 With its Sesquipedalian mouth-filling jargon, 
 
 Cunningly hodge-podged Latin and Greek, 
 In bombastical twaddle we're all so far gone, 
 
 With our modern enlightened bubble and 
 squeak ! 
 
 DEMENS. 
 
12 
 
 SONG. 
 
 I REMEMBER low on the water, 
 
 They hung from the dripping moss ; 
 
 In the broken shrine of some stream-god's 
 
 daughter, 
 Where the North and South roads ross. 
 
 And I plucked some sprays for my love to wear, 
 
 Some tangled' sprays of the maidenhair. 
 
 So you went North with the swallow, 
 
 Away from this southern shore, 
 And the summers pass and the winters follow, 
 
 And the years, but you come no more. 
 You have roses now in your breast to wear, 
 And you have forgotten the maidenhair. 
 
 And the sound of echoing laughter, 
 
 The songs that we used to sing ; 
 To remember these in the days long after, 
 
 May seem but a foolish thing. 
 Yet I know to me they are always fair, 
 My withered sprays of the maidenhair. 
 
 EROS. 
 
A HAILEYBURY YARN. 
 
 DID you ever hear tell of the chivalrous feat 
 
 Performed long ago by a 'Burian lad, 
 Who challenged, and battled, and managed to 
 
 beat 
 In a fair stand up fight a big Hertfordshire 
 
 cad. 
 
 It isn't recorded at all that I know of, 
 But though unrecorded its something to crow of: 
 And if you will pardon the faults of writing, 
 I'll spin you the yarn of this wonderful fighting. 
 'Sixty-three was the year, 
 There was terrible feud, 
 'Twixt the boys at the school 
 And the Bucolic brood ; 
 And rarely there passed 
 The half of a day, 
 But news would be told 
 Of a terrible fray. 
 At night, in the studies, shins damaged were 
 
 bared, 
 Bruised noses exhibited, black eyes compared ; 
 
14 A HAILEYBURY YARN. 
 
 Although all was done both by Prefect and 
 
 Master, 
 
 The war went on fiercer and hot blood ran faster, 
 Till at length it became quite the recognized 
 
 thing 
 If college met cad to go at it full swing. 
 
 One day in December, Anno 'Sixty-three 
 
 A small college boy with the house cap at 
 
 Price 
 
 (Now called, I think " Colvin ") in innocent glee 
 Was sliding about on the " College Arms " ice. 
 He slid and he whistled, his heart was so light, 
 Nor had he the remotest idea of fight : 
 But as ill-luck would have it, there came by that 
 
 way, 
 
 Some young men of Hertford, all ripe for a fray ; 
 And they spotted the college boy sliding in glee, 
 Young, blooming, and joyous, as schoolboy 
 
 should be. 
 Said they, " Here's a lark ! He's alone, and we're 
 
 ten, 
 
 He is but a kid, all of us here are men ; 
 We've most of us suffered at one time or other 
 From the fists and the stones of the college ; 
 
A HAILEYBURY YARN. 15 
 
 Let's have our revenge without any more bother, 
 And spifflicate him out of knowledge." 
 But the young 'un was wary and saw their device, 
 And, whistling nonchalantly, slipped off the ice, 
 And sauntered away with a hand in each pocket, 
 When whiz ! there came by with the force of a 
 
 rocket 
 
 A stone-weighted snowball, a mummified cat, 
 A shower of stones, and a nasty brickbat. 
 " Ten to one," thought the young 'un, " that's 
 
 rather long odds, 
 
 But those who die young are beloved of the gods, 
 And if they must swash me, why, let 'em come 
 
 now, 
 
 I can't get away, so I'll hazard the row." 
 So he cocked his Price cap with an action defiant, 
 As if they were pigmies and he was a giant, 
 And faced them " Look here, I can't quite fight 
 
 the lot, 
 But you'll see what I'll do with the biggest 
 
 you've got." 
 
 At first they all whispered, for nobody dared, 
 When a big doughty baker stepped forth and 
 
 prepared, 
 
 By tucking up sleeves and anointing his fists, 
 To batter the college boy out of the lists. 
 
1 6 A HAILEYBURY YARN. 
 
 II. 
 
 Like the sail of a windmill 
 
 Round went the cad's arm :. 
 But the young 'un smiled calmly, 
 
 Nor felt he alarm, 
 For Campbell had taught him that Beef's worth 
 
 is nil 
 
 When brought against science and pluck in a mill. 
 So the brave little champion danced like a cork, 
 And let the cad pump himself out with hard work : 
 Which he did very much, to his backer's chagrin, 
 Who brought him a pint from the "College 
 
 Arms" Inn, 
 
 And didn't improve his condition, for soon 
 He wobbled about like a wounded balloon ; 
 And the young 'un, all smiles, was as fresh as a 
 
 lark, 
 
 And keeping his muscles and wind in the dark, 
 Till he saw a good chance, then he let out his 
 
 right, 
 
 And landed it on his foe's organ of sight ; 
 Then he danced out of reach on the tips of his 
 
 toes, 
 And tapped him a playful one straight on the 
 
 nose. 
 
A HAILEYBURY YARN. 17 
 
 The Baker-man pounded and blustered and swore, 
 And ran perspiration at every pore ; 
 He couldn't get near the small 'Burian boy, 
 If he had he'd have crushed him, of course, like 
 a toy. 
 
 With halloo and cry, 
 
 His friends standing by 
 Endeavoured to put some pluck into his soul ; 
 
 But the blows came so fast, 
 
 And his wind wouldn't last, 
 
 And one eye was no good, 
 
 And a torrent of blood 
 
 From his nose down his waistcoat began for to roll. 
 The little white fists went home at each blow ; 
 The Baker went in and attempted a throw ; 
 But the young 'un was quick, and in less than a 
 
 trice 
 Brought the Hertfordshire cad with a thump on 
 
 the ice. 
 Then mark ! and please blush as the deed I 
 
 record 
 
 Like a chivalrous knight who abandons his sword 
 When his rival is down, and who stoops by his side 
 To stem with his kerchief the fast ebbing tide, 
 The College boy stooped where the baker still lay 
 Inert, without breath, like a carcass of clay, 
 
 2 
 
I 8 A HAILEYBURY YARN. 
 
