He beckons the grave Elder from debate,
He hales the Abbot by his shaven pate,

Nor for the Abbess' wailing will delay:
No bawling Mendicant shall say him nay;
E'en to the pyx the Priest he followeth,

Nor can the Leech his chilling finger stay.
There is no king more terrible than Death.

All things must bow to him. And woe betide
The Wine-bibber, -the Roisterer by night;
Him the feast-master, many bouts defied,

Him 'twixt the pledging and the cup shall smite : Woe to the Lender at usurious rate,

The hard Rich Man, the hireling Advocate:
Woe to the Judge that selleth right for pay;
Woe to the Thief that like a beast of prey
With creeping tread the traveller hurryeth

These, in their sin, the sudden sword shall slay. . There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity,-nor will be denied.

When the low hearth is garnished and bright,
Grimly he flingeth the dim portal wide,

And steals the Infant in the Mother's sight;
He hath no pity for the scorned of fate :-
He spares not Lazarus lying at the gate,

Nay, nor the Blind that stumbleth as he may; Nay, the tired Ploughman,—at the sinking ray,— In the last furrow,-feels an icy breath,

And knows a hand hath turned the team astray. There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,

He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;

He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The maid half-won, the Lover passionate;

He hath no grace for weakness or decay:
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and grey,—
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,-

All these he leadeth by the lonely way. . .
There is no king more terrible than Death.

Envoy.

YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late,
I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,

Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;
But know not less that there must come a day,-
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,-

When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,— There is no king more terrible than Death.

AUSTIN DOBSON.

THE PRAISE OF DIONYSUS.

(Chant Royal.)

Behold, above the mountains there is light,
A streak of gold, a line of gathering fire,
And the dim East hath suddenly grown bright
With pale aerial flame, that drives up higher
The lurid mists that, of the night aware,
Breasted the dark ravines and coverts bare;
Behold, behold! the granite gates unclose,
And down the vales a lyric people flows,
Who dance to music, and in dancing fling
Their frantic robes to every wind that blows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

Nearer they press, and nearer still in sight,
Still dancing blithely in a seemly choir;
Tossing on high the symbol of their rite,
The cone tipped thyrsus of a god's desire:
Nearer they come, tall damsels flushed and fair,
With ivy circling their abundant hair,

Onward, with even pace, in stately rows,
With eye that flashes, and with cheek that glows,
And all the while their tribute songs they bring,
And newer glories of the past disclose,
And deathless praises to their vine-god sing.

The pure luxuriance of their limbs is white.

And flashes clearer as they draw the nigher, Bathed in an air of infinite delight,

Smooth without wound of thorn or fleck of mire, Born up by song as by a trumpet's blare, Leading the van to conquest, on they fare;

Fearless and bold, whoever comes or goes, These shining cohorts of Bacchantes close, Shouting and shouting till the mountains ring,

And forests grim forget their ancient woes, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

And youths are there for whom full many a night Brought dreams of bliss, vague dreams that haunt and tire,

Who rose in their own ecstasy bedight,

[briar.

And wandered forth through many a scourging And waited shivering in the icy air,

And wrapped their leopard skins about them there,
Knowing, for all the bitter air that froze,

The time must come, that every poet knows,
When he shall rise and feel himself a king,
And follow. follow where the ivy grows,
And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

But oh within the heart of this great flight, What ivory arms held up the golden lyre? What form is this of more than mortal height

What matchless beauty, what inspired ire? The brindled panthers know the prize they bear, And harmonise their steps with stately care;

Bent to the morning like a living rose,

The immortal splendour of his face he shows, And where he glances, leaf and flower and wing Tremble with rapture, stirred in their repose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

Envoi.

Prince of the flute and ivy, all thy foes Record the bounty that thy grace bestows, But we, thy servants, to thy glory cling;

And with no frigid lips our songs compose, And deathless praises to the vine-god sing.

EDMUND GOSSE.

THE GOD OF LOVE.

(Chant Royal.)

I.

O most fair God, O Love both new and old,
That wast before the flowers of morning blew,
Before the glad sun in his mail of gold

Leapt into light across the first day's dew;
That art the first and last of our delight,
That in the blue day and the purple night

Holdest the hearts of servant and of king,
Lord of liesse, sovran of sorrowing,
That in thy hand hast heaven's golden key

And Hell beneath the shadow of thy wing,
Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee.

II.

What thing rejects thy mastery? who so bold
But at thine altars in the dusk they sue?
Even the strait pale goddess, silver-stoled,

That kissed Endymion when the Spring was new,
To thee did homage in her own despite,
When in the shadow of her wings of white

She slid down trembling from her moonèd ring
To where the Latmian boy lay slumbering,

And in that kiss put off cold chastity.

Who but acclaim with voice and pipe and string, "Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee?"

III.

Master of men and gods, in every fold

Of thy wide vans the sorceries that renew The labouring earth, tranced with the winter's cold, Lie hid the quintessential charms that woo The souls of flowers, slain with the sullen might Of the dead year, and draw them to the light.

Balsam and blessing to thy garments cling; Skyward and seaward, when thy white hands fling Their spells of healing over land and sea,

One shout of homage makes the welkin ring, "Thou art my Lord to whom I bend the knee !"

IV.

I see thee throned aloft; thy sair hands hold
Myrtles for joy, and euphrasy and rue :
Laurels and roses round thy white brows rolled,
And in thine eyes the royal heaven's hue :
But in thy lips' clear colour, ruddy bright,
The heart's blood shines of many a hapless wight.
Thou are not only fair and sweet as spring;