When Doubt disturbed his honest soul,
He found in this his consolation :-
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.

And this, at least, he felt was sure:-
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.

So, all unpraised, he ran his race;

But we, who watched his life, and knew it, Thus mark his nameless resting place, Because he died too poor to do it.

1908.

THE HAPPY PRINTER

THE

"Hoc est vivere."-MARTIAL.

'HE Printer's is a happy lot:
Alone of all professions,

No fateful smudges ever blot
His earliest "impressions."

The outgrowth of his youthful ken
No cold obstruction fetters;
He quickly learns the "types" of men,
And all the world of "letters."

With "forms" he scorns to compromise;
For him no "rule" has terrors;
The "slips" he makes, he can "revise"-
They are but "printers' errors."

From doubtful questions of the "Press"

He wisely holds aloof;

In all polemics, more or less,

His argument is "proof."

Save in their "case," with High and Low,
Small need has he to grapple!
Without dissent he still can go
To his accustomed "Chapel." 1

From ills that others scape or shirk,
He rarely fails to rally;

For him, his most "composing" work
Is labour of the "galley."

Though ways be foul, and days are dim,
He makes no lamentation;
The primal" fount" of woe to him
Is-want of occupation :

And when, at last, Time finds him grey
With over-close attention,

He solves the problem of the day,
And gets an Old Age pension.

1908.

1 This, derived, it is said, from Caxton's connection with Westminster Abbey, is the name given to the meetings held by printers to consider trade affairs, appeals, etc. (Printers' Vocabulary).

A MILTONIC EXERCISE
(TERCENTENARY, 1608-1908)

"Stops of various Quills."-LYCIDAS,

HAT need of votive Verse

WHAT

To strew thy Laureat Herse

With that mix'd Flora of th' Aonian Hill?

Or Mincian vocall Reed,

That Cam and Isis breed,

When thine own Words are burning in us still?

Bard, Prophet, Archimage!

In this Cash-cradled Age,

We grate our scrannel Musick, and we dote:
Where is the Strain unknown,

Through Bronze or Silver blown,

That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?

Yes-" we are selfish Men":

Yet would we once again

Might see Sabrina braid her amber Tire;

Or watch the Comus Crew

Sweep down the Glade; or view

Strange-streamer'd Craft from Javan or Gadire!

Or could we catch once more,
High up, the Clang and Roar
Of Angel Conflict,—Angel Overthrow;
Or, with a World begun,

Behold the young-ray'd Sun

Flame in the Groves where the Four Rivers go!

Ay me, I fondly dream!

Only the Storm-bird's Scream Foretells of Tempest in the Days to come; Nowhere is heard up-climb

The lofty lyric Rhyme,

And the "God-gifted Organ-voice" is dumb.

1908.