 And lifted his head. With an oath the great brute 
 
 Kicked the lad on the face with his iron-shod foot ! 
 
 And the chivalrous friends who were standing 
 around, 
 
 With a triumphant howl bore the boy to the 
 ground. 
 
 He would ne'er have got up, but two prefects 
 came by, 
 
 Saw the hubbub, and both heard the boy's piteous 
 cry; 
 
 Right and left 'mongst the cowards they ham- 
 mered about, 
 
 And bore the young hero triumphantly out. 
 
 So ended the fight, and no Hertfordshire cad 
 
 For years dare encounter a 'Burian lad : 
 
 And altho' the story is well-nigh forgot, 
 
 At the " College Arms " Inn they still show you 
 
 the spot 
 Where the young 'un of Price's won deathless 
 
 renown, 
 
 By knocking the big Hertford Bakerman down ; 
 And some, who are Old Haileyburians now, 
 Will p'raps, when they read this, remember the 
 
 row. 
 
 OLIM HAILEYBURYENSIS. 
 
IN MEMORIAM. 
 
 LIEUTENANTS MELVILL AND COGHILL, 
 KILLED JANUARY 22ND, 1879. 
 
 THEY died, 
 
 Their glory won ; 
 Honour was satisfied 
 
 And duty done ! 
 
 We found them with the colours of their land, 
 Untarnished by the murderous Zulu's band ; 
 And England's mighty bosom glows with pride 
 To know how well her gallant striplings died. 
 Why weep ? 
 
 We all must die, 
 And in the dreamless sleep 
 
 Of destiny 
 
 Those who would rest the calmest sure are they 
 Whom duty unto death hath called away ; 
 Whose glorious deeds, through Fame's emblazon- 
 ing pen, 
 Inspire the minds and touch the hearts of men. 
 
2O IX MZMORIAM. 
 
 O Grave ! 
 At Honour's beck 
 
 The spirits of our brave 
 Despise thy check ! 
 
 The fadeless star of many a gory plain 
 O'er Isandula's battle gleams again ; 
 And still for England will her soldiers ride 
 To do and die, as Melvill, Coghill, died ! 
 
 THE BUTTERFLY'S EPITAPH. 
 
 MOURN him ! ye lilies pure, 
 Oft hath his blood-hued wing 
 Lain on your snowy breast, 
 Or in the sunset light 
 Flaunted its beauty. 
 Mourn him ! ye twilight airs ; 
 Fold up those broidered wings 
 Softly and tenderly, 
 For they shall never more 
 
,THE BUTTERFLY'S EPITAPH. 21 
 
 Waver from bud to bud, 
 
 Hang, like a breathing flower, 
 
 Over the gardens. 
 
 Mourn him ! ye velvet bees ; 
 
 Hither bring incense sweet 
 
 From your cool-shaded haunts, 
 
 That on its fragrancy 
 
 He may float upward ; 
 
 Up from the murm'ring fields, 
 
 Over the far, white clouds, 
 
 Into the sunny blue ; 
 
 Into that dreamy land 
 
 Where poets dwell, and where 
 
 Butterflies die not 
 
 MERLIN. 
 
 CURSORY RHYMES. 
 
 TOM and Will 
 
 Had ate their fill. 
 In ten minutes and a quarter, 
 
 Tom outstripped 
 
 Poor Will, who slipped 
 And ran and got the court, ah ! 
 
22 CURSORY RHYMES. 
 
 Goosey goosey gander, 
 Whither shall I wander ? 
 On the heath, 
 Or down to Smeath ? 
 Of the last I think I'm fonder. 
 
 Georgie Porgie 
 
 In the remove, 
 For fagging thinks 
 
 He'll show no love. 
 When the boys come out to play 
 Georgie Porgie runs away. 
 
 He-haw ! 
 
 Fingers sore ! 
 I cannot write any faster, 
 
 I shall get 
 
 More lines to-day 
 Because I've not finished my last, ah ! 
 
 Boy asleep, 
 
 His place can't keep, 
 And don't know how to find it ; 
 
 Leave him alone 
 
 And hear him groan, 
 When he goes on a page behind it. 
 
CURSORY RHYMES. 23 
 
 " Ba ! Ba ! black sheep 
 
 Do you know the rule ? " 
 "Yes, Sir! N'no S-s-sir!" 
 
 " EXTRA SCHOOL." 
 
 " Why go you so slowly, my little fag ? " 
 " Cause I make it a rule on an errand to lag." 
 " Where have you been to, my little fag ? " 
 ' Been to the grub shop, Sir, for a bag." 
 " What is there in it, my little fag ? " 
 " Don't you wish you may get it," replied the 
 small wag. 
 
 Holloa across ! 
 
 Shout till you're hoarse ! 
 
 Encourage the Twenty the goal-line to cross ! 
 
 Rings on their jerseys 
 
 And rings on their hose, 
 
 They shall be famous wherever they goes. 
 
 Newman Aarey 
 
 Old yet wary, 
 Where is it your milkcans grow ? 
 
 With the milk you sells, 
 
 Amid shouts and yells, 
 To the study-jugs all in a row. 
 
SEA PICTURES. 
 I. 
 
 SUNSET. CORNWALL. 
 
 ONE autumn even from the westmost steep 
 I watched the daylight passing o'er the deep ; 
 Down from the setting sun the great waves rolled 
 Along its seaward path of molten gold ; 
 All the dark ocean-rocks like capes of brass 
 Gleamed where the foam had washed them, and 
 
 the gra%s 
 
 Grew glorious with that light, and the long swell, 
 Line after line that followed, rose and fell 
 And shattered into frosted gold ; the sky 
 Arched splendour over splendour, isles that lie 
 Of crimson cloudland in pale lakes of blue, 
 Red bars of flame with one star peering through, 
 Silent for glory, and the sea's monotone 
 Grew past with silence; the great world rolled on 
 And the sun watched along the waves, until 
 The glow died upwards on the western hill, 
 And the shade saddened over all the sea 
 Reaching away, starward, away from me 
 Into the twilight and eternity. 
 
