POETRY.

TO ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON.

IN that grave shade august

That round your Eton clings, To you the centuries must Be visible corporate things, And the high Past appear Affably real and near, For all its grandiose airs, caught from the mien of Kings.

The new age stands as yet Half-built against the sky, Open to every threat Of storms that clamour by ; Scaffolding veils the walls, And dim dust floats and falls, As, moving to and fro, their task the masons ply.

But changeless and complete, Rise unperturbed and vast, Above our din and heat,

The turrets of the Past—

Mute as that city asleep, Lulled with enchantments deep, Far in Arabian Dreamland built where all things last.

Who loves not to explore That Palace of Old Time, Awed by the spires that soar In ghostly dusk sublime, And gorgeous-windowed halls,

And leagues of pictured walls, And dungeons that remember many a crimson crime ?

Yet, in those phantom towers, Not thine, not mine to dwell, Rapt from the living hours By some soft lotus-spell; And if our lute obey A mode of yesterday,

'Tis that we deem 'twill prove to-morrow', mode as well.

This neighbouring joy and woe, This present sky and sea,— These men and things we know, Whose touch we would not flee,— To us, 0 friend, shall long Yield aliment of song :

Life as I see it lived is great enough for me.

In high relief against That reverend silence set, Wherein your days are fenced Prom the world's peevish fret, There breaks on old Earth's ears The thunder of new years, Rousing from ancient dreams the Muse's anchoret.

Well if the coming time, With loud and strident tongue, Hush not the sound of rhyme, Drown not the song half-sung- Ev'n as a dissonant age Choked with polemic rage

The starriest voice that e'er on English ears hath rung,

And bade her seer awhile Pause and put by the bard, Till this tormented isle, With feuds and factions jarred, Some leisure might regain, To hear the long-pent strain Re-risen from storm and fire, immortal and unmarred.

WILLIAM WATSON.