The Lost Legion

Dust of a host long dead, Grass now and lilies and leaves, Quickly and beautifully fled In a time that no one remembers, Drifts in the wind and weaves Round the high-hung, mouldering rafter A wisp of the jests and the laughter Some one knew in the past; Breathes and blows on the embers Of the dying spirit of me. There is my gauntlet at last, Down in the ring with a cry To the hopes that are dead And the friends that are fled. I am one with the tremulous past. With a song in my heart and a smile on my lips I arise and await to depart, Nor sigh as the old life slips. This last call to you friends, Join me and dare and die? Or is it that friendship ends With a little, impatient sigh? A little sigh and the sadder thought “He might have ruled our world, And here he is suddenly crazed and whirled On an aimless search for the sky.” But the moon will shine on the towers, And the stars make beauty by night, The chimes turn mellow the hours Till the still dawn waken the light. I never shall heed such a thing, For I shall be far in the west On a dangerous, happy quest, And forget the others and sing: “Once there were friends, the best, To rise and search with a King. Did they shudder and shrink from the quest?” —I shall never heed such a thing. FRANK D. ASHBURN.