POETRY.
LEO THE PEACEMAKER. SCARCE hath he passed unto his rest That was so hard to win :
Already round his tranquil breast The busy scribes begin.
And I, who in an alien tongue Must praise yon saintly man, I, from unbending fathers sprung, English and Puritan, Grieve for that Voice, whose tender tone, Unmixed with priestly guile, Still sounded, like his Master's ewn, To heal and reconcile.
Not once, nor twice, in that long life, His gently spoken word Composed the internecine strife That restless spirits stirred.
Still in his brothers' cause he fought That baser wars might cease.
Peace all those strenuous years he sought : So let him rest in peace !
Vain are our deeds of sword and song, Whatever name they bear : Hero and hero-bard, erelong, The same oblivion share.
Yet, as a withered rose, 'tis said, Laid on St. Francis' tomb, Renewed its vanished tints, and spread Into a second bloom : Even so, of all my fading sheaf One transient bud to save, I lay this flower of love and grief Upon Pope Leo's grave.
EDWARD SYDNEY TYLEE.
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