OT to be tuneless in old age!" "NOT Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage, Who, in his Winter's snow, Still sings with note as sweet and clear As in the morning of the year When the first violets blow! Blest!-but more blest, whom Summer's heat, Lie calm, O white and laureate head! Since from the voiceless grave, Thy voice shall speak to old and young CHARLES GEORGE GORDON CHARLES GEORGE GORDON "RATHER be dead than praised," he said, That hero, like a hero dead, In this slack-sinewed age endued "Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we, Who loved thee, now that Death sets free Thine eager soul, with word and line Our pain Nay, let us hold, be mute. VICTOR HUGO HE set the trumpet to his lips, and lo! The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow, The strife and stress of Nature's warring things, Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings. He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo! Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill, Not so we mourn thee now, Since thou thy song didst raise, Grief there may be, and will, Sinks in the song; When that the winged rhyme Fails of the promised prime, Not thus we mourn thee-we- Since, like a clearing flame, Nay-nor for thee we grieve Lost as the stars that set, Empty of men's regret, Rather we count thee one Who, when his race is run, Layeth him down, Calm-through all coming days, Filled with a nation's praise, |