Chapter 3

Come to me, shadows, down the hill-- And let there follow Sleep, Which is God's tidal Will That overflows The world--obliterating ill, And in its soothing sweep Murmuring more of mercy than man knows.

WAVES

The evening sails come home With twilight in their wings. The harbour-light across the gloam Springs; The wind sings.

The waves begin to tell The sea's night-sorrow o'er, Weaving within their ancient spell More Than earth's lore.

The rising moon wafts strange Low lures across the tide, On which my dim thoughts seem to range, Stride Upon stride, Until, with flooding thrill, They seem at last to blend With waves that from the Eternal Will Wend, Without end.

VIS ULTIMA

There is no day but leads me to A peak impossible to scale, A task at which my hands must fail, A sea I cannot swim or sail. There is no night I suffer thro But Destiny rules stern and pale: And yet what I am meant to do I will do, ere Death drop his veil.

And it shall be no little thing, Tho to oblivion it fall, For I shall strive to it thro all That can imperil or appal. So at each morning's trumpet-ring I mount again, less slave and thrall, And at the barriers gladly fling A fortitude that scorns to crawl.

MEREDITH

What am I reading? He is dead? He the great interpreter And seer--England's noblest head? What am I reading? It is hushed? The deepest voice that life had found To read a century profound With all time's seethe and stir?

Why, it is but a scanty score Of days, since, at his side, Clasping his hand with more than pride, I felt that the immortal tide Of his great mind would long break o'er The cold command of Death. Still in my ear is echoing The surf of his strong words, and still Against the wild trees on the Hill His cottage sheltered under, I see the toss of his gray locks, Like Lear's--for he had felt the sting Of all too greatly giving The kingdom of his mind to those Who for it held him mad.

O England, guard thy living Like him from a like fate! For not the mighty thunder Of thy proud name from all the rocks Of all the world can compensate A nation whom no Song makes glad, And whom no Seer makes great.

THE END