And as he reached the topmost crest of it, Lo! the Olympian majesties did sit In a most high and passionless conclave: They ate ambrosia with their deathless lips, And ever and anon the golden wave Flowed of the drink divine, which only strips This mortal frame of its mortality. And there, and there was Aphrodite, she That is more lovely than the golden dawn And from a ripple of the sea was born: And there was Hera, the imperious queen, And Dian’s chastity, that hunts unseen What time with spring the woodland boughs are green: And there was Pan with mirth and pleasantness, And Eros’ self that never knew distress Save for the love of the fair Cretan maid; There Hermes with the wings of speed arrayed, And awful Zeus, the king of gods and men, And ever at his feet Apollo sang A measure of changing harmonies that rang From that high mountain over all the world, And all the sails of fighting ships were furled, And men drew breath, and there was peace again. But him that saw, the sight like flame Or depths of waters overcame: He swooned, nor heard how ceased the choir Of strings upon Apollo’s lyre, Nor saw he how the sweet god stood And smiled on him in kindly mood, And stooped, and kissed him as he lay; Then lightly rose and turned away To join the bright immortal throng And make for them another song. The Last Verses O ageless nonpareil of stars That shinest through a mist of cloud, O light beyond the prison bars Remote, unwavering, and proud; Fortunate star and happy light, Ye benison the gloom of night. All hail, unfailing eye and hand, All hail, all hail, unsilenced voice, That makest dead men understand, The very dead in graves rejoice: Whose utterance, writ in ancient books, Shall always live, for him that looks. Many as leaves from autumn trees The years shall flutter from on high, And with their multiple decease The souls of men shall fall and die, Yet, while the empires turn to dust, You shall live on, because you must. O seven times happy he that dies After the splendid harvest-tide, When strong barns shield from winter skies The grain that’s rightly stored inside: There death shall scatter no more tears Than o’er the falling of the years: Aye, happy seven times is he Who enters not the silent doors Before his time, but tenderly Death beckons unto him, because There’s rest within for weary feet Now all the journey is complete. “So we lay down the Pen” _So_ we lay down the pen, So we forbear the building of the rime, And bid our hearts be steel for times and a time Till ends the strife, and then, When the New Age is verily begun, God grant that we may do the things undone. ―――― _Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury._