In memory of him, the only one.
And yet our Tusitala could have sung again the pretty story—
Alas, none other can!
TO AUSTIN DOBSON
Laureate of the Gentle Heart!
Only art like your own art,
Limpid, gracious, happy-phrased,
Could praise you as you should be praised.
Many a lyric you have writ,
Grave with pathos, gay with wit,
Or conceived in larger mood,
Shall outlast the clattering brood
That usurp our noisy day;
Shall, with all that's noble, stay
In our well-loved English tongue
Till the ending song is sung;
For no purer tone was heard
Since men sought Beauty and the Word.
TO L. R. S.
Lisa Romana! no mean city gave
Thee to the world, sired by as true a knight
As e'er the flying paynim's helmet clave,
Leading a hope forlorn in glorious fight!
And thou, dear, stately maid, no knight of old,
That eastward battles down the pleasant page
Of chivalry, ever in heart did hold
A queenlier image—face more brightly grave.
Be kind to her, ye seas, ye winds that blow,
On the long journey homeward, and one day,
