Here is a characteristic poem of Stringer's entitled _War_, written years ago, and yet reading as if the ink in which it was written were still wet: "From hill to hill he harried me; He stalked me day and night. He neither knew nor hated me; Not his nor mine the fight. "He killed the man who stood by me, For such they made his law. Then foot by foot I fought to him, Who neither knew nor saw. "I aimed my rifle at his heart; He leapt up in the air. My screaming ball tore through his breast, And lay embedded there. "Lay but embedded there, and yet Hissed home o'er hill and sea, Straight to the aching heart of one Who'd wronged not mine nor me." As a specimen of Stringer's skill in handling of blank verse, here is a portion of the farewell between Sappho and Phaon in _Sappho in Leucadia_: {282} _Sappho_. But you,-- You will forget me, Phaon; there the sting. The sorrow of the grave is not its green And the salt tear upon its violet; But the long years that bring the grey neglect, When the glad grasses smooth the little mound,-- When leaf by leaf the tree of sorrow wanes And on the urn unseen the tarnish comes, And tears are not so bitter as they were, Time sings so low to our bereavèd ears,-- So softly breathes, that, bud by falling bud, The garden of fond Grief all empty lies And unregretted dip the languid oars Of Charon thro' the gloom, and then are gone. _Phaon_. Red-lipped and breathing woman, made for love, How can this clamouring heart of mine forget? _Sappho_. You will forget, e'en though you would or no, And the long years shall leave you free again; And in some other Spring when other lips Let fall my name, you will remember not. _Phaon_. Enough,--but let me kiss the heavy rose Of your red mouth. _Sappho_. Not until Death has kissed It white as these white garments, and has robed This body for its groom. Another characteristic poem of Stringer's, entitled _A Prayer in Defeat_, will bear comparison with William Ernest Henley's famous _Unafraid_: "Still hurl me back, God, if Thou must! Thy wrath, see, I shall bear-- I have been taught to know the dust Of battle and despair. "Bend not to me this hour, O God, Where I defeated stand; I have been schooled to bear thy rod, And still wait, not unmanned! "But should some white hour of success Sweep me where, vine-like, lead The widening roads, the clamouring press-- Then I thy lash shall need! {283} "Then, in that hour of triumph keen, For then I ask thine aid; God of the weak, on whom I lean, Keep me then unafraid!" Space cannot be found for it here, but following are a few verses from another beautiful poem, _St. Ives' Poor_. The idea of this poem is found in the old saying that in the giving of alms the Christ is revealed: