There are others who are sitting, Grim as doom, In the dim ill-boding shadow Of my room. Darkling figures, stern or quaint, Now a savage, now a saint, Showing fitfully and faint Through the gloom. And those shadows are so dense, There may be Many—very many—more Than I see. They are sitting day and night Soldier, rogue, and anchorite; And they wrangle and they fight Over me. If the stark-faced fellow win, All is o’er! If the priest should gain his will I doubt no more! But if each shall have his day, I shall swing and I shall sway In the same old weary way As before. THE IRISH COLONEL Said the king to the colonel, ‘The complaints are eternal, That you Irish give more trouble Than any other corps.’ Said the colonel to the king, ‘This complaint is no new thing, For your foemen, sire, have made it A hundred times before.’ THE BLIND ARCHER Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance, Shooting down at the ballroom floor; He hit an old chaperone watching the dance, And oh! but he wounded her sore. ‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that! Hi, Love, what would you be at?’ No word would he say, But he flew on his way, For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay? Little boy Love drew a shaft just for sport At the soberest club in Pall Mall; He winged an old veteran drinking his port, And down that old veteran fell. ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! Hi, Love, what would you be at? This cannot be right! It’s ludicrous quite!’ But it’s no use to argue, for Love’s out of sight. A sad-faced young clerk in a cell all apart Was planning a celibate vow; But the boy’s random arrow has sunk in his heart, And the cell is an empty one now. ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! Hi, Love, what would you be at? He is not for you, He has duties to do.’ ‘But I _am_ his duty,’ quoth Love as he flew. The king sought a bride, and the nation had hoped For a queen without rival or peer. But the little boy shot, and the king has eloped With Miss No-one on Nothing a year. ‘Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that! Hi, Love, what would you be at? What an impudent thing To make game of a king!’ ‘But _I’m_ a king also,’ cried Love on the wing. Little boy Love grew pettish one day; ‘If you keep on complaining,’ he swore, ‘I’ll pack both my bow and my quiver away, And so I shall plague you no more.’ ‘Hey, Love, you mustn’t do that! Hi, Love, what would you be at? You may ruin our ease, You may do what you please, But we can’t do without you, you dear little tease!’ A PARABLE