* * * * * Who knows! Meanwhile the mosses bead Around the granite brink; And 'twixt the isles of water-weed The wood-birds dip and drink. AN EASTERN APOLOGUE. (To E. H. P.) Melik the Sultan, tired and wan, Nodded at noon on his divan. Beside the fountain lingered near JAMIL the bard, and the vizier-- Old YUSUF, sour and hard to please; Then JAMIL sang, in words like these. _Slim is Butheina--slim is she As boughs of the Araka tree!_ "Nay," quoth the other, teeth between, "Lean, if you will,--I call her lean." _Sweet is Butheina--sweet as wine, With smiles that like red bubbles shine!_ "True,--by the Prophet!" YUSUF said, "She makes men wander in the head!" _Dear is Butheina--ah! more dear Than all the maidens of Kashmeer!_ "Dear," came the answer, quick as thought, "Dear ... and yet always to be bought." So JAMIL ceased. But still Life's page Shows diverse unto YOUTH and AGE: And,--be the song of Ghouls or Gods,-- TIME, like the Sultan, sits ... and nods. TO A MISSAL OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. Missal of the Gothic age, Missal with the blazoned page, Whence, O Missal, hither come, From what dim scriptorium? Whose the name that wrought thee thus, Ambrose or Theophilus, Bending, through the waning light, O'er thy vellum scraped and white; Weaving 'twixt thy rubric lines Sprays and leaves and quaint designs; Setting round thy border scrolled Buds of purple and of gold? Ah!--a wondering brotherhood, Doubtless, by that artist stood, Raising o'er his careful ways Little choruses of praise; Glad when his deft hand would paint Strife of Sathanas and Saint, Or in secret coign entwist Jest of cloister humourist. Well the worker earned his wage, Bending o'er the blazoned page! Tired the hand and tired the wit Ere the final _Explicit_! Not as ours the books of old-- Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore-- Rows of type, and nothing more. Then a book was still a Book, Where a wistful man might look, Finding something through the whole, Beating--like a human soul. In that growth of day by day, When to labour was to pray, Surely something vital passed To the patient page at last; Something that one still perceives Vaguely present in the leaves; Something from the worker lent; Something mute--but eloquent! A REVOLUTIONARY RELIC. Old it is, and worn and battered, As I lift it from the stall; And the leaves are frayed and tattered, And the pendent sides are shattered, Pierced and blackened by a ball.