'Twas on an All Souls' Eve that our good Inn --Whereof, for ten years now, myself was host-- Heard and took part in its most eerie tale. It was a bitter night, and master Ben, --His hair now flecked with grey, though youth still fired His deep and ageless eyes,--in the old oak-chair, Over the roaring hearth, puffed at his pipe; A little sad, as often I found him now Remembering vanished faces. Yet the years Brought others round him. Wreaths of Heliochrise Gleamed still in that great tribe of Benjamin, Burned still across the malmsey and muscadel. Chapman and Browne, Herrick,--a name like thyme Crushed into sweetness by a bare-foot maid Milking, at dewy dawn, in Elfin-land,-- These three came late, and sat in a little room Aside, supping together, on one great pie, Whereof both crust and coffin were prepared By master Herrick's receipt, and all washed down With mighty cups of sack. This left with Ben, John Ford, wrapped in his cloak, brooding aloof, Drayton and Lodge and Drummond of Hawthornden. Suddenly, in the porch, I heard a sound Of iron that grated on the flags. A spade And pick came edging through the door. "O, room! Room for the master-craftsman," muttered Ford, And grey old sexton Scarlet hobbled in. He shuffled off the snow that clogged his boots, --On my clean rushes!--brushed it from his cloak Of Northern Russet, wiped his rheumatic knees, Blew out his lanthorn, hung it on a nail, Leaned his rude pick and spade against the wall, Flung back his rough frieze hood, flapped his gaunt arms, And called for ale. "Come to the fire," said Lodge. "Room for the wisest counsellor of kings, The kindly sage that puts us all to bed, And tucks us up beneath the grass-green quilt." "Plenty of work, eh Timothy?" said Ben. "Work? Where's my liquor? O, ay, there's work to spare," Old Scarlet croaked, then quaffed his creaming stoup, While Ben said softly--"Pity you could not spare, You and your Scythe-man, some of the golden lads That I have seen here in the Mermaid Inn!" Then, with a quiet smile he shook his head And turned to master Drummond of Hawthornden. "Well, songs are good; but flesh and blood are better. The grey old tomb of Horace glows for me Across the centuries, with one little fire Lit by a girl's light hand." Then, under breath, Yet with some passion, he murmured this brief rhyme:-- I _Dulce ridentem_, laughing through the ages, _Dulce loquentem_, O, fairer far to me, Rarer than the wisdom of all his golden pages Floats the happy laughter of his vanished Lalage. II