Then, too, he scores in other wise
By his "deplorable demise."

There is so much that we could say
Were he a Bard of yesterday!

We should discuss his draughts and pills,
His baker's and his vintner's bills;

Rake up-perhaps 'tis well we can't-
Gossip about his maiden aunt;

And all that marketable matter

Which FREEMAN nicknamed "Harriet-chatter!"

But here not even Persian candles

Can light us to the smallest scandals ;—

Thus far your OMAR gains at least
By having been so long deceased.

Failing of this, we needs must fall
Back on his opus after all :-
Those quatrains so compact, complete,
So suited to FITZGERALD'S feet,
(And, let us add, so subtly planned
To tempt the imitative band!)—
Those censers of Omari ware

That breathe into the perfumed air
His doubt, his unrest, his despair ;-
Those jewels-four-lines-long that show,
Eight hundred years and more ago,
An old thing underneath the sun
In Babylonish Babylon:-
A Body and a Soul at strife
To solve the Mystery of Life!

So then all hail to OMAR K.!
(To take our more familiar way)

Though much of what he wrote and did
In darkest mystery is hid;

And though (unlike our bards) his task
Was less to answer than to ask;

For all his endless Why and Whether,
He brings us here to-night together;
And therefore (as I said before),
Hail! OMAR KHAYYÁM, hail! once more!

VERSES WRITTEN FOR THE MENU OF THE OMAR KHAYYÁM CLUB

MAY 17, 1901

ALAAM TO OMAR! We that meet to-night

SALAAM

Have bid Black Care be banished, and invite The Rose, the Cup, the not-too-ancient Jest To help, and cheer us,-but beyond the Rest, Peaceful Digestion with its blissful Calm. Therefore to OMAR once again-SALAAM !

SALAAM TO OMAR! Life in truth is short,
And mortal Man of many Ills the Sport;
Yet still th' Oasis of the Board commends
Its Vantage-Ground for cheerful Talk of Friends,
And brings Oblivion, like an Eastern Balm.
Therefore to OMAR once again-SALAAM !

SALAAM TO OMAR! Many Things must go
Down the dim Way that leads to Weal or Woe;
But kindly Hearts and kindly Thoughts will last
Till Time himself-the Arch-Iconoclast-
Drops the last Coin in Charon's withered Palm.
Therefore to OMAR once again—SALAAM !

FOR "AN APPENDIX TO THE

ROWFANT LIBRARY"

(F. L. L. IN MEMORIAM)

HIS Books.". Oh yes, his Books I know,—

Each worth a monarch's ransom;

But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,

The courtly Owner, glass in eye,
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply,-
Some master-stroke of punning.

Where shall we meet his like again?
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men,-
Such store of recollection;

Or where discern a verse so neat,
So well-bred and so witty,-
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?

POPE taught him rhythm, PRIOR ease,
PRAED buoyancy and banter;

What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur !

The old régime departs,-departs;
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no FREDERICK LOCKER.