HE sits above the clang and dust… With the world’s secret trembling… He asks not converse or companions… In the cold starlight where thou c… The undelivered tidings in his bre…

Nay, bid me not my cares to leave, Who cannot from their shadow flee. I do but win a short reprieve, ‘Scaping to pleasure and to thee. I may, at best, a moment’s grace,

As some most pure and noble face, Seen in the thronged and hurrying… Sheds o’er the world a sudden grac… A flying odour sweet, Then, passing, leaves the cheated…

Well he slumbers, greatly slain, Who in splendid battle dies; Deep his sleep in midmost main Pillowed upon pearl who lies. Ease, of all good gifts the best,

She was a lady great and splendid, I was a minstrel in her halls. A warrior like a prince attended Stayed his steed by the castle wal… Far had he fared to gaze upon her.

What! and shall _we_, with such su… As age demands in reverence from t… Await these crumbs of praise from… And doubt of our own greatness til… The signet of your Goethes or Vol…

Betwixt the Foe and France was sh… France the immortal, France the f… The Foe, like one vast living sea… Drew nigh. He dreamed that none his tide woul…

Few friends are mine, though many… Who, meeting oft a phantasm that m… To be myself, and hath my face and… And whose thin fraud I wink at pr… Account this light impostor very m…

That beauty such as thine Can die indeed, Were ordinance too wantonly malign… No wit may reconcile so cold a cre… With beauty such as thine.

Clear as of old the great voice ri… While Sherwood’s oak-leaves twine… The voice of him the master and th… Of one whole age and legion of the… Who sang his morning-song when Co…

There is a race of men, who master… Their victory being inversely as t… Who capture by refraining from pur… Shake not the bough, yet load thei… The earth’s high places who attain…

Behold life builded as a goodly ho… And grown a mansion ruinous With winter blowing through its cr… The master paceth up and down his… And in the empty hours

Ere vandal lords with lust of gold… Deface each hallowed hillside we r… Ere cities in their million-throat… Menace each sacred mere— Let us give thanks because one noo…

The men who man our batteries, The men who serve our guns, They need not honeyed flatteries, For they are Britain’s sons! They go, when Duty speeds them,

(WITH A VOLUME OF VERSE) Master and mage, our prince of son… In this your autumn mellow and ser… Crowns ever with fresh laurels, no… Than garlands dewy from your verdu…