'Tis to gloat on the glaze and the mark They were mighty of fin and of fang, Here's a pot with a cot in a park, Through the boughs of the may, as they "Dead and gone,' - a sorry burden of the Ballad of Life." DEATH'S JEST BOOK. SAY, fair maids, maying Say, grave priests, praying From cells decaying ? And through the silver Northern night They fled like ghosts before the day! I know not if the forest green Still girdles round that castle gray ; I know not if the boughs between The white deer vanish ere the day; Above my Love the grass is green, My heart is colder than the clay! THE ODYSSEY As one that for a weary space has lain Shrill wind beyond the close of heavy flowers, And, through the music of the languid hours, They hear like ocean on a western beach The surge and thunder of the Odyssey. TEARS for my lady dead, Salt tears and ill to shed Mistress and friend. Go tears, and go lament! Ah for the dust above, Scattered and shaken! Mother of all things born, Earth, in thy breast Lull her that all men mourn, Gently to rest! A SCOT TO JEANNE D'ARC DARK Lily without blame, Whose sires were to the Auld Alliance true; They, by the Maiden's side, Victorious fought and died ; One stood by thee that fiery torment through, Till the White Dove from thy pure lips had passed, And thou wert with thine own St. Catherine at the last. Once only didst thou see, In artist's imagery, Thine own face painted, and that precious Scarce did the memories wake thing Was in an Archer's hand From the leal Northern land. THREE PORTRAITS OF PRINCE CHARLES 1731 BEAUTIFUL face of a child, Lighted with laughter and glee, Mirthful, and tender, and wild, My heart is heavy for thee! 1744 Beautiful face of a youth, As an eagle poised to fly forth To the old land loyal of truth, To the hills and the sounds of the North: Fair face, daring and proud, Lo! the shadow of doom, even now, The fate of thy line, like a cloud, Rests on the grace of thy brow! 1773 Cruel and angry face, Hateful and heavy with wine, Where are the gladness, the grace, The beauty, the mirth that were thine? Ah, my Prince, it were well, Hadst thou to the gods been dear, To have fallen where Keppoch fell, With the war-pipe loud in thine ear ! To have died with never a stain On the fair White Rose of Renown, Of the far-off years and dim, Crept forth to St. Peter's shrine, |