An' the pore dead that look so old

An' was so young an hour ago,

An' legs tied down before they're cold-
These are the things which make you know.
Also Time runnin' into years—

A thousand Places left be'ind-
An' men from both two 'emispheres
Discussin' things of every kind;

So much more near than I 'ad known,
So much more great than I 'ad guessed-
An' me, like all the rest, alone—
But reachin' out to all the rest!
So 'ath it come to me-not pride,
Nor yet conceit, but on the 'ole
(If such a term may be applied),
The makin's of a bloomin' soul.
But now, discharged, I fall away

To do with little things again.
Gawd, 'oo knows all I cannot say,

Look after me in Thamesfontein!

If England was what England seems
An' not the England of our dreams,
But only putty, brass, an' paint,

'Ow quick we'd chuck 'er! But she ain't!

AN ASTROLOGER'S SONG1

To the Heavens above us

O look and behold

The Planets that love us

All harnessed in gold!

1 From Rewards and Fairies by Rudyard Kipling. Copy

right by Doubleday, Page and Co. and A. P. Watt & Son.

What chariots, what horses
Against us shall bide

While the Stars in their courses
Do fight on our side?

All thoughts, all desires,
That are under the sun,
Are one with their fires,
As we also are one:
All matter, all spirit,

All fashion, all frame,
Receive and inherit

Their strength from the same.

(Oh, man that deniest

All power save thine own, Their power in the highest Is mightily shown.

Not less in the lowest

That power is made clear.
Oh, man, if thou knowest,
What treasure is here!)

Earth quakes in her throes
And we wonder for why!
But the blind planet knows
When her ruler is nigh;
And, attuned since Creation
To perfect accord,

She thrills in her station

And yearns to her Lord.

The waters have risen,

The springs are unboundThe floods break their prison,

And ravin around.

No rampart withstands 'em,
Their fury will last,

Till the Sign that commands 'em
Sinks low or swings past.

Through abysses unproven
And gulfs beyond thought,
Our portion is woven,

Our burden is brought.
Yet They that prepare it,

Whose Nature we share, Make us who must bear it Well able to bear.

Though terrors o'ertake us
We'll not be afraid.
No power can unmake us,
Save that which has made.

Nor yet beyond reason

Or hope shall we fall—
All things have their season,
And Mercy crowns all!

Then, doubt not, ye fearful—
The Eternal is King-
Up, heart, and be cheerful,

And lustily sing:-
What chariots, what horses

Against us shall bide

While the Stars in their courses

Do fight on our side?

RECESSIONAL

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;

On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe, Such boastings as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word-
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Born in 1867, Lionel (Pigot) Johnson received a classical education at Oxford, and his poetry is a faithful reflection of his studies in Greek and Latin literatures. Though he allied himself with the modern Irish poets, his Celtic origin is a literary myth; Johnson, having been converted to Catholicism in 1891, became imbued with Catholic and, later, with Irish traditions. His verse, while sometimes strained and overdecorated, is chastely designed, rich and, like that of the Cavalier poets of the seventeenth century, mystically devotional. Poems (1895) contains his best work. Johnson died in 1902 as a result of a fall.

MYSTIC AND CAVALIER

Go from me: I am one of those who fall.
What! hath no cold wind swept your heart at all,
In my sad company? Before the end,

Go from me, dear my friend!

Yours are the victories of light: your feet
Rest from good toil, where rest is brave and sweet:
But after warfare in a mourning gloom,

I rest in clouds of doom.

Have you not read so, looking in these eyes?
Is it the common light of the pure skies
Lights up their shadowy depths? The end is set:
Though the end be not yet.

When gracious music stirs, and all is bright,
And beauty triumphs through a courtly night;
When I too joy, a man like other men:

Yet, am I like them, then?