THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB AT

ST. PRAXED'S CHURCH.

[Rome, 15-]

VANITY, saith the preacher, vanity!

Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews-sons mine-ah God, I know not! Well-
She, men would have to be your mother once,

Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was !
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,

And as she died so must we die ourselves,

And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
'Do I live, am I dead?' Peace, peace seems all.
St. Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know :-
Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner south
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence
One sees the pulpit on the epistle-side,

And somewhat of the choir, those silent seats,
And up into the aëry dome where live
The angels, and a sunbeam's sure to lurk :
And I shall fill my slab of basalt there,

And 'neath my tabernacle take my rest,

With those nine columns round me, two and two,
The odd one at my feet where Anselm stands :
Peach-blossom marble all, the rare, the ripe,
As fresh-poured red wine of a mighty pulse.-
Old Gandolf with his paltry onion-stone,

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Put me where I may look at him! True peach,
Rosy and flawless: how I earned the prize!
Draw close that conflagration of my church-

What then? So much was saved if aught were missed!
My sons, ye would not be my death? Go dig

The white-grape vineyard, where the oil-press stood,
Drop water gently till the surface sinks,

And if ye find-Ah, God, I know not, I !—
Bedded in store of rotten fig-leaves soft,
And corded up in a tight olive-frail,
Some lump, ah God, of lapis lazuli,
Big as a Jew's head cut off at the nape,
Blue as a vein o'er the Madonna's breast-
Sons, all have I bequeathed you, villas, all,
That brave Frascati villa with its bath,
So let the blue lump poise between my knees,
Like God the Father's globe on both his hands
Ye worship in the Jesu Church so gay,

For Gandolf shall not choose but see and burst!
Swift as a weaver's shuttle fleet our years;
Man goeth to the grave, and where is he?
Did I say basalt for my slab, sons? Black-
'T was ever antique-black I meant !
Shall ye contrast my frieze to come beneath?
The bas-relief in bronze ye promised me,

How else

Those Pans and Nymphs ye wot of, and perchance
Some tripod, thyrsus, with a vase or so,

The Saviour at his sermon on the mount,

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St. Praxed in a glory, and one Pan

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THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB.

Ready to twitch the Nymph's last garment off,
And Moses with the tables-but I know

Ye mark me not! What do they whisper thee,
Child of my bowels, Anselm? Ah, ye hope
To revel down my villas while I gasp,
Bricked o'er with beggar's mouldy travertine
Which Gandolf from his tomb-top chuckles at!
Nay, boys, ye love me-all of jasper, then!
"T is jasper ye stand pledged to, lest I grieve
My bath must needs be left behind, alas!
One block, pure green as a pistachio-nut,
There's plenty jasper somewhere in the world-
And have I not St. Praxed's ear to pray
Horses for ye, and brown Greek manuscripts,
And mistresses with great smooth marbly limbs ?—
That's if ye carve my epitaph aright,
Choice Latin, picked phrase, Tully's every word,
No gaudy ware like Gandolf's second line-
Tully, my masters? Ulpian serves his need!
And then how I shall lie through centuries,
And hear the blessed mutter of the mass,
And see God made and eaten all day long,
And feel the steady candle-flame, and taste
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
For as I lie here, hours of the dead night,
Dying in state and by such slow degrees,
I fold my arms as if they clasped a crook,

And stretch my feet forth straight as stone can point,

And let the bedclothes for a mortcloth drop

Into great laps and folds of sculptor's work;

And as yon tapers dwindle, and strange thoughts
Grow, with a certain humming in my ears,
About the life I lived before this life,

And this life too, popes, cardinals, and priests,
St. Praxed at his sermon on the mount,

'HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD

NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX.'

[16-]

I.

I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; 'Speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast.

II.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

III.

5

ΙΟ

'T was moonset at starting; but while we drew near
Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;
At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;
At Düffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be;
And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime,
So Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'

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RABBI BEN EZRA.

GROW old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

I.

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith 'A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!'

Not that, amassing flowers,

II.

Youth sighed 'Which rose make ours,

Which lily leave and then as best recall!'

Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned 'Nor Jove, nor Mars ;

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Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them

all!'

III.

Not for such hopes and fears

Annulling youth's brief years,

Do I remonstrate; folly wide the mark!

Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

IV.

Were man but formed to feed

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