SEA PICTURES. 25 
 
 II. 
 TWILIGHT. NORMANDY. 
 
 Late even now, and overclouded skies, 
 To-night we shall not see the young moon rise ; 
 The twilight grows, away on either hand 
 The cliffs are lost in mystic shadowland. 
 Only low sound of breakers as they die, 
 Pale shimmer of waters, and a pale still sky, 
 Where darkness gathers on the moving sea, 
 And yet the child laughs light of heart with me. 
 Still deeper now ; one little brown-sailed bark 
 Glides past us seaward drifting into dark 
 The only light is on the white sea-foam, 
 And the lamp by the crucifix : come home ! 
 
 RENNELL RODD. 
 
26 
 
 'INSCRIPTION ON A BUDDHIST 
 BELL, YEZO, JAPAN." 
 
 ALL things are transient 
 And being born must die ; 
 And being born are dead, 
 And being dead are glad 
 To be at rest. 
 
 airavra pel' /covSev fjuevei, 
 7re(pv/C6 yap OavelcrOaC 
 TretpvKora reOvrjfce, Qavovia /ce^dprjtce 
 r Krj\a fcelcfOai. 
 
 avpiov aSiov. 
 
 THE TURN OF THE TIDE. 
 
 THE tide is on the turn ; the uncertain sea, 
 With heavy swell, is swaying listlessly ; 
 The wandering waves, with soft and gentle plash. 
 Scarce dare to break the stillness, and the wash 
 Back from the shelving shore, with dreamy rush 
 Of pebbles, dying to a dreamy hush, 
 
THE TURN OF THE TIDE. 2J 
 
 Seems as the faintest echo of the roar 
 
 Of beating surf, that crashed upon the shore 
 
 But three brief hours ago. With weird, wild cry 
 
 The gulls sweep circling through the troubled sky; 
 
 All else seems held in mystic silence still, 
 
 As 'neath the power of an enchanter's will. 
 
 But, lo ! from where the craggy forelands bound 
 The limits of the bay, a rushing sound 
 Is sudden borne upon the breeze, and wakes 
 The sea from slumber, and like magic, breaks 
 The spell that holds the waves. Each billow's 
 
 crest 
 
 Is filled with life, and strives above the rest 
 To rear his frothy top ; then rushes on, 
 In foaming haste, until the shore is won ; 
 To waste its fury 'gainst some sea-worn rock 
 That countless ages has withstood the shock 
 Of rushing waves, and hurled them back again 
 To meet the inflowing current of the main. 
 
 S. 
 
28 
 
 BABEL. 
 
 HUSHED into stillness lay the midnight plain, 
 
 And dark against the purple sky 
 
 In lonely majesty, 
 
 Towered that wondrous pile the effort vain 
 
 Of a mad world to live in memory. 
 
 Rising in tier on tier, and yet again 
 
 In gallery on golden gallery, 
 
 Sombre and still the proud presumptuous mass 
 
 Awaited the loud tumult, and the hand 
 
 Of countless workers yet to overpass 
 
 All bounds of time, mortality, to stand 
 
 Its head among the planets' whirl, its base 
 
 Firm-fixed to be the wonder of each land. 
 
 Around the side ran, sculptured fair, 
 
 Old stones of primeval world, 
 
 The dark earth wondering at the starry line, 
 
 The glory of the orb of day, and there 
 
 Those heaven-aspiring angels earthward hurled ; 
 
 And rich and rare 
 
 The storied walls rose upward, with a stair 
 
 Enwreathed around them, like the vine, 
 
 Close to the windy elm-tree curled, 
 
BABEL. 29 
 
 And drooping in the pauses of the wind 
 Her sunny leaves about the glowing bunches 
 twined. 
 
 Far as the verge of sky did reach 
 
 The tented myriads lay, 
 Innumerous as on the rock-bound beach 
 
 In some deep-brooding bay, 
 Before the confusion and rush of the wind 
 
 The storm-breakers burst in feathery spray, 
 And prelude the fury that lingers behind 
 
 The utter cloud-darkness in battle array. 
 
 Is it a star ! a star ! 
 
 Or meteor rushing bright ! 
 That shines where constellations are 
 
 And grows in light, 
 Opening, opening like a rose, 
 Wings are beating the gloom, and close, 
 And closer an angel silvery white, 
 With thunder about his feet, 
 With the beat 
 Of thunder about his winged feet ! 
 
 He stands on the tower, his eagle eyes 
 
 Are fixed on the slumbering plain ; 
 
 He sees the farthest tent that glimmering lies, 
 
 Dimly shown, 
 
 And the wilderness lone 
 
30 BABEL. 
 
 Beyond the uttermost mortal gaze ; 
 
 Then his hand he lays 
 
 On the crown incomplete of the tower ; the first 
 
 pallid rays 
 Of the dawn touched his wings, as in thunder he 
 
 says : 
 
 " The swift-footed days 
 Have numbered a time and half a time ; 
 The Author Sublime 
 Hath scattered thy glory and shattered thy praise. 
 
 " Confusion and tumult henceforth be thy name, 
 
 And the flame 
 
 Of discord sever with Babel of sound, 
 
 And the flying of camels to find 
 
 A land beyond the Sun's golden bound, 
 
 And to speed on the wings of each hurrying wind, 
 
 Till after many mad wildering years 
 
 All ocean and earth shall be calmed, and the 
 
 blind 
 
 Struggle after the vain be lost, and all tears 
 Wiped away in the love of the Infinite Mind, 
 And the flush of the morning that never dies 
 From the roseate depths of marvellous skies." 
 
 A flash in the night ! He is gone ! 
 
 And the plain, 
 
 Where the morning is cleaving his way alone 
 
BABEL. 3 1 
 
 From under a fire-fringed cloud, with a sword 
 
 Dew-dripping, and scattering diamond rain 
 
 Far abroad, 
 
 Is shaken with rushing, hurrying feet, 
 
 And a clamour as loud as the cry that is blown 
 
 From the ocean line of birds, when they beat 
 
 The wild breeze, 
 
 That roars from over the wind-driven seas, 
 
 When they seek like an arrow voluptuous lands 
 
 Of low red sunsets and gold-scattered sands, 
 
 Where over the valley the mountain stands, 
 
 And the incense of flowers ascends up to God, 
 
 Where the shadowy spirit of morning hath trod. 
 
