38 ANNALS

There is no room for grief when harvest nears And, labor done, fit wages are received,— No room for grief now that she wins full-sheaved Her harvest, and no need of any tears. She goes to garner honorable years; She was a little wearied by long strife, And still alert, and still in love with life— As ever—would ascend to her compeers. There is no room for grief; as to its nest A seabird moves on pinions sure and strong, Her sturdy spirit mounts when sturdiest, And life ends nobly like a rounded song. There is no room for grief; she is at rest To whom rest was a stranger overlong.

Let all I touch be gold! King Midas cried Of old in Phrygia. Jove heard the prayer, And Midas laughed; for gold gleamed everywhere His fingers reached; and iron gleamed outside. Within, no friendly handclasp might abide That touch which turned all gold, and made his food Chill metal on his lips; chill amplitude Derided him. So Midas laughed, and died. To-day who follows Midas?—Nay, let be To whisper of lost friends I knew of old When England gave me life which France made free! I trade unbiased; and my guns are sold— Whoever buys—now all need buy of me, And all I touch or handle turns to gold!

A long half-century since when April reigned, As now, our cause was lost because unjust— Else wherefore lost?—when level with the dust Fell citadels our fathers’ faith maintained Till that old April,—hath the fool ordained. Imprisoned by his bookshelves; and forgets Truth is not lightly slain with bayonets, Or warfare lost whence honor comes unstained. And April craved her jest ere time began,— So time anew brings April, to deride More changeful, strife-drowned Earth, wherein to span The surge of war’s inexorable tide Attends the wit of a Virginian, And men acclaim the Christ men crucified.

Time rounds a twelvemonth since you died,—most dear And brave of women!—and he thrives as yet Whose craven heart found courage to beget The lie that slew you;—who, with fame made clear And past his poison, rest till High God hear Our prayer, and smite with godlike plenitude This lean gray snake, and spill the venom spewed In vain to guard his lewd blood-brother’s bier. Not yet—most dear and brave!—may faith foretell Fate’s fixed inevitable hour, nor be Rewarded by its advent, to compel This liar’s exile from all less vile than he, And startle in the loneliest nook of hell Iscariot and Cain with company.