IN MEMORIAM

(FRIDAY, MAY 20, 1910)

"Extinctus amabitur idem,” Hor. Epist., . i. 14.

HE that was King an hour ago

Is King no more; and we that bend Beside the bier, too surely know We lose a Friend.

His was no "blood-and-iron " blend
To write in tears a ruthless reign;
Rather he strove to make an end
Of strife and pain.

Rather he strove to heal again

The half-healed wound, to hide the scar, To purge away the lingering stain Of racial war.

Thus, though no trophies deck his car
Of captured guns or banners torn,
Men hailed him as they hail a star
That comes with morn:

A star of brotherhood, not scorn,
A morn of loosing and release-
A fruitful time of oil and corn-
An Age of Peace!

Sleep then, O Dead beloved! and sleep
As one who, when his course is run,
May yet, in slumber, memory keep
Of duty done;

Sleep then, our England's King, as one
Who knows the lofty aim and pure,
Beyond all din of battles won,
Must still endure.

1910.

THREESCORE AND TEN

Age never droops into decrepitude while
Fancy stands at his side."

SO LANDOR wrote, and so I quote,

And wonder if he knew;
There is so much to doubt about-
So much but partly true!

Can one make points with stiffened joints?

Or songs that breathe and burn ?

Will not the jaded Muse refuse

An acrobatic turn?

There was a time when dancing rhyme

Ran readily to cantos;

But now it seems too late a date
For galliards and corantos.

One must beware, too, lest one's pace
Disgrace one's ROXALANE,
For e'en Decrepitude, my Friend,
Must bend-in a pavane.

No! on the whole the fittest rôle
For Age is the spectator's,

In roomy stall reclined behind

The "paters" and the "maters,"

That fondly watch the pose of those
Whose thought is still creative-
Whose point of view is fresh and new,
Not feebly imitative.

Time can no more lost Youth restore

Or rectify defect;

But it can clear a failing sight
With light of retrospect.

1911.

AN HORATIAN ODE TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY

(22ND JUNE, 1911)

NOT with high-vaulting phrase, or rush

Of weak-winged epithets that tire
With their own weight, or formal gush,
We greet thee, Sire!

To flights less lofty we aspire.

We pray, in speech unskilled to feign,
That all good things good men desire
May crown Thy reign;

That our State "Dreadnought" once again
May leave in broken seas to veer,
And shape her course direct and plain,
With Thee to steer,

Into blue sky and water clear,

Where she on even keel shall ride,
Secure from reef and shoal, or fear
Of wind and tide.