The cool, moon-whitened calm Will she visit the world of men; Can call her back from the grave, Can pass her beneath the pall Unto the pain and strife Yet, in his dreams and songs, For her presence in the dim Of sorrow from hearts that sing. Death could not wound my dear. Listen! you say a thrush With wild song breaks the hush; Singing in yonder grove. 'Tis she! I say; for she said, One night when her fair, bright head Lay on my breast, My own, If ever thou'rt left alone, Think not that thy love is dead, Wild rose, and say 66 'Tis her cheek." Then kiss it close, and seek Where the clear dew never dries- And oft, when the rain-drops beat Her form, and my hands but grasped This robe upon either side. Still through the haunted aisles "A braggart's threat, for a brave man's scorning!" The first a-faint and with armor riven: Stout Hugo muttered a word unholy; He sprang to horse and he flashed his brand, "This to Picardy's trusty warder : France calls first for his loyal sword, The Flemish spears are across the border, And all is lost if they win the ford." Sir Hugo paused, and his face was ashen, When the crucifixion of Love is there! What need to tell of the message spoken? Of the hand that shook as he poised his lance? And the look that told of his brave heart broken, As he bade them follow, "For God and France!" On Cambray's field next morn they found him, It is all writ down in the book of Glory, Only a note obscure, appended By warrior scribe or monk perchance, Saith: "The good knight's ladye was sore offended That he would not die for her but France." Did the ladye live to lament her lover? Or did roystering Rolf prove a better mate? And I read the moral.-A brave endeavor Y the time this paper appears, I shall have been talking for twelve months; and it is thought I should take my leave in a formal and seasonable manner. Valedictory eloquence is rare. Even deathbed sayings have not often hit the mark of the occasion; and perhaps there are but three that may be profitably cited. Charles Second, wit and sceptic, a man whose life had been one long lesson in human incredulity, an easy-going comrade, a manoeuvring king-remembered and embodied all his wit and scepticism along with more than his usual good humor in the famous "I am afraid, gentlemen, I am an unconscionable time a-dying." Marcus Aurelius in that last passage did not forget that he was Cæsar: "Vale vobis dico, vos precedens." And there is yet another passing-word: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." I. THE attitude and the words of Charles Second are what best become humanity. An unconscionable time a-dying-there is the picture ("I am afraid, gentlemen") of your life and of mine. The sands run out, and the hours are "numbered and imputed," and the days go by; and when the last of these finds us, we have been a long time dying, and what else? The very length is something, if we reach that hour of separation undishonored; and to have lived at all is doubtless (in the soldierly expression) to have served. There is a tale in Tacitus of how the veterans mutinied in the German wilderness; of how they mobbed Germanicus, clamoring to go home; and of how, seizing their general's hand, these old, warworn exiles passed his finger along their toothless gums. Sunt lacrymæ rerum: this was the most eloquent of the songs of Simeon. And when a man has lived to a fair age, he bears his marks of service. He may have never been remarked upon the breach at the head of the army; at least he shall have lost his teeth on the camp bread. The idealism of serious people in this age of ours is of a noble character. It never seems to them that they have served enough; they have a fine impatience of their virtues. It were perhaps more modest to be singly thankful that we are no worse. It is not only our enemies, those desperate characters-it is we ourselves who know not what we do;-thence springs the glimmering hope that perhaps we do better than we |