 Madly they glared at each other ; the blast 
 Of Heaven's displeasure cold-withering blew, 
 And at last 
 
 The long laden line of camels swift flew, 
 Some east and some west ; 
 And the babel of sound 
 All the still blazing noon 
 Roared ever around 
 The motionless pile, till the moon 
 Gazed down on the ruin of hopes and the ground 
 Bestrewn with the weary unable to fly, 
 Over all the deep sky, 
 
 And the fire-panting stars that never can die. 
 
 R. H. D. 
 
CARTHAGE. 
 
 FROM "CARTHAGE," PRIZE POEM, 1879. 
 
 IMPERIAL city, seated by the flood, 
 That murmurs 'neath thy palaces and towers, 
 Where colonnade on colonnaded tier 
 Lies wavering in the azure tide below, 
 Not like great Ilion did thy mighty walls 
 Loom into vastness o'er the wondering plain, 
 To those sweet notes that from his silver lyre 
 Apollo poured, but with laborious toil 
 Of myriad workers rose the lofty height, 
 Piled up with marble and barbaric gold, 
 The wealth of ages. On the southern side 
 The loving earth spread out, and robbed the sea 
 Of her embrace, that girdled all the rest. 
 The ocean in submission kissed her feet, 
 And rolled the glories of each orient shore 
 To fill her spacious harbours, where the ships 
 Close-thronged the sky with forests of dark masts, 
 Where toiled the hardy sailor. Through her gates 
 Streamed every morning, when the mighty sun 
 Awoke the city's roar, a countless throng 
 
CARTHAGE. 33 
 
 Of every nation underneath the sky, 
 One Babel of innumerable tongues, . 
 That roared and tossed along the stately streets. 
 And every morn a hundred victims fell 
 To Baal, as the glorious God of the day, 
 And incense from a thousand censers curled 
 Its smoke to heaven in his stately shrine, 
 That rose to catch the earliest kiss the sun 
 Glowed on the city. And when the evening star 
 Told of day ended, and the moon upreared 
 Her cold sad orb, pealed out the hymn of praise, 
 That incense-wafted soared upon the air 
 To hail Astarte goddess of the night. 
 
 R. H. DOMENICHETTI. 
 
34 
 
 A FACE. 
 
 A BROW upon whose broad expanse a toil-worn 
 
 sorrow lingered, 
 
 Yet noble in serenity as ever sculptor fingered, 
 Grave-shadowed eyes, within whose depths a 
 
 mighty will lay shining, 
 As kindly as a woman's eyes, without their soft 
 
 repining. 
 A man in truest truth wert thou, as strong and 
 
 simple-hearted 
 As ever martyr, for Christ's sake, to doom and 
 
 death departed. 
 O thin grey hairs, grown grey for me, when life 
 
 and hope were broken, 
 
 Ye held for me a sanctity unfading though un- 
 spoken. 
 O steadfast eyes, that now are blind to Earth in 
 
 quiet sleeping, 
 Ye sadden now no more, I trust, at human woe 
 
 and weeping. 
 
 lips, whose kindly words are dumb to answer 
 
 my faint greeting, 
 
 1 pray that in some future day there be another 
 
 meeting, 
 
 That, with the mists of Earth forgot, in an un- 
 clouded weather, 
 
 Within the golden courts of God we stand again 
 together. 
 
 MERLIN. 
 
35 
 
 NIGHT AT AVIGNON. 
 
 No cloud between the myriad stars and me, 
 
 Soft music waving o'er a sleeping land 
 Of winds that fret about the cypress tree, 
 
 And Rhone's swift rapids rippling past the sand. 
 Arch over arch, and tower on battled wall, 
 
 Against the violet deepness of the skies ; 
 And one grey spire set high above them all, 
 
 Where round the hill the moon begins to rise. 
 An hour's knell rings softly out once more, 
 
 From unseen cloister where the misty bridge 
 Fades in the distance of the further shore, 
 And nearer spires repeat it o'er and o'er ; 
 
 One great blue star peers through the seaward 
 ridge ; 
 
 A hollow footfall up the echoing street 
 Goes wandering out to silence, and the breeze 
 
 Drops faint and fainter, here beneath my feet 
 The grass is all with violets overstrewn ; 
 
 Oh listen, listen, there beneath yon trees 
 Do you not hear the lute that lovers use ! 
 
 One sets the discord of its strings atune : 
 And in the dreamland of the rising moon 
 
 They sing some olden love-song of Vaucluse. 
 
 RENNELL RODD. 
 
SUNSET. 
 
 THE shipwrecked sun lay stranded on gloom, 
 
 Flaming and sinking down to its doom, 
 
 With rent cloud-cordage and shattered mast, 
 
 Beaten and tost, and vanishing fast 
 
 In a billowing stretch of fiery flood, 
 
 Where the rugged cliffs of the sky-island stood. 
 
 It has sunk ; and the utmost horizon-line 
 
 Is feathered and rough with a golden brine, 
 
 Till softly the heaven's slow-wavering breast, 
 
 In a liquid amethyst lulls to its rest, 
 
 And deepens to violet-darkening bars, 
 
 And, cluster on cluster, the wondering stars 
 
 Steal out from the purple immensity ; 
 
 And last, like some pinnace on tropical sea, 
 
 By palm-covered islands where nightingales sing, 
 
 The mighty moon drifts forth with a swing ; 
 
 Then, as though by a soon-wearied wing of wind 
 
 driven, 
 Lies bright and becalmed on a fathomless heaven. 
 
 R. H. D. 
 
37 
 
 "THE POET'S DREAM." 
 
 SOME have held that truest motion of the bosom's 
 
 flight of praise, 
 With the purest soul-devotion may be caught in 
 
 Nature's ways. 
 I remember how a yearning to express her songs 
 
 aright, 
 With the summer moons returning, drove me 
 
 forth into the night. 
 But the zephyr's soft reproving drove away all 
 
 touch of pride, 
 And I felt my doubts removing as I paced the 
 
 river side : 
 Watched the pale stars faintly shiver with the 
 
 gentlest winds that blow, 
 Till the deep abyss of river seemed afire beneath 
 
 their glow. 
 Weeping-willows kissed the ripple as it curled 
 
 amid the weeds 
 To a never-ceasing dripple of the water in the 
 
 reeds. 
 
