Shut in what tower of darkling chance Dream'st thou of battle-axe and lance Or dungeon of a narrow doom,

That for the Cross make crashing room?

Come with hushed breath the battle waits

In the wild van thy mace's swing;

BLONDEL.

AUTUMN, 1863.

- Near a castle in Germany.

"T WERE no hard task, perchance, to win The popular laurel for my song; "T were only to comply with sin,

And own the crown, though snatched by wrong:

Rather Truth's chaplet let me wear, Though sharp as death its thorns may sting;

Loyal to Loyalty, I bear

No badge but of my rightful king.

Patient by town and tower I wait,
Or o'er the blustering moorland go;
I buy no praise at cheaper rate,

Or what faint hearts may fancy so;
For me, no joy in lady's bower,

Or hall, or tourney, will I sing, Till the slow stars wheel round the hour That crowns my hero and my king.

While all the land runs red with strife, And wealth is won by pedler-crimes, Let who will find content in life

Make thou thine own and ours, my king!

Richard was in,

And was spurring for England to push on the ransom.

How I scorned the dull souls that sat guzzling around

And knew not my secret nor recked my derision!

Let the world sink or swim, John or Richard be crowned,

All one, so the beer-tax got lenient revision.

How little I dreamed, as I tramped up and down,

That granting our wish one of Fate's saddest jokes is !

I had mine with a vengeance, king got his crown, And made his whole business to break other folks's.

I might as well join in the safe old tum, tum:

A hero's an excellent loadstar, — but, bless ye,

What infinite odds 'twixt a hero to come And your only too palpable hero in esse ! Precisely the odds (such examples are rife)

"Twixt the poem conceived and the rhyme we make show of,

"Twixt the boy's morning dream and the wake-up of life,

"Twixt the Blondel God meant and a Blondel I know of!

But the world's better off, I'm convinced of it now,

Than if heroes, like buns, could be bought for a penny

To regard all mankind as their haltered milch-cow,

And just care for themselves. Well, God cares for the many; For somehow the poor old Earth blunders along,

Each son of hers adding his mite of unfitness,

And, choosing the sure way of coming

than you,

And our sins cannot push the Lord's right hand from under.

Better one honest man who can wait for God's mind

In our poor shifting scene here though heroes were plenty!

Better one bite, at forty, of Truth's bitter rind,

Than the hot wine that gushed from the vintage of twenty!

I see it all now: when I wanted a king, 'T was the kingship that failed in myself I was seeking, 'Tis so much less easy to do than to sing,

So much simpler to reign by a proxy than be king!

Yes, I think I do see: after all's said and sung,

Take this one rule of life and you never will rue it, 'Tis but do your own duty and hold your own tongue

And Blondel were royal himself, if he knew it !

MEMORIÆ POSITUM.

R. G. SHAW

I.

BENEATH the trees,

My lifelong friends in this dear spot, Sad now for eyes that see them not, I hear the autumnal breeze

Wake the dry leaves to sigh for gladness gone,

Whispering vague omens of oblivion,
Hear, restless as the seas,
Time's grim feet rustling through the
withered grace

Of many a spreading realm and strongstemmed race,

Even as my own through these.

Why make we moan

For loss that doth enrich us yet
With upward yearnings of regret?
Bleaker than unmossed stone

crashing through,

cobweb asunder;

Of unstilled longing and inspiring pain!