16 FEBRUARY 1901, Page 16

POETRY.

THE EMPIRE TO HER ENEMIES.

I MOURN, but with a mind unmoved : The guns that for an hour grew still While death leaned o'er the well-beloved, Proclaim once more my sovran will.

Mine eyes, late-brimmed for what bath been, Gaze tearless now towards what shall be : For every life I gave the Queen, Ere the King asks I offer three.

ARTHUR AUSTIN JACKSON.