38 THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 And the night-bird wildly thrilling, with a mind 
 to cleave the sky, 
 
 All my raptured soul was rilling with a flood of 
 melody. 
 
 For the breath of night inspiring to such harmony 
 gave birth, 
 
 That it seemed the never-tiring song of heaven, 
 not of earth. 
 
 So I listened to her pealing as I lay in moss and 
 dew, 
 
 Till there stole o'er me a feeling such as dreamer 
 never knew. 
 
 For a mellow light was streaming from the 
 slowly-rising moon, 
 
 Showing all the woodland gleaming as in sum- 
 mer's brightest noon ; 
 
 Then arose a distant humming as of flower- 
 wooing bees, 
 
 And a murmur " we are coming " gently breathed 
 thro' the trees. 
 
 Came about me a bright chorus of a myriad 
 glancing wings 
 
 Mid a symphony sonorous raised aloft on clear- 
 toned strings. 
 
 " Say what make ye in the gloaming ? " " We 
 are spirits of the flowers, 
 
THE POET S DREAM. 39 
 
 And we drink sweet pleasure roaming thro' our 
 
 peaceful hallowed bowers. 
 Now we celebrate the wedding of the lily and 
 
 the rose ; 
 Come ! Oh, come and do our bidding, for the 
 
 brief night quickly goes. 
 Well we know thou art a poet, with a fancy free 
 
 and bright ; 
 Thou hast loved us and we know it ; we will 
 
 make thee ours to-night." 
 So they led me not unwilling to their deepest, 
 
 wildest glen, 
 Where that bird's impassioned trilling caught my 
 
 wond'ring soul again. 
 Birds and flowers gaily thronging made a scene 
 
 so passing fair, 
 That my rapt sight knew no longing but to linger 
 
 ever there. 
 Loud the harps of flowers were ringing : each 
 
 shrill warbler tuned his lute ; 
 Till a hush fell on their singing, and the grove 
 
 of song was mute. 
 Then in state upon the waters did I see the lily 
 
 glide, 
 
 While all summer's fairest daughters lay in wait- 
 ing on their bride. 
 
40 THE POET'S DREAM. 
 
 Some there were, choice fairies, rowing her small 
 
 bark of reeds and ferns ; 
 Some with tresses loosely flowing paying homage 
 
 as she turns. 
 While he, rosy consort, standing on the mossy 
 
 bank to grace 
 His own lily maiden standing, locks her firm in 
 
 love's embrace. 
 Long their hymeneal dances wakened echoes in 
 
 the glen, 
 Never marred with blighting chances such as 
 
 cross the ways of men ! 
 Till their queen with aspect loving " Longer 
 
 here we may not stay, 
 For a breath of morn is moving on the eyelids 
 
 of the day. 
 To the past has been given what the worldly 
 
 never see, 
 Such sweet dreams on summer even in the heart 
 
 of nature free. 
 Write of us in burning pages for thine insight 
 
 now is true, 
 That will live into the ages with a beauty ever 
 
 new." 
 Then the spirits with her speaking faded, singing, 
 
 into air, 
 
ORPHEUS' SONG. 41 
 
 And the dawn with golden streaking found me 
 
 lying lonely there. 
 To my mind the flowers seemed brighter as they 
 
 opened to the day, 
 And the song of birds rang lighter, and the 
 
 meadows smiled more gay. 
 With a happier step retreating where I wandered 
 
 moody last, 
 I could feel a holy beating in the sunbeams as 
 
 I passed. 
 
 M. B. L. 
 
 ORPHEUS' SONG. 
 
 FROM "THE SIRENS," PRIZE POEM, 1880. 
 
 HARK ! hark ! to the battle the clarions sound, 
 Each warrior prepares him, each steed paws the 
 
 ground ! 
 Soon, soon shall the earth shake and tremble 
 
 beneath, 
 And the eye flashing courage be darkened in 
 
 death. 
 
 O see ye yon field where the valiant lie slain, 
 Where the shield and the sword are strewn thick 
 
 on the plain ? 
 
42 ORPHEUS SONG. 
 
 There chariot and charger are weltering in gore, 
 And the heroes that slumber shall wake never 
 
 more. 
 
 O give me the life of the helmet and shield, 
 And the quick-coming death on the corpse- 
 covered field. 
 
 Tis the life of the noble, the life of the brave, 
 The happiest end, the most glorious grave. 
 This, this be my lot when the trumpets are pealing, 
 When rider and steed all around me are reeling, 
 When brave men stand fast and the timorous fly, 
 In the thick of the battle to live and to die. 
 Then sing not of love and of pleasure to me, 
 What rest or what peace have the bold and the 
 
 free? 
 Keep your magic and spells for the coward and 
 
 slave, 
 Your mystic enchantments, they charm not the 
 
 brave. 
 
 For there lies a sure talisman deep in the heart, 
 From the straight path of honour ne'er, ne'er to 
 
 depart ; 
 
 Where danger doth threaten and duty command, 
 There we fight, there we fall, foot to foot, hand 
 
 to hand. 
 
 H. M'L. INNES. 
 
43 
 
 LUCCIOLE. 1 
 
 FOLLOW where the night-fire leads 
 
 Of the winged Lucciola, 
 Where through waving river seeds 
 Water-mirrors wreathed of reeds 
 
 Catch its glimmer from afar ; 
 
 Where the falling water plays, 
 Up the hillside, ever higher 
 
 In the pathless forest ways 
 
 Every branch is in a blaze 
 With the glint of magic fire. 
 
 Are they fairies that have flown 
 Stealing glamour from a star, 
 Flitting where wild weeds o'ergrown 
 Keep the forest all their own ? 
 Tell me of the Lucciola. 
 
 Love, they are as we to-night 
 
 In the branches tossed above, 
 Only longing in their flight 
 That the moon and stars be bright, 
 And the night be long for love. 
 
 1 Fireflies. 
 
44 LUCCIOLE. 
 
 Once the Love-God seemed to sorrow 
 
 For the tears that he had cost ; 
 Lending love to those that borrow, 
 But to lose him on the morrow ; 
 And the labour he had lost. 
 
 Fretting more that true love's sighs, 
 
 Go forgotten with the rest, 
 Fretting that his best work dies, 
 All the longing of the eyes, 
 
 And the thrill from breast to breast. 
 
