THE QUEEN’S MEN

Valour and Innocence
Have latterly gone hence
To certain death by certain shame attended. 
Envy—­ah! even to tears!—­
The fortune of their years
Which, though so few, yet so divinely ended.

Scarce had they lifted up
Life’s full and fiery cup,
Than they had set it down untouched before them. 
Before their day arose
They beckoned it to close—­
Close in confusion and destruction o’er them.

They did not stay to ask
What prize should crown their task,
Well sure that prize was such as no man strives for;
But passed into eclipse,
Her kiss upon their lips—­
Even Belphoebe’s, whom they gave their lives for!

THE CITY OF SLEEP

Over the edge of the purple down,
      Where the single lamplight gleams. 
Know ye the road to the Merciful Town
      That is hard by the Sea of Dreams—­
Where the poor may lay their wrongs away,
      And the sick may forget to-weep? 
But we—­pity us!  Oh, pity us! 
      We wakeful; ah, pity us!—­
We must go back with Policeman Day—­
      Back from the City of Sleep!

Weary they turn from the scroll and crown,
      Fetter and prayer and plough—­
They that go up to the Merciful Town,
      For her gates are closing now. 
It is their right in the Baths of Night
      Body and soul to steep,
But we—­pity us! ah, pity us! 
      We wakeful; oh, pity us!—­
We must go back with Policeman Day—­
      Back from the City of Sleep!

Over the edge of the purple down,
      Ere the tender dreams begin,
Look—­we may look—­at the Merciful Towns
      But we may not enter in! 
Outcasts all, from her guarded wall
      Back to our watch we creep: 
We—­pity us! ah, pity us! 
      We wakeful; oh, pity us!—­
We that go back with Policeman Day—­
      Back from the City of Sleep!

THE WIDOWER

For a season there must be pain—­
For a little, little space
I shall lose the sight of her face,
Take back the old life again
While She is at rest in her place.

For a season this pain must endure—­
For a little, little while
I shall sigh more often than smile,
Till Time shall work me a cure,
And the pitiful days beguile.

For that season we must be apart,
For a little length of years,
Till my life’s last hour nears,
And, above the beat of my heart,
I hear Her voice in my ears.

But I shall not understand—­
Being set on some later love,
Shall not know her for whom I strove,
Till she reach me forth her hand,
Saying, ‘Who but I have the right?’
And out of a troubled night
Shall draw me safe to the land.

THE PRAYER OF MIRIAM COHEN