POETRY.
BALLADE OF THE JOURNEY'S END.
'him far fair lands our feet have trod— The journey that was never done— The dreams that followed us golden shod— All mad adventure 'neath the sun— Ships in the trough of a waste sea spun— The treasuries of outlawed Kings—
And the white walls of Babylon; Ah ! woe is me for all these things !
Your staff and scrip are laid aside And all my golden minstrelsy ; We sail no more at the turn of the tide In a captured vessel out to sea.
Oh ! fallen and sick and tired are we !
Sleek sloth about us twines and clings, And where is the sword that should set us free ?— Ah ! woe is me for all these things !
The street lamps in a dreary line Gaze through the dusk with venomous eyes.
We stir the fire and pour the wine, For we have done with enterprise.
The anxious town about us lies; Another song the shrill wind sings Than that which startled the morning skies- Ah ! woe is me for all these things !
Envoi.
A sudden gust and a rattle of rain,
And a thought which leaps in the heart and stings.
Draw the curtains close round the window pane !- Ala ! woe is me for all these things !
MA3GAEST SACKVILLE.
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