14 SEPTEMBER 1895, Page 18

POETRY.

`1O•DAY, my friend is seventy-five ; He tells his tale with no regret ; His brave old eyes are steadfast yet, His heart the lightest heart alive.

He sees behind him green and wide The pathway of his pilgrim years; He sees the shore, and dreadless hears The whisper of the creeping tide.

For out of all his days, not one Has passed and left its unlaid ghost To seek a light for ever lost, Or wail a deed for ever done.

So for reward of life-long truth He lives again, as good men can, Redoubling his allotted span With memories of a blameless youth.

HENRY NEWBOLT.