To prayer: _God save, Christ keep, them all_. And thou, who knowest not these things, Hearken, what news our message brings! Our toils, thy joy of life forgot: Our lives of prayer forget thee not. CADGWITH BY LIONEL JOHNSON My windows open to the autumn night, In vain I watched for sleep to visit me: How should sleep dull mine ears, and dim my sight, Who saw the stars, and listened to the sea? Ah, how the City of our God is fair! If, without sea and starless though it be, For joy of the majestic beauty there, Men shall not miss the stars, nor mourn the sea. A FRIEND BY LIONEL JOHNSON All, that he came to give, He gave, and went again: I have seen one man live, I have seen one man reign, With all the graces in his train. As one of us, he wrought Things of the common hour: Whence was the charmed soul brought, That gave each act such power; The natural beauty of a flower? Magnificence and grace, Excellent courtesy: A brightness on the face, Airs of high memory: Whence came all these, to such as he? Like young Shakespearian kings, He won the adoring throng: And, as Apollo sings, He triumphed with a song: Triumphed, and sang, and passed along. With a light word he took The hearts of men in thrall: And, with a golden look, Welcomed them, at his call Giving their love, their strength, their all. No man less proud than he, Nor cared for homage less; Only, he could not be Far off from happiness: Nature was bound to his success. Weary, the cares, the jars The lets, of every day: But the heavens filled with stars, Chanced he upon the way: And where he stayed, all joy would stay. Now, when sad night draws down, When the austere stars burn: Roaming the vast stars burn: My thoughts and memories yearn Toward him, who never will return. Yet I have seen him live, And owned my friend, a king: And that he came to give, He gave, and I, who sing His praise, bring all I have to bring. BY THE STATUE OF KING CHARLES AT CHARING CROSS BY LIONEL JOHNSON Sombre and rich, the skies; Great glooms and starry plains. Gently the night wind sighs; Else a vast silence reigns. The splendid silence clings Around me: and around The saddest of all kings Crowned, and again discrowned. Comely and calm, he rides Hard by his own Whitehall: Only the night wind glides: No crowds, nor rebels, brawl. Gone, too, his Court: and yet, The stars his courtiers are; Stars in their stations set; And every wandering star. Alone he rides, alone, The fair and fatal king: Dark night is all his own, That strange and solemn thing.