Upon an everlasting tide Into the silent seas we go; Nor life, nor death, nor aught they hold, Has value, if we mete it right. Pluck then the flowers that line the stream, But pluck as flowers, not gems, nor deem Whate'er betides, from day to day, SIR FRANCIS HASTINGS DOYLE. DEPARTURE. T was not like your great and gracious ways! Of how, that July afternoon, You went, With sudden, unintelligible phrase, Upon your journey of so many days, I knew, indeed, that you were parting soon; You whispering to me, for your voice was weak, Well, it was well, my Wife, To hear you such things speak, And see your love Make of your eyes a growing gloom of life, Lifting the luminous, pathetic lash To let the laughter flash, Whilst I drew near, Because you spoke so low that I could scarcely hear. More at the wonder than the loss aghast, And frighten'd eye, And go your journey of all days With not one kiss or a good-bye, And the only loveless look the look with which you pass'd, 'Twas all unlike your great and gracious ways. COVENTRY PATMORE. CXXXIII. BEFORE SEDAN. ERE, in this leafy place, Quiet he lies, Cold, with his sightless face Turned to the skies; 'Tis but another dead; All you can say is said. Carry his body hence, Kings must have slaves; Kings climb to eminence Over men's graves : So this man's eye is dim ; Throw the earth over him. What was the white you touched, There, at his side? Paper his hand had clutched Tight e'er he died ;— Message or wish, may be ; Smooth the folds out and see. |