Vii

There's a regret So grinding, so immitigably sad, Remorse thereby feels tolerant, even glad. . . . Do you not know it yet?

For deeds undone Rankle, and snarl, and hunger for their due Till there seems naught so despicable as you In all the grin o' the sun.

Like an old shoe The sea spurns and the land abhors, you lie About the beach of Time, till by-and-by Death, that derides you too--

Death, as he goes His ragman's round, espies you, where you stray, With half-an-eye, and kicks you out of his way; And then--and then, who knows

But the kind Grave Turns on you, and you feel the convict Worm, In that black bridewell working out his term, Hanker and grope and crave?

'Poor fool that might-- That might, yet would not, dared not, let this be, Think of it, here and thus made over to me In the implacable night!'

And writhing, fain And like a lover, he his fill shall take Where no triumphant memory lives to make His obscene victory vain.

VIII (To J. A. C.)

Fresh from his fastnesses Wholesome and spacious, The north wind, the mad huntsman, Halloos on his white hounds Over the grey, roaring Reaches and ridges, The forest of ocean, The chace of the world. Hark to the peal Of the pack in full cry, As he thongs them before him Swarming voluminous, Weltering, wide-wallowing, Till in a ruining Chaos of energy, Hurled on their quarry, They crash into foam!

Old Indefatigable, Time's right-hand man, the sea Laughs as in joy From his millions of wrinkles: Laughs that his destiny, Great with the greatness Of triumphing order, Shows as a dwarf By the strength of his heart And the might of his hands.

Master of masters, O maker of heroes, Thunder the brave, Irresistible message:-- 'Life is worth living Through every grain of it From the foundations To the last edge Of the cornerstone, death.'