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William Ernest Henley (1849-1903), poet and critic, was born in Gloucester, England. In 1877 he became the editor of a London magazine; in 1882 he associated himself with the New Review. Besides various volumes of verses he wrote several plays. All his life an invalid, he pursued a literary career under conditions that would have been impossible for one of less dogged perseverance and intellectual force. His poem beginning: A late lark twitters from the quiet sky, was written upon the death of his sister. The one concluding with the stanza following is perhaps best known:

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.


A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;

And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,

Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, grey city

An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley

Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,

Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night

Night with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplished, and the long day done,

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gathered to the quiet west,

The sundown splendid and serene,


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years

Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.


Crosses and troubles a-many have proved me,
One or two women (God bless them!) have loved me.
I have worked and dreamed, and I've talked at will;
Of art and drink I have had my fill.

I've comforted here and I've succored there.
I've faced my foes, and I've backed my friends;
I've blundered, and sometimes made amends.
I have prayed for light, and I've known despair.

Now I look before, as I look behind,
Come storm, come shine, whatever befall,
With a grateful heart and a constant mind,
For the end I know is the best of all.

The wind on the wold,


With sea-scents and sea-dreams attended,
Is wine!

The air is gold

In elixir-it takes so the splendid


O, the larks in the blue!

How the song of them glitters, and glances, And gleams!

The old music sounds new

And it's O, the wild Spring, and its chances And dreams!

There's a lift in the blood

O, this gracious, and thirsting, and aching Unrest!

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Richard le Gallienne, poet, critic, writer of essays and novels, was born in Liverpool, January 30, 1866. His father was a busy man of affairs and his son was given an education calculated to fit him for a commercial life. Upon the death of his father in 1887, Richard le Gallienne abandoned the career upon which he had entered, giving himself up to literary pursuits. While he has written some poems he is probably best known by his novel, The Quest of the Golden Girl. Like many another man possessed of an artistic temperament, le Gallienne has cultivated certain personal eccentricities which have by no means affected his wide popularity. His style is light and superficial, but he has the gift of clothing his fancies in beautiful language. It is conceded by his severest critics that he never attempts themes beyond his reach and that, in spite of the urging and coercing of others, he has remained constant to his original light vein.


Recently I was invited to hear music in the house of a rich man. It was a great house and gorgeous, and yet not without a certain taste in its furnishings and its decoration, a taste uncharacteristic, uncommitting, and indeed representative, somewhat incongruously, of the various tastes of the many poor artists who had built and beautified it, rather than of any vivifying taste in the one rich man who occasionally occupied it.

"How beautiful we artists make the world-for others!" I sighed, as my soul went out to the enslaved architects and painters and artificers, famous, unknown, or infamous, who had breathed their fatal passion for beauty into this rich man's marbles, woven it into his tapestries, dyed with their hearts' blood his colored glass, given their dreams into his bondage, and put their very souls beneath his feet. Sad artists, who in every corner of this house had worked with tears!

And here were the Musicians! Music too was a slave in this house. The bondsmen came with their long hair and white faces, carrying their captive instruments in their hands, the deep-lunged violoncello that breaks the heart, and the little

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