(March 31St, 1909)

'Tis a sad fate To watch the world fighting, All that is most fair Ruthlessly blighting, Blighting, ah! blighting.

When such a thought cometh Let us not pine, But gather old friends Round the red wine-- Oh! pour the red wine!

And there we'll talk And warm our wits With Eastern fallacies Out of old Fitz! British old Fitz!

See him, half statesman-- Philosopher too-- Half ancient mariner In baggy blue-- Such baggy blue!

Whimsical, wistful, Haughty, forsooth: Indolent always, yet Ardent in truth, But indolent, indolent!

There at the table With us sits he, Charming us subtly To reverie, Magic reverie.

"How sweet is summer's breath, How sure and swift is death; Nought wise on earth, save What the wine whispereth, Dreamily whispereth.

"At Naíshapúr beneath the sun, Or here in misty Babylon, Drink! for the rose leaves while you linger Are falling, ever falling, one by one."

Ah! poet's soul, once more with us conspire To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire, Once more with us to-night, old Fitz, once more Remould it nearer to the heart's desire!

Yattendon

Among the woods and tillage That fringe the topmost downs, All lonely lies the village, Far off from seas and towns. Yet when her own folk slumbered I heard within her street Murmur of men unnumbered And march of myriad feet.

For all she lies so lonely, Far off from towns and seas, The village holds not only The roofs beneath her trees: While Life is sweet and tragic And Death is veiled and dumb, Hither, by singer's magic, The pilgrim world must come.

Devon

Deep-wooded combes, clear-mounded hills of morn, Red sunset tides against a red sea-wall, High lonely barrows where the curlews call, Far moors that echo to the ringing horn,-- Devon! thou spirit of all these beauties born, All these are thine, but thou art more than all: Speech can but tell thy name, praise can but fall Beneath the cold white sea-mist of thy scorn.

Yet, yet, O noble land, forbid us not Even now to join our faint memorial chime To the fierce chant wherewith their hearts were hot Who took the tide in thy Imperial prime; Whose glory's thine till Glory sleeps forgot With her ancestral phantoms, Pride and Time.

Among the Tombs

She is a lady fair and wise, Her heart her counsel keeps, And well she knows of time that flies And tide that onward sweeps; But still she sits with restless eyes Where Memory sleeps-- Where Memory sleeps.

Ye that have heard the whispering dead In every wind that creeps, Or felt the stir that strains the lead Beneath the mounded heaps, Tread softly, ah! more softly tread Where Memory sleeps-- Where Memory sleeps.

Gold