Not here, not now, that trumpet-call shall sound ;
Still, the smooth meads where we have leave to dwell

Are vocal too, with birds that haunt the ground
Spite of our presence ; and are sweet with flowers

That bear no taint of blood upon their leaves —
And yet they fade, as we do.
Parting hours

Come not too soon, for him who fails, who grieves
At others' failure ; and we part, just here.
On this fair sward, we halt and we disband ;
Each man, serenely and without a tear,



FAILURE. 1 5

Without a murmur, grasps his fellow's hand
And turns away, unshrinking and unblamed.
Why not, since failure is the meed of most,
And Death the doom of all ? We are not shamed ;

And better is it, that we cannot boast.
Than to have wrong to boast of. We depart

Each to his lonely dwelling ; and remain
Content, though joy should never stir the heart.
Nor hope revive, nor this dull sense of pain
Forget to throb. For now, our labours cease ;

And we are blessed, if we only gain
A life of quiet in a land of peace.
i6



ON THE BRIDGE.
' Halt ! ' cried the maiden, springing to her feet,
With looks as earnest, but with eyes as sweet
And gracious in their purity, as hers
Who on the field of Patay won her spurs,
And wore them nobly, as a woman may —
' Halt 1 Ere you end the evils done to-day.
You must pass me; and that you shall not do
Till you unbind the man who goes with you ;
That young man there, your prisoner.'

Then he.
