When Doubt disturbed his honest soul, 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: No fateful smudges ever blot The outgrowth of his youthful ken With "forms" he scorns to compromise; From doubtful questions of the "Press" In all polemics, more or less, Save in their "case," with High and Low, From ills that others scape or shirk, For him, his most "composing" work Though ways be foul, and days are dim, The primal "fount" of woe to him And when, at last, Time finds him grey He solves the problem of the day, 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 "Stops of various Quills."-LYCIDAS, WHAT 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: Through Bronze or Silver blown, 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, 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. |