Even like this they passed away Two hundred years ago to-day. What of the lady? Who shall say? Do the souls of the dying ever yearn To some favored spot for the dust's return, For the homely peace of the family urn? I know not. Yet did the seneschal, Chancing in after-years to fall Pierced by a Flemish musket-ball, Call to his side a trusty friar, And bid him swear, as his last desire, To bear his corse to San Pedro's choir At Leon, where 'neath a shield azure Should his mortal frame find sepulture: This much, for the pains Christ did endure. Be sure that the friar loyally Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, Till the spires of Leon silently Rose through the green of the Almandral, As if to beckon the seneschal To his kindred dust 'neath the choir wall. I wot that the saints on either side Leaned from their niches open-eyed To see the doors of the church swing wide; That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, Went by with the coffin, clank on clank. For why? When they raised the marble door Of the tomb, untouched for years before, The friar swooned on the choir floor; For there, in her laces and festal dress, Lay the dead man's wife, her loveliness Scarcely changed by her long duress,-- As on the night she had passed away; Only that near her a dagger lay, With the written legend, "Por el Rey." What was their greeting, the groom and bride, They whom that steel and the years divide? I know not. Here they lie side by side. Side by side! Though the king has his way, Even the dead at last have their day. Make you the moral. "Por el Rey!" RAMON (REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO) Drunk and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face, More like brute than any man Alive or dead, By his great pump out of gear, Lay the peon engineer, Waking only just to hear, Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame,-- Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled! "To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee,-- Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,-- "Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, "Fifteen hundred pesos down, Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine: Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed, Stops the pumps that give us breath,-- Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine!"