“The lances are shivered, the helmets rust,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the stern old days! 
  And the clarion’s blast has rung its last,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “And the warriors that swept to glory and death,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the brave old days! 
  They have fought and gone, and I sit here alone
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “The strength of limb and the mettle of heart,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the strong old days! 
  They have withered away, mere butterflies’ play,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “The queens of beauty, whose smile was life,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the rare old days! 
  With love and despair in their golden hair,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “They have flitted away from hall and bower,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the rich old days! 
  Like the sun they shone, like the sun they have gone,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “And buried beneath the pall of the past,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the proud old days! 
  Lie valor and worth and the beauty of earth,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “And I sit and sigh by the idle stream,—­
    Ah, well-a-day for the bright old days! 
  For nothing remains for the poet’s strains
    But the flowing river of Aise.”

  Then a voice rang out from the oak overhead,—­
    “Why well-a-day for the old, old days? 
  The world is the same, if the bard has an aim,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “There’s beauty and love and truth and power,—­
    Cease well-a-day for the old, old days! 
  The humblest home is worth Greece and Rome,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “There are themes enough for the poet’s strains,—­
    Leave well-a-day for the quaint old days! 
  Take thine eyes from the ground, look up and around
    From the flowing river of Aise.

  “To-day is as grand as the centuries past,—­
    Leave well-a-day for the famed old days! 
  There are battles to fight, there are troths to plight,
    By the flowing river of Aise.

  “There are hearts as true to love, to strive,—­
    No well-a-day for the dark old days! 
  Go put into type the age that is ripe
    By the flowing river of Aise.”

  Then the merry Poet piped down the vale,—­
    “Farewell, farewell to the dead old days! 
  By day and by night there’s music and light
    By the flowing river of Aise.”

* * * * *

THE ICEBERG OF TORBAY.

TORBAY.