 So, of all good things the giver, 
 
 Love gave lovers this fair thing, 
 That their vows should live for ever 
 In the lights that glance and quiver 
 Through the summer night, and spring. 
 
 So the loves that rest unbroken 
 
 Evermore recorded are, 
 Every word of longing spoken, 
 Every love-song has its token, 
 
 Living in the Lucciola. 
 
 EROS. 
 
45 
 
 : THE OLD CRIMEA." 
 
 WE were three in a mess together, 
 
 Jack and old Tom and I ; 
 Each loved each as a brother, 
 
 Each for the other would die ; 
 And now our thoughts oft fly backward 
 
 To the graves where our friends He low, 
 And we think of our old companions 
 
 Who died with their face to the foe. 
 Then we drink to the Queen and country : 
 
 We drink to all loved ones dear ; 
 And we drink to each old and absent friend, 
 But the toast we decree to be kept to the end 
 
 Is " The days of the Old Crimea ! " 
 
 II. 
 
 But Jack's got a wooden leg, lads, 
 
 And old Tom's minus an arm, 
 And I am the only one, lads, 
 
 Who escaped without serious harm ; 
 
46 THE OLD CRIMEA. 
 
 But I'm not as strong as I was, lads, 
 And I've got some proud scars to show, 
 
 For you'll find that a Russian ball, lads, 
 Leaves a mark where it's chanced to go 
 Then we drink to, etc. 
 
 III. 
 
 And here we all sit together, 
 
 Together we mess as of yore, 
 And talk of the days gone by, lads, 
 
 The days that shall come no more ; 
 And the tear rises up unbidden, 
 
 As we think of those lonely graves 
 On the wild bleak shore of the old Crimea, 
 
 Washed by the Black Sea waves. 
 
 Then we drink to, etc. 
 
 L. 
 
 FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS. 
 
 THE outline of a shadowy city spread 
 Between the garden and the distant hill 
 And o'er yon dome the flame-ring lingers still, 
 Set like the glory on an angel's head : 
 
FROM THE HILL OF GARDENS. 47 
 
 The light fades quivering into evening blue 
 Behind the pine-tops on Janiculum ; 
 The swallow whispered to the swallow, " Come !" 
 And took the sunset on her wings, and flew. 
 
 One rift of cloud the wind caught up suspending 
 
 A ruby path between the earth and sky ; 
 
 Those shreds of gold are angel wings ascending 
 
 From where the sorrows of our singers lie ; l 
 
 They have not found those wandering spirits yet, 
 
 But seek for ever in the red sunset. 
 
 Pass upward, angel wings ! Seek not for these, 
 
 They sit not in the cypress planted graves ; 
 
 Their spirits wander over moonlit waves, 
 
 And sing in all the singing of the seas ; 
 
 And by green places in the spring-tide showers, 
 
 And in the re-awakening of flowers. 
 
 Some pearl-lipped shell, still dewy with sea foam, 
 
 Bear back to whisper where their feet have trod ; 
 
 They are the earth's for evermore ; fly home ! 
 
 And lay a daisy at the feet of God. 
 
 EROS. 
 
 ' l Keats, Shelley. 
 
4 8 
 
 MORNING ON THE THAMES. 
 
 'TIS early morning on the Thames. The sky 
 Is cloudless, but a haze o'er all on high 
 Lies brooding, as it were a lovely maid 
 In all her wedding bravery arrayed, 
 Drooping around her head, a veil of white 
 Can scarce conceal her beauty from our sight. 
 The sun is shining softly through the mist ; 
 So warm and kind, as if in love he kissed 
 The veil which part obscured his daughter's 
 
 charms, 
 
 And, melting it away, sprang to her arms. 
 Around, the eye a fairy forest marks 
 The masts and rigging of the countless barks 
 That lie asleep, as if with labour spent. 
 How shall we tell whence each one's course was 
 
 bent ? 
 
 Perchance this sailed from Ind or Araby, 
 Making long furrows in the fitful sea ; 
 Or from those regions where the Icy Queen 
 Sits undiscovered midst the North Star's sheen. 
 
MORNING ON THE THAMES. 49 
 
 But look ! the air is clearing, bathed in gold, 
 The fringing of the curtain that has rolled 
 From off the scene, tower and fretted spire 
 Each gleam and flash and glow as if on fire ; 
 And fairest of all those that meet our sight 
 Westminster stands, the home of law and right. 
 There that vast fane lifts up its shapely dome, 
 So dear a sight to all who know a home 
 In happy England ; here a different scene 
 Looms through the distance, many a king and 
 
 queen, 
 
 And many a scion of a noble race 
 Have here met death's grim horrors face to face ; 
 The Tower of London looking sternly down 
 Over the water with relentless frown. 
 And that dark gate, like ogre's fanged jaws, 
 Through which poor wretches that forsook the 
 
 laws 
 
 Of Justice and their Nation sadly passed, 
 Knowing full well that journey was their last. 
 Here anchored calmly by the river's side, 
 Their service done, watching with father's pride 
 England's young seamen, who are called to keep 
 Unsullied her bright name upon the deep, 
 Lie the vast hulks of warrior ships, that bore 
 The brunt of battle and the cannon's roar. 
 
 4 
 
50 MORNING ON THE THAMES. 
 
 But see ! far out beyond this busy rush 
 Of men and ships, stilled in a quiet hush, 
 The mouth of the great river, all is rest ; 
 Some scattered boats lie on the water's breast ; 
 The river shimmers in the dancing light, 
 Reflecting their bright canvas ; 'tis a sight 
 Might well be honoured by the painter's art ; 
 Such calm repose would soothe the troubled heart, 
 Plunging all woe and sorrow's gnawing pain 
 Into deep Lethe, ne'er to rise again. 
 
"Y E ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH." 
 
 ONCE on a time the Heroes sent to the gods in 
 
 Heaven 
 A challenge (so the legend goes) to play with 
 
 their Eleven 
 A match at cricket. 'Tis of this of which I mean 
 
 to tell, 
 And beg you listen patiently to all that then 
 
 befell. 
 
 Zeus was elected captain of the celestial team, 
 
 Which made all Heaven's well-wishers with satis- 
 faction gleam ; 
 
 That post to old Odysseus, the heroes did 
 assign, 
 
 Who upon earth was held to be the " champion " 
 of that time. 
 
