10 FEBRUARY 1900, Page 15

WHERE MY TREASURE IS. LORD of the living, when my

race is run, Will that I pass beneath the risen atm; Suffer my sight to dim upon some scene

Of Thy good green.

Let my last pillow be the earth I love, With fair infinity of blue above; And fleeting, purple shadow of a cloud My only shroud.

A little lark, above the Morning Star, Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar; The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell Shall be my knell.

And where stone heroes trod the moor of old, Where bygone wolf howled round a granite fold Hide Thou, beneath the heather's new-born light,

My endless night. EDEN PHILLPOTTS.