_Coelum non animum mutant Qui trans mare currunt._ --_Horace._ Sail forth across the jade-green sea and view the glades our fathers trod, Their rolling lawns of deathless sod, their hoary castles dear to me. Catch the pale vision of the past, the sound of stealthy slippered feet; Rest on the moss-grown garden seat and find a lover’s shadow cast. Creep into Catherine cubicle and sense her icy presence there; Her figure bent and drawn with care as Alchemist o’er crucible. Look down the waving lane of trees that lines the speckled road’s approach Where glides the flashing golden coach with gay plumes trembling in the breeze. Gaze up at Longeais from the moat and feel the ages slip away Until its grey walls seem at bay before the host in armored coat. Go to each ancient place above and bless it with your noiseless tread; Your presence there should stir the dead with tremulous warm thoughts of love. Leave here for me your image fair, graven in crystal carved by time, Untarnished as a star sublime, unchanging as the love I bear. God speed you under other skies, drink deep of Europe’s scented charm, But keep the gesture of your arm, the wistful wonder in your eyes. MORRIS TYLER. _Quatrains_ I. MORALITY Behold these proper lovers, when they meet: Each longs for love’s caresses, but that heat Must be suppressed; it is the moral code. God made their passion.... Made he this deceit? 2. THE DYING THESPIAN The theatre was my life, the very breath Of my existence, so what followeth Shall be in keeping. Tell the player-world I take my final rôle--the lead, in “Death”. 3. A MAIDEN LADY In younger days, her virtue was a veil She planned to drop, when true love should assail. No lovers came. Perforce, her life was chaste. In age, she boasts her virtue’s iron mail! 4. FUTILITY So many, ere they leave this little sphere Say thus and so observe my death; make cheer Or weep, in just this way. Well, as for me, Mourn me or not: I shall not pause to hear! C. G. POORE. _Lines_ The cold pale patina of sky, The brown upon the woodland leaf With all frail lovely things that die Blend in the autumn’s grief. For in each withered autumn flower Is wonder where the dead may go, And we slight children of an hour May live and never know. JOHN R. CHAMBERLAIN. _The Great Pan Jandrum_