F

Where my Treasure is

TERNAL Mother, when my race is run,
Will that I pass beneath the risen sun,
Suffer my sight to dim upon some spot
That changes not.

Let my last pillow be the land I love,
With fair infinity of blue above;
The roaming shadow of a silver cloud,
My only shroud.

A little lark above the morning star,
Shall shrill the tidings of my end afar;
The muffled music of a lone sheep-bell
Shall be my knell.

And where stone heroes trod the moor of old; Where ancient wolf howled round a granite fold; Hide Thou, beneath the heather's new-born light, My endless night.

A

Eden Phillpotts.

The Happy Passing

LATE lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,

Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,

There falls on the old, grey city

An influence luminous and serene,

A shining peace.

The smoke ascends

In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires

Shine, and are changed. In the valley

Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,

Sinks, and the darkening air

Thrills with a sense of the triumphing nightNight with her train of stars

And her great gift of sleep.

So be my passing!

My task accomplished and the long day done,
My wages taken, and in my heart

Some late lark singing,

Let me be gathered to the quiet west,

The sundown splendid and serene,

Death.

W. E. Henley.

Requiem

NDER the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me:
Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

R. L. Stevenson.