POETRY.
THE king is dead On his golden bed, His prayer is said And his lesson read.
From pining for heaven, And fear of the grave, From taint and leaven And lusts that enslave, Now guards him well A magic spell, Like the fabled Seven In their cave.
The world was his realm, The sky his helm, The sea his drink, And blood his ink To write his name For deathless fame.
What did he write, A word of delight, Or a blot and blight To add to the night Of human woes ? What did he dare,
He did many things, As is meet for kings. So many they were, And felt so far,
That none can toll If he did well.
He lived not long, Yet was so strong That he did more Than men of fourscore Who are not kings. And some were glad When he did die, And some were sad And heaved a sigh For many things.
Such is the way With kings, they say. His name, you pray? 'Twas Yesterday.
R. T. CHANDLER.
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