I'm 'Rupert from the Mountains'! (Pass the stout)... Yes, I'm the Broncho Boy we watched to-night, That robbed a ranch and galloped down the creek. (Moonlight and shattering hoofs.... O moonlight of the West! Wind in the gum-trees, and my swerving mare Beating her flickering shadow on the post.) Ah, I was wild in those fierce days! You saw me Fix that saloon? They stared into my face And slowly put their hands up, while I stood With dancing eyes,--romantic to the world! Things happened afterwards ... You know the story... The sheriff's daughter, bandaging my head; Love at first sight; the escape; and making good (To music by Mascagni). And at last---- Peace; and the gradual beauty of my smile. But that's all finished now. One has to take Life as it comes. I've nothing to regret. For men like me, the only thing that counts Is the adventure. Lord, what times I've had! God and King Charles! And then my mistress's arms.... (To-morrow evening I'm a Cavalier.) Well, what's the news to-night about the Strike? FANCY DRESS Some Brave, awake in you to-night, Knocked at your heart: an eagle's flight Stirred in the feather on your head. Your wide-set Indian eyes, alight Above high cheek-bones smeared with red, Unveiled cragg'd centuries, and led You, the snared wraith of bygone things-- Wild ancestries of trackless Kings-- Out of the past.... So men have felt Strange anger move them as they knelt Praying to gods serenely starred In heavens where tomahawks are barred. MIDDLE-AGES I heard a clash, and a cry, And a horseman fleeing the wood. The moon hid in a cloud. Deep in shadow I stood. '_Ugly work!_' thought I, Holding my breath. '_Men must be cruel and proud,_ '_Jousting for death._' With gusty glimmering shone The moon; and the wind blew colder. A man went over the hill, Bent to his horse's shoulder. '_Time for me to be gone_'... Darkly I fled. Owls in the wood were shrill, And the moon sank red. THE PORTRAIT I watch you, gazing at me from the wall, And wonder how you'd match your dreams with mine, If, mastering time's illusion, I could call You back to share this quiet candle-shine. For you were young, three-hundred years ago; And by your looks I guess that you were wise... Come, whisper soft, and Death will never know You've slipped away from those calm, painted eyes. Strange is your voice ... Poor ninny, dead so long, And all your pride forgotten like your name. '_One April morn I heard a blackbird's song,_ '_And joy was in my heart like leaves aflame._' And so you died before your songs took wing; While Andrew Marvell followed in your wake. '_Love thrilled me into music. I could sing But for a moment,--but for beauty's sake._'