The Death Of Space

[Whyhas Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his marvellous threnody on the "Death of Space"? Who knows where the bays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript to the Home Office? If un-wonted modesty withholds it from the public eye, the public will pardon the boldness that tears from blushing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.]

Eternity shall raise her funeral-pile In the vast dungeon of the extinguished sky, And, clothed in dim barbaric splendour, smile, And murmur shouts of elegiac joy.

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, And those that people all that dreary void, When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoyed.

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail, The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, And lash the empyrean with his tail.

AndHell, inflated with supernal wrath, Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws.

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, Infinity shall creep into her shell, Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, And end their strife with suicidal yell:

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of kings, 'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, Nonentity, on circumambient wings, An everlasting Phoenix shall arise.

LITTLE JOHN AND THE RED FRIAR, A LAY OF SHERWOOD.

FYTTE THE FIRST.

Thedeer may leap within the glade; The fawns may follow free-- For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid Beneath the greenwood tree.

Andbroken are his merry, merry men, That goodly companie: There's some have ta'en the northern road With Jem of Netherbee.

The best and bravest of the band With Derby Ned are gone; But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood, They stayed with Little John.

Now Little John was an outlaw proud, A prouder ye never saw; Through Nottingham and Leicester shires He thought his word, was law,

And he strutted through the greenwood wide, Like a pestilent jackdaw. He swore that none, but with leave of him, Should set foot on the turf so free:

And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, All over the south countrie. "There's never a knave in the land," he said, "But shall pay his toll to me!"

And Charlie Wood was a taxman good As ever stepped the ground, He levied mail, like a sturdy thief, From all the yeomen round.

"Nay, stand!" quoth he, "thou shalt pay to me Seven pence from every pound!"

Now word has come to Little John, As he lay upon the grass, That a Friar red was in merry Sherwood Without his leave to pass.

"Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page! Ben Hawes, come tell to me, What manner of man is this burly frere Who walks the woods so free?"

"My master good!" the little page said, "His name I wot not well, But he wears on his head a hat so red, With a monstrous scallop-shell.

"He says he is Prior of Copmanshurst, And Bishop of London town, And he comes with a rope from our father the Pope, To put the outlaws down.

"I sawhim ride but yester-tide, With his jolly chaplains three; And he swears that he has an open pass From Jem of Netherbee!"

Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, And broken it o'er his knee; "Now may I never strike doe again, But this wrong avenged shall be!

"And has he dared, this greasy frere, To trespass in my bound, Nor asked for leave from Little John To range with hawk and hound?

"And has he dared to take a pass From Jem of Netherbee, Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws Pertain of right to me?

"O were he but a simple man, And not a slip-shod frere! I'd hang him up by his own waist-rope Above yon tangled brere.

"O didhe come alone from Jem, And not from our father the Pope, I'd bring him in to Copmanshurst, With the noose of a hempen rope!

"But since he has come from our father the Pope, And sailed across the sea, And since he has power to bind and loose, His life is safe for me; But a heavy penance he shall do Beneath the greenwood tree!"

"O tarry yet!" quoth Charlie Wood. "O tarry, master mine! It's ill to shear a yearling hog, Or twist the wool of swine!

"It's ill to make a bonny silk purse From the ear of a bristly boar; It's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, When the way lies him before.

"I've walked the forest for twenty years, In wet weather and dry, Andnever stopped a good fellowe, "Who had no coin to buy.

"What boots it to search a beggarman's bags, When no silver groat he has? So, master mine, I rede you well, E'en let the Friar pass!"

"Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, "Thou japest but in vain; An he have not a groat within his pouch, We may find a silver chain.

"But were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, As truly he may be, He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws Without the leave of me!"

Little John has taken his arrows and bow, His sword and buckler strong, And lifted up his quarter-staff, Was full three cloth yards long.

And he has left his merry men At the trysting-tree behind, Andgone into the gay greenwood, This burly frere to find.

O'er holt and hill, through brake and brere, He took his way alone-- Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear This geste of Little John.