Hard ruler there by right of might;

An ageless Autocrat,

Whose "good old rule" is "Appetite,

And subjects fresh and fat;

While they poor souls!-in wan despair.
Still watch for signs in him;
And dying, hand from heir to heir
The day undawned and dim,

When the pond's terror too must go;
Or creeping in by stealth,

Some bolder brood, with common blow,
Shall found a Commonwealth.

Or say, perchance the liker this!-
That these themselves are gone;
That Amurath in minimis,—

Still hungry, lingers on,

With dwindling trunk and wolfish jaw

Revolving sullen things,

But most the blind unequal law
That rules the food of Kings ;-

The blot that makes the cosmic All
A mere time-honoured cheat ;-
That bids the Great to eat the Small,

Yet lack the Small to eat!

Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead
Around the granite brink;

And 'twixt the isles of water-weed
The wood-birds dip and drink.

VAN EASTERN APOLOGUE

(TO E. H. P.)

MELIK the Sultán, tired and wan,

Nodded at noon on his diván.

Beside the fountain lingered near
JAMIL the bard, and the vizier-

Old Yusuf, sour and hard to please; Then JAMIL sang, in words like these.

Slim is Butheina-slim is she
As boughs of the Aráka tree!

"Nay," quoth the other, teeth between,

Lean, if you will,-I call her lean."

Sweet is Butheina-sweet as wine,

With smiles that like red bubbles shine!

"True, by the Prophet!" YUSUF said. "She makes men wander in the head!"

Dear is Butheina-ah! more dear

Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!

"Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, "Dear.. and yet always to be bought."

So JAMÍL ceased.

But still Life's page

Shows diverse unto YOUTH and AGE:

And-be the song of ghouls or gods-
TIME, like the Sultán, sits. . and nods.

✔ TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH

CENTURY

MISSAL of the Gothic age,

Missal with the blazoned page,

Whence, O Missal, hither come,

From what dim scriptorium?

Whose the name that wrought thee thus,
Ambrose or Theophilus,

Bending, through the waning light,

O'er thy vellum scraped and white;

Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines.

Sprays and leaves and quaint designs;
Setting round thy border scrolled
Buds of purple and of gold?

Ah! a wondering brotherhood,
Doubtless, by that artist stood,
Raising o'er his careful ways
Little choruses of praise;

Glad when his deft hand would paint

Strife of Sathanas and Saint,

Or in secret coign entwist

Jest of cloister humourist.