27 APRIL 1907, Page 33

POETRY.

ON CHAPMAN BARROWS.* THE lark that rises from his sheltered nest, No swifter is to greet the coming day

Than he whose feet the ancient grasses pressed, In years long passed away.

A king of men, a warrior fit and fair, In pride of strength and fame Death laid him low, And high upon the moorland lone and bare He rests, where sea winds blow.

Within his barrow, fronting to the West, He hears the droning noise of heather bees, But neither human footfall breaks his rest, Nor surge of neighbouring seas.

Alone, on high, apart, he sits and dreams

Of friend and foe, whose lesser mounds rise near,

And far across fair Devon's hills and streams He lists their battle cheer,

E. H. TIPPLE.