Volume 156 — SONGS OF SIMLA.

Along a narrow mountain track Stalking supreme, alone, Head upwards, hands behind his back, He swings his sixteen stone. Quit of the tinsel and the glare That lit his forbears' lives, His tweed-clad shoulders amply bear The burden that was CLIVE'S. A man of few and simple needs He smokes a briar—and yet His rugged signature precedes The half an alphabet. Across these green Elysian slopes The Secretariat gleams, The playground of his youthful hopes, The workshop of his schemes. He sees the misty depths below, Where plain and foothills, meet, And smiles a wistful smile to know The world is at his feet; To know that England calls him back; To know that glory's path Is leading to a cul de sac In Cheltenham or Bath; To know that all he helped to found, The India of his prayers, Has now become the tilting ground Of MILL-bred doctrinaires. But his the inalienable years Of faith that stirred the blood, Of zeal that won through toil and tears, And after him—the flood. J.M.S.