_We_ praise, we praise the immortal dead, Who strove beneath unheeding skies For truth that raised the drooping head, For light that gladdened weary eyes: The martyr’s cross, the warrior’s sword, How should they be of lesser worth Than some unprofitable hoard In ancient mines below the earth? The song that one alone has sung, The great uncompromising page, Are these but glittering baubles, flung About the world from age to age? But ruin’d columns, wondrous tall, Built in old time with labour sore, The mighty deeds done once for all, The voice heard once, and heard no more? Rather they shine as doth the star About the close of winter’s day, That cheers the traveller afar And draws him on, and points the way. ―――― We praise, we praise the immortal dead. Do they not verily wait till we Of the spoilt years unharvested Be also of their company? The Old Kings _Far_ away from sunny rills, Far away from golden broom, Far away from any town Whither merchants travel down— In a hollow of the hills In impenetrable gloom Sit the old forgotten kings Unto whom no poet sings, Unto whom none makes bequest, Unto whom no kingdoms rest,—— Only wayward shreds of dreams, And the sound of ancient streams, And the shock of ancient strife On the further shore of life. ―――― When our days are done, shall we Enter their pale company? “O there be Kings whose Treasuries” _O there_ be kings whose treasuries Are rich with pearls and gold And silks and bales of cramasy And spices manifold: Gardens they have with marble stairs And streams than life more fair, With roses set and lavender That do enchant the air. O there be many ships that sail The sea-ways wide and blue, And there be master-mariners To sail them straight and true: And there be many women fair Who watch out anxiously, And are enamoured of the day Their dear ones come from sea: But riches I can find enow All in a barren land, Where sombre lakes shine wondrously With rocks on either hand: And I can find enow of love Up there, alone, alone, With none beside me save the wind, Nor speech except his moan. For there far up among the hills The great storms come and go In a most proud processional Of cloud and rain and snow: There light and darkness only are A changing benison Of the old gods who wrought the world And shaped the moon and sun. A Study _In_ chamber hung with white, Lit by the dawning light, Upon a slender bed She lies, as she were dead: Most carven-ivory fair, And palely gold her hair. Lo, the sun’s yellow ray, That, with the rise of day, Through quartered casement came To wake her life’s pale flame. The Eremite _When_ the world is still in the hush of dawn, And yet fast sleeping are hate and scorn, From my grey lodging under the hill I do go out, and wander at will.