Days dawn on us that make amends for many Sometimes, When heaven and earth seem sweeter even than any Man’s rhymes, Light had not all been quenched in France, or quelled In Greece, Had Homer sung not, or had Hugo held His peace, Had Sappho’s self not left her word thus long For token, The sea round Lesbos yet in waves of song Had spoken. And yet these days of subtler air and finer Delight, When lovelier looks the darkness, and diviner The light, The gift they give of all these golden hours, Whose urn Pours forth reverberate rays or shadowing showers In turn, Clouds, beams, and winds that make the live day’s track Seem living―― What were they did no spirit give them back Thanksgiving? Dead air, dead fire, dead shapes and shadows, telling Time nought, Man gives them sense and soul by song, and dwelling In thought. In human thought their being endures, their power Abides: Else were their life a thing that each light hour Derides. The years live, work, sigh, smile, and die, with all They cherish; The soul endures, though dreams that fed it fall And perish. In human thought have all things habitation; Our days Laugh, lower, and lighten past, and find no station That stays. But thought and faith are mightier things than time Can wrong, Made splendid once with speech, or made sublime By song, Remembrance, though the tide of change that rolls Wax hoary, Gives earth and heaven, for song’s sake and the soul’s Their glory. A. C. SWINBURNE. Three of the competition poems were printed in the _Weekly Dispatch_, October, 18, 1885, the first prize was awarded to the following:―― Lays dawn on us that have few charms for many, Sometimes, Sure heaven and earth were seldom rack’d for any Worse rhymes. Light would not all be quench’d were bards compelled To cease, Had Tennyson sung not, or Swinburne held His peace―― Had Algy’s self not writ these lines so long And broken: ’Tis sad to see our Swinny rave in song Mad spoken! And yet few lays or subtler airs give finer Delight, Or soar from out the darkness with diviner A flight, Than his whose gift, in his most golden hours, Can earn Reverberate praise for all his varied powers In turn; Grand, grave or gay, that make his verse at times Seem living, But where are they who yield him for these rhymes Thanksgiving?