Grass of Parnassus | Page 3

delays, of their great homicide.
A year ago to-night 'twas not too late.
The thought comes through our
mirth, again, again;
Methinks I hear the halting foot of Fate

Approaching and approaching us; and then
Comes cackle of the
House, and the Debate!
Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.
ADVANCE, AUSTRALIA.
On the offer of help from the Australians after the fall of Khartoum.
Sons of the giant Ocean isle
In sport our friendly foes for long,

Well England loves you, and we smile
When you outmatch us many
a while,
So fleet you are, so keen and strong.
You, like that fairy people set
Of old in their enchanted sea
Far off
from men, might well forget
An elder nation's toil and fret,
Might
heed not aught but game and glee.

But what your fathers were you are
In lands the fathers never knew,

'Neath skies of alien sign and star
You rally to the English war;

Your hearts are English, kind and true.
And now, when first on England falls
The shadow of a darkening fate,

You hear the Mother ere she calls,
You leave your ocean-girdled
walls,
And face her foemen in the gate.
COLONEL BURNABY.
[Greek text]
Thou that on every field of earth and sky
Didst hunt for Death, who
seemed to flee and fear,
How great and greatly fallen dost thou lie

Slain in the Desert by some wandering spear:
'Not here, alas!' may
England say, 'not here
Nor in this quarrel was it meet to die,
But in
that dreadful battle drawing nigh
To thunder through the Afghan
passes sheer:
Like Aias by the ships shouldst thou have stood,
And in some glen
have stayed the stream of flight,
The bulwark of thy people and their
shield,
When Indus or when Helmund ran with blood,
Till back into
the Northland and the Night
The smitten Eagles scattered from the
field.'
MELVILLE AND COGHILL.
(The place of the little hand.)
Dead, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet,

Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the
wind from the Camp of the Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the
wilderness beat.
Dead, for they chose to die
When that wild race was run;
Dead, for
they would not fly,
Deeming their work undone,
Nor cared to look

on the face of the sky,
Nor loved the light of the sun.
Honour we give them and tears,
And the flag they died to save,

Rent from the rain of the spears,
Wet from the war and the wave,

Shall waft men's thoughts through the dust of the years,
Back to their
lonely grave!
RHODOCLEIA
TO RHODOCLEIA--ON HER MELANCHOLY SINGING.
(Rhodocleia was beloved by Rufinus, one of the late poets of the Greek
Anthology.)
Still, Rhodocleia, brooding on the dead,
Still singing of the meads of
asphodel,
Lands desolate of delight?
Say, hast thou dreamed of, or
remembered,
The shores where shadows dwell,
Nor know the sun,
nor see the stars of night?
There, 'midst thy music, doth thy spirit gaze
As a girl pines for home,

Looking along the way that she hath come,
Sick to return, and
counts the weary days!
So wouldst thou flee
Back to the multitude
whose days are done,
Wouldst taste the fruit that lured Persephone,

The sacrament of death; and die, and be
No more in the wind and
sun!
Thou hast not dreamed it, but remembered
I know thou hast been
there,
Hast seen the stately dwellings of the dead
Rise in the
twilight air,
And crossed the shadowy bridge the spirits tread,
And
climbed the golden stair!
Nay, by thy cloudy hair
And lips that were so fair,
Sad lips now
mindful of some ancient smart,
And melancholy eyes, the haunt of
Care,
I know thee who thou art!
That Rhodocleia, Glory of the Rose,

Of Hellas, ere her close,
That Rhodocleia who, when all was done

The golden time of Greece, and fallen her sun,
Swayed her last

poet's heart.
With roses did he woo thee, and with song,
With thine own rose, and
with the lily sweet,
The dark-eyed violet,
Garlands of wind-flowers
wet,
And fragrant love-lamps that the whole night long
Burned till
the dawn was burning in the skies,
Praising thy golden eyes,
And
feet more silvery than Thetis' feet!
But thou didst die and flit
Among the tribes outworn,
The
unavailing myriads of the past:
Oft he beheld thy face in dreams of
morn,
And, waking, wept for it,
Till his own time came at last,

And then he sought thee in the dusky land!
Wide are the populous
places of the dead
Where souls on earth once wed
May never meet,
nor each take other's hand,
Each far from the other fled!
So all in vain he sought for thee, but thou
Didst never taste of the
Lethaean stream,
Nor that forgetful fruit,
The mystic pom'granate;

But from the Mighty Warden fledst; and now,
The fugitive of Fate,

Thou farest in our life as in a dream,
Still wandering with thy lute,

Like that sweet paynim lady of old song,
Who sang and wandered
long,
For love of her Aucassin, seeking him!
So with thy minstrelsy

Thou roamest, dreaming of the country dim,
Below the veiled sky!
There doth thy lover dwell,
Singing, and seeking still to find thy face

In that forgetful place:
Thou shalt not meet him here,
Not till