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!

SALAAM

We that meet to-night

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.

FOR A CHARITY ANNUAL

N Angel-Court the sunless air

Grows faint and sick; to left and right The cowering houses shrink from sight, Huddled and hopeless, eyeless, bare.

Misnamed, you say? For surely rare
Must be the angel-shapes that light
In Angel-Court!

Nay! the Eternities are there.

Death at the doorway stands to smite;
Life in its garrets leaps to light;

And Love has climbed that crumbling stair

In Angel-Court.