But yet at Wrong she cannot bide Must have her jog at slug-slow Time: How far it rouse his hard-bound hide-- Ah! there's the test of quickening rhyme! THE GIBBET-SONG.[1] [1] The onus of the South African War seems, in the main, to have rested on three pairs of shoulders--those of Rhodes (who has now excused himself), Chamberlain and Milner. The Gallows is a composite something--a sort of trio-also--known to assume burdens, likewise, to-wit: the Beam, the Trap, and the Rope. I dozed--had dipped in gray of dreams-- While at gate of mind no sentry sat, But such blithe watch and ward whereat The Fancy laughs, more tricksy sports her airy gleams-- Had dipped--unrobed, immersed, for all she fought, In the bath, each leaden limb of weary Thought. Such truce!--while shoal of dreams slid restful by; When, hark! Came phantomed not upon the misty air, At hum and buzz, some quaint palavering there-- Some spell--which, ere the tranced ear could sort and try, Took vision, too, put up, made free, Where Reverie's haunts and workings be. The eeriest shapes--tho' of yon fierce breed That cows sweet Song, harsh-tunes her chime, Thick-mists the heights she fain would climb, Yet, e'en so, their sad defence and privilege plead: Rude differences, of mark and poise, That, 'gainst all manners, prompt her voice: The weirdest set,--tho' jovial, too, if looks describe, And hardy Mirth--yon gamy stuff that seeks no bush, Which Muse will start when, at a push, She sports the string of hoot and jibe; Tho' God help! as many a licensed rascal knows, A proper chord, for all its ring of lashing prose. But who were they? By way of count, the eye Had made them three--some treble pink, or clover there-- Tho', sooth to say, I never saw the threefoil wear The weird wild grace they conjured by. But then, what can't Illusion shadow forth, That shames the needle, souths the north? The First--in faith, all had a cunning trick Of linking arms, a hang-together sort of look, Which how to severalize and separate book Comes hard, save unto whom, among Life's pick Of strange acquaintance, she makes free Shall have close dealings with these Corporate Three. This First--a lanky chap he was, of way-up size, Clean-timbered, straight as pine-grain flows, Or frank heart feels, yet now, for, certes, some heinous cause, His way was curt, his speech came grim--some hanged surmise His gaunt frame feels, which, as it shouldering brings To view his level top, spoke curious things