 Punctual at noon Odysseus, he of the many 
 wiles, 
 
 Came up to Zeus to toss, his face all wreathed in 
 smiles 
 
52 YE ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 Up from his finger spun the coin, " Heads ! 
 
 Heads ! " cried Zeus, like thunder, 
 But down upon the grass it fell with tails up and 
 
 heads under. 
 Odysseus stooped and from the grass his drachma 
 
 up did pick, 
 Which he had weighted cunningly though 'twas 
 
 a dirty trick. 
 " We'll take first innings, Zeus," he said, "the 
 
 ground is nice and fast, 
 But Styx is likely to overflow, and then it will 
 
 not last." 
 (For Pluto offered his own ground, by Charon 
 
 kept so trim, 
 His worthy ground-man, who for years and years 
 
 had lived with him.) 
 " Now, Heracles," Odysseus said, " in first we two 
 
 will go, 
 And break the bowling of the gods, that is the 
 
 thing you know." 
 So to the wickets first they went to face the 
 
 skilful bowling 
 Of Pluto with his " undergrounds " and Zeus' 
 
 round-arm trolling. 
 Pluto began and rattled down three maiden 
 
 daisy-cutters, 
 
YE ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 53 
 
 The fourth sharply returned to him the trundler 
 
 badly butters, 
 For straight from Heracles' bat it flew with 
 
 fearful force, 
 And, to say truth, old Pluto feared a bit to stay 
 
 its course; 
 Straight to the boundary it flies (the umpire 
 
 calleth four), 
 But trying to repeat the stroke, he is out "leg 
 
 before." 
 Then out came Philoctetes, a very steady 
 
 bat, 
 A dodgy bowler too, who once ere this had bowled 
 
 a hat ; 
 Ajax too came to run for him, as he had hurt 
 
 his foot, 
 Indeed he suffered no slight pain in putting on 
 
 a boot, 
 But Zeus objecting said, it was not what he called 
 
 cricket, 
 So Philoctetes had to run himself between the 
 
 wicket. 
 Soon in the middle of the pitch Laertes' wily 
 
 son, 
 Placing the ball judiciously, quick started for a 
 
 run, 
 
54 YE ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 " Yes, yes," he shouted, " No, no, no," the other 
 
 did exclaim, 
 "Those short ones, really, I can't run, I am so 
 
 very lame." 
 " Come on, come on ;" " No, no, go back ; I cannot 
 
 start so soon, 
 
 I cannot do it even yet (he said, ouSe /ecu vvv)" 
 "Tis no use now," Odysseus said, "oVa>Xa, I'm 
 
 undone, 
 But if you'd only come at first there was an easy 
 
 run." 
 So next in comes Prometheus, he who had great 
 
 forethought, 
 Who not alone men fire did give, but also cricket 
 
 taught. 
 " Good morning, Philoctetes, I see you're very 
 
 lame, 
 But ^Esculapius, if you ask, will put you right 
 
 again." 
 Quickly the great physician came running from 
 
 long-leg, 
 "Tell me," said he, "the boon from me which 
 
 you would beg. 
 Ah, yes," he said, " I see, your state we'll quickly 
 
 alter, 
 By the mere application of sawdust and cold 
 
 water." 
 
YK ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 55 
 
 Thus did his great Forethought restore the bats- 
 man's toes, 
 
 Truly the poet says all boons are e'/c Trpo/jirjOew 
 
 Well did these two now bat and quickly raise 
 the score, 
 
 By ones and twos, by threes and fours, till it was 
 eighty-four. 
 
 Change after change was tried, but still the runs 
 came fast, 
 
 Till Zeus again the leather took, and then their 
 day was past. 
 
 With fearful force he bumped them down in front 
 of his own toes, 
 
 And straight for poor Prometheus' head the 
 whizzing leather goes. 
 
 Insensible upon the ground the wounded bats- 
 man fell 
 
 Yet that Zeus pleased at this did feel, 'tis only 
 right to tell, 
 
 " Take that," he muttered, " and next time don't 
 you be so officious ; 
 
 If I can do ditto again, why that will be de- 
 licious." 
 
 So poor Prometheus from the ground they bore 
 but scarce alive, 
 
 And to his name was registered "retired hurt, 
 thirty-five." 
 
56 Y E ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 His place was filled by Briareus, who snicked 
 
 a lucky four, 
 But was not destined after this to add unto his 
 
 score : 
 A bumpy one from Zeus just grazed a straggling 
 
 hand, 
 In truth, 'twas hard to miss that limb, so wide 
 
 it did expand ; 
 Proteus, who stands behind the stumps six yards 
 
 or thereabout, 
 Catches the ball, appeals " How's that ? " and 
 
 Minos gives it " out." 
 Ajax and Atreus, who came next, did nothing 
 
 worth relating ; 
 But Philoctetes' play was fine, especially his 
 
 placing. 
 
 Still he received but poor support, till Polyphe- 
 mus came, 
 The cricket shewed by Sisyphus and Atlas being 
 
 tame : 
 The first amassed a careful "duck;" the second 
 
 only four, 
 And thus, with two more to go in, at 90 stood 
 
 the score. 
 But now another stand was made, and ringing 
 
 are the cheers, 
 
Y E ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 57 
 
 As on the board, at half-past one, the century 
 appears. 
 
 Old Polyphemus did not take much time to 
 
 get his eye in : 
 He had but one, a big one though, and that 
 
 there's no denying. 
 To all points of the field he hit, right lustily and 
 
 hard, 
 Yet to the rules by most observed, paid not the 
 
 least regard. 
 Wides to the off sped by long-on, and straight 
 
 ones to long-leg, 
 Yet never to the bowler says, "Your pardon I 
 
 would beg." 
 He only chuckles, and says, " I make my runs 
 
 where'er I can ; 
 
 You say I pull, but I merely hit Trapa TrpoaSoKiav." 
 At length, in rushing out to hit a full-pitch to 
 
 the ropes, 
 He misses, but not it his stumps (alas for human 
 
 hopes !). 
 The veteran Nestor now whipped in, but stayed 
 
 not very long, 
 But after making four more runs, unluckily 
 
 played on. 
 
