Not a trace was there left of the carving,
   And the gilding had vanished from sight;
But the ‘column’ for matter was starving,
   And we had not to edit—­but write. 
So we set to and wrote.  Can you wonder,
   If the writing was feeble or dead? 
We had started as editors—­Thunder! 
   We were authors instead.

 We’d mistaken our calling, election,
   Vocation, department, and use;
We had thought that our task was selection,
   And we found that we had to produce. 
So we sigh for release from our labours,
   We pray for a happy despatch,
We will take our last leave of our neighbours,
   And then—­Colney Hatch.

We are singing this dolorous ditty
   As we part at the foot of the stairs;
We cannot but think it’s a pity,
   But what matter? there’s nobody cares. 
Our candle burns low in its socket,
   There is nothing left but the wick;
And these Notes, that went up like a rocket,
   Come down like the stick.

 [GREEK TITLE]

Ever to be the best.  To lead
   In whatsoever things are true;
   Not stand among the halting crew,
The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,
Who tarry for a certain sign
   To make them follow with the rest—­
Oh, let not their reproach be thine! 
   But ever be the best.

For want of this aspiring soul,
   Great deeds on earth remain undone,
   But, sharpened by the sight of one,
Many shall press toward the goal. 
 Thou running foremost of the throng,
   The fire of striving in thy breast,
Shalt win, although the race be long,
   And ever be the best.

And wilt thou question of the prize? 
   ’Tis not of silver or of gold,
   Nor in applauses manifold,
But hidden in the heart it lies: 
To know that but for thee not one
   Had run the race or sought the quest,
To know that thou hast ever done
   And ever been the best.

 CATULLUS AT HIS BROTHER’S GRAVE

Through many lands and over many seas
I come, my Brother, to thine obsequies,
To pay thee the last honours that remain,
And call upon thy voiceless dust, in vain. 
Since cruel fate has robbed me even of thee,
Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me,
Now none the less the gifts our fathers gave,
The melancholy honours of the grave,
Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say
Farewell! farewell! for ever and a day.

 LOST AT SEA

Lost at sea, with all on board! 
No one saw their sinking sail,
No one heard their dying wail,
Heard them calling on the Lord—­
Lost at sea, with all on board.

Till the sea gives up its dead,
There they lie in quiet sleep,
And the voices of the deep
Sound unheeded overhead,
Till the sea gives up its dead.

 PLEASANT PROPHECIES

A day of gladness yet will dawn,
   Though when I cannot say;
Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
   Perhaps some other day,—­