'It is the worn-out garment In which you tore a rent; You tossed it down, and carelessly Upon your way you went.

'It is not _you_, my sweetheart, For you are here with me.

That frame was but the promise of The thing that was to be-

'A tuning of the choir Ere the harmonies begin; And yet it is the image Of the subtle thing within.

'There's not a trick of body, There's not a trait of mind, But you bring it over with you, Ethereal, refined,

'But still the same; for surely If we alter as we die, You would be you no longer, And I would not be I.

'I might be an angel, But not the girl you knew; You might be immaculate, But that would not be you.

'And now I see you smiling, So, darling, take my hand; And I will lead you outward To a sweet and pleasant land,

'Where thought is clear and nimble, Where life is pure and fresh, Where the soul comes back rejoicing From the mud-bath of the flesh

'But still that soul is human, With human ways, and so I love my love in spirit, As I loved him long ago.'

So with hands together And fingers twining tight, The two dead lovers drifted In the golden morning light.

But a grey-haired man was lying Beneath them on a bed, With a silver-mounted pistol Still clotted to his head.

THE FRANKLIN'S MAID (_From_ '_The White Company_')

The franklin he hath gone to roam, The franklin's maid she bides at home; But she is cold, and coy, and staid, And who may win the franklin's maid?

There came a knight of high renown In ba.s.sinet and ciclatoun; On bended knee full long he prayed- He might not win the franklin's maid.

There came a squire so debonair, His dress was rich, his words were fair.

He sweetly sang, he deftly played- He could not win the franklin's maid.

There came a mercer wonder-fine, With velvet cap and gaberdine; For all his ships, for all his trade, He could not buy the franklin's maid.

There came an archer bold and true, With bracer guard and stave of yew; His purse was light, his jerkin frayed- Haro, alas! the franklin's maid!

Oh, some have laughed and some have cried, And some have scoured the countryside; But off they ride through wood and glade, The bowman and the franklin's maid.

THE OLD HUNTSMAN

There's a keen and grim old huntsman On a horse as white as snow; Sometimes he is very swift And sometimes he is slow.

But he never is at fault, For he always hunts at view And he rides without a halt After you.

The huntsman's name is Death, His horse's name is Time; He is coming, he is coming As I sit and write this rhyme; He is coming, he is coming, As you read the rhyme I write; You can hear the hoofs' low drumming Day and night.

You can hear the distant drumming As the clock goes tick-a-tack, And the chiming of the hours Is the music of his pack.

You may hardly note their growling Underneath the noonday sun, But at night you hear them howling As they run.

And they never check or falter For they never miss their kill; Seasons change and systems alter, But the hunt is running still.

Hark! the evening chime is playing, O'er the long grey town it peals; Don't you hear the death-hound baying At your heels?

Where is there an earth or burrow?

Where a cover left for you?

A year, a week, perhaps to-morrow Brings the Huntsman's death halloo!

Day by day he gains upon us, And the most that we can claim Is that when the hounds are on us We die game.

And somewhere dwells the Master, By whom it was decreed; He sent the savage huntsman, He bred the snow-white steed.

These hounds which run for ever, He set them on your track; He hears you scream, but never Calls them back.

He does not heed our suing, We never see his face; He hunts to our undoing, We thank him for the chase.

We thank him and we flatter, We hope-because we must- But have we cause? No matter!

Let us trust!