Youth rambles on life's arid mount, And strikes the rock, and finds the vein, And brings the water from the fount, The fount which shall not flow again. The man mature with labour chops For the bright stream a channel grand, And sees not that the sacred drops Ran off and vanish'd out of hand. And then the old man totters nigh, And feebly rakes among the stones. The mount is mute, the channel dry; And down he lays his weary bones. NEW ROME LINES WRITTEN FOR MISS STORY'S ALBUM The armless Vatican Cupid Hangs down his beautiful head; For the priests have got him in prison, And Psyche long has been dead. But see, his shaven oppressors Begin to quake and disband! And _The Times_, that bright Apollo, Proclaims salvation at hand. "And what," cries Cupid, "will save us?" Says Apollo: "_Modernise Rome!_ What inns! Your streets, too, how narrow! Too much of palace and dome! "O learn of London, whose paupers Are not pushed out by the swells! Wide streets with fine double trottoirs; And then--the London hotels!" The armless Vatican Cupid Hangs down his head as before. Through centuries past it has hung so, And will through centuries more. PIS-ALLER "Man is blind because of sin, Revelation makes him sure; Without that, who looks within, Looks in vain, for all's obscure." Nay, look closer into man! Tell me, can you find indeed Nothing sure, no moral plan Clear prescribed, without your creed? "No, I nothing can perceive! Without that, all's dark for men. That, or nothing, I believe."-- For God's sake, believe it then! THE LAST WORD Creep into thy narrow bed, Creep, and let no more be said! Vain thy onset! all stands fast. Thou thyself must break at last. Let the long contention cease! Geese are swans, and swans are geese. Let them have it how they will! Thou art tired; best be still. They out-talk'd thee, hiss'd thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, Hotly charged--and sank at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall! THE LORD'S MESSENGERS Thus saith the Lord to his own:-- "See ye the trouble below? Warfare of man from his birth! Too long let we them groan; Haste, arise ye, and go, Carry my peace upon earth!" Gladly they rise at his call, Gladly obey his command, Gladly descend to the plain. --Ah! How few of them all, Those willing servants, shall stand In the Master's presence again!