A PROEM

(To Mr. Arthur Rackham's edition of Alice in

'TIS

Wonderland.)

IS two-score years since Carroll's art,
With topsy-turvy magic,

Sent Alice wandering through a part

Half-comic and half-tragic.

Enchanting Alice! Black-and-white
Has made your charm perennial;

66

And nought save Chaos and old Night" Can part you now from Tenniel;

But still you are a Type, and based
In Truth, like Lear and Hamlet;
And Types may be re-draped to taste
In cloth of gold or camlet.

Here comes a fresh Costumier then ;
That Taste may gain a wrinkle

From him who drew with such deft pen
The rags of Rip van Winkle.

1908 [1907.]

AN EPITAPH

(FOR A PARISH MAGAZINE)

"On n'y lit aucun nom."-VICTOR HUGO.

HERE sleeps, at last, in narrow bed,

A man of whom; whate'er is spoken,

This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.

He boasted no high-sounding name,
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And-more than once-forgave his debtors.

He never joined the cry of those

Who prate about the Public Morals;

But reconciled some private foes,

And patched up sundry standing quarrels.

It never came within his plan

To "demonstrate" on Want or Labour; He strove to serve his fellow-man,

And did his best to love his neighbour.

When Doubt disturbed his honest soul,
He found in this his consolation :-
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.

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.

A MILTONIC EXERCISE

(TERCENTENARY, 1608-1908)

"Stops of various Quills."-LYCIDAS.

WHAT need of votive Verse

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: Where is the Strain unknown,

Through Bronze or Silver blown,

That thrill'd the Welkin with thy woven Note?

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, High up, the Clang and Roar Of Angel Conflict,-Angel Overthrow; Or, with a World begun,

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.