58 Y E ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 Thus to one hundred and two score the total 
 
 did amount, 
 Of which as much as sixty-two are due to the 
 
 account 
 Of Philoctetes, who went in when the first wicket 
 
 fell, 
 And ever since had played the game both pluckily 
 
 and well. 
 
 And now the bell for luncheon rings, but it 
 
 were long to tell 
 All that in this important match each cricketer 
 
 befell ; 
 How, when the gods came out to bat, Zeus hit 
 
 in wondrous style, 
 And with Pan's aid and careful play defied their 
 
 foes awhile ; 
 
 How Bacchus came upon the ground in a dis- 
 graceful state 
 How much he drank at luncheon-time, 'twere 
 
 shocking to relate ; 
 How all the time he shouts, "co irai, CD Trai, bring 
 
 me to quaff 
 Another cotyl mind it's iced of foaming 
 
 shandygaff;" 
 How to the wicket in his turn, a sorry sight, he 
 
 reeled, 
 
Y E ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 59 
 
 But soon returned for having been " obstructive 
 
 to the field;" 
 How, after this, among the gods a panic then 
 
 set in, 
 Each one returning back again, as fast as he 
 
 went in. 
 
 Suffice to say that, when it seemed the gods 
 
 must be disgraced, 
 Old Tantalus, the team's last hope, fearless his 
 
 captain faced. 
 Slowly but surely mounts the score ; at length 
 
 they want but three 
 They win, they lose, a hundred times, whichever 
 
 will it be ? 
 " Back up, back up," is heard around, from the 
 
 excited crowd : 
 It reaches Tantalus' ears, Fools that ye spake 
 
 so loud. 
 But see Odysseus takes the ball, and to the 
 
 wicket hies, 
 As if to bowl. Out of his ground rashly the 
 
 batsman flies. 
 Round on his heel Odysseus spins, the ball still 
 
 in his hand ; 
 In vain poor Tantalus turns back, he slips, he 
 
 cannot stand, 
 
60 YE ANCIENTE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 And now upon the turf he falls, and as he help- 
 less lies, 
 
 Trumphantly Laertes' son unto the Heroes cries, 
 " I think, my boys, we've won this match ! " and 
 
 off he whips the bails ; 
 And then with winged words of scorn the fallen 
 
 god thus rails : 
 " Well art thou named Tantalus, for rueful must 
 
 it be, 
 To lose a match so nearly won, all for the lack 
 
 of three." 
 Then quoth old Nestor, laughingly, " I think 'tis 
 
 also true 
 
 That 7ro\v/ji7]Tis, after all, ain't a bad name for you ; 
 And should I ever play again, my only wish 
 
 will be, 
 To have as captain Odysseus, and win by only 
 
 three." 
 
 BOB. 
 
6i 
 
 THREE VOICES. 
 
 THE song of the fishers is heard afar, 
 
 As they homeward glide with a lazy oar, 
 
 Chanting a melody, quaint and low, 
 
 Of brave deeds many a year ago, 
 
 Till the keel grates up on the yellow shore. 
 
 The fisherman's daughter doth ply her wheel, 
 And gaily she singeth a love-song free, 
 And the soft wind bearing her carol sweet, 
 Thro' the flow'rs that bend 'neath his passing feet, 
 Blows down to the waves of the sun-lit sea. 
 
 The hymn of the sky-lark goes up to God, 
 Far up in the blue of the cloudless heaven, 
 Yet of his minstrelsy sweet and clear, 
 For the raptured sense of the list'ning ear, 
 Is the distant strain to us mortals given. 
 
 The fishermen chant of the storied Past, 
 While the maiden sings of her sailor lad ; 
 But, out of sight, in the blue-domed height, 
 The bird seemed to tell, on his heavenward flight, 
 Of a Future, unseen, but strangely bright, 
 And his faint, sweet singing maketh me glad. 
 
 MERLIN. 
 
62 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 SWIFT, swift but silent slips away the stream 
 Beneath the bridge by which the willows weep ; 
 Athwart the windy sky the thin clouds sweep, 
 And through them, scarcely veiled, the white 
 
 moonbeam 
 
 Touches the water with a mournful gleam ; 
 Beside the level lawn's moon-silvered sleep, 
 The tall limes toss their boughs with sighings 
 
 deep, 
 
 And meanings as of one in weary dream. 
 Still mid the wind the moon looks through the 
 
 night 
 
 With the faint misty halo round her spread 
 Like some Madonna at her dear Son's feet, 
 Pictured upon the artist's canvas bright. 
 A shining glory round about her head 
 So calm, so sorrowful, so wondrous sweet. 
 
THE DEATH OF JUDAS MACCABEUS. 
 
 FROM" JUDAS MACCABEUS," PRIZE POEM, 1882. 
 
 ******* 
 
 ALAS, that grief should shadow joy so soon ! 
 But the brief waning of one winter moon, 
 And, on those barren hills he loved so well, 
 The noblest life that lived for Israel 
 Gave its great spirit to the Heaven overhead, 
 Judas, the brave, the beautiful, was dead. 
 Fallen had he upon a desperate field, 
 Died with a noble calm that scorned to yield, 
 Died, fronting death, and in the foremost place, 
 Died, with the light of God upon his face. 
 Homeward they bare him on their dinted shields 
 To rest at Modin, 'neath his father's fields, 
 And voices hushed along the village street, 
 As mournfully, with slow and solemn feet, 
 Down at his father's side they came to lay 
 What yesterday was life, and dust to-day. 
 Rest, thou great heart, thy troubled war is past, 
 Still thy brave pulses into peace at last ; 
 
64 THE DEATH OF JUDAS MACCABEUS. 
 
 The work is finished thou hast wrought so well, 
 And through the centuries thy name shall dwell 
 Linked with the memory of Judah's needs, 
 Of weary strugglings, and of golden deeds. 
 Let us, that share the faith thou purifiedst, 
 A cause as great as that for which thou diedst, 
 Lift hearts as earnest to some glorious end, 
 Leaving the passing hours we have to spend 
 Not all forgotten, as we follow thee 
 Up Time's dim stair into Eternity. 
 
 F. H. TRENCH. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 HERTFORD I PRINTED BY STEPHEN AUSTIN AND SONS. 
 
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