out the names they bore. Sohrab, Rameses, Roland, Ramoth, Napoleon, Tyre, And the Romeward Huns of Attila— Alas, for their desire! By April and by autumn They perish in their pride, And still they close and gather Out of the mountain-side. The tanned and tameless children Of the wild elder earth, With stature of the northlights, They have the stars for girth. There's not a hand to stay them, Of all the hearts that brave; No captain to undo them, No cunning to off-stave. Yet fear thou not! If haply Thou be the kingly one, They'll set thee in their vanguard To lead them round the sun. 

IN THE WORKSHOP.

 Once in the Workshop, ages ago, The clay was wet and the fire was low. And He who was bent on fashioning man Moulded a shape from a clod, And put the loyal heart therein; While another stood watching by.  "What's that?" said Beelzebub. "A lover," said God. And Beelzebub frowned, for he knew that kind. And then God fashioned a fellow shape As lithe as a willow rod, And gave it the merry roving eye And the range of the open road.  "What's that?" said Beelzebub. "A vagrant," said God. And Beelzebub smiled, for he knew that kind. And last of all God fashioned a form, And gave it, what was odd, The loyal heart and the roving eye; And he whistled, light of care.  "What's that?" said Beelzebub. "A poet," said God. And Beelzebub frowned, for he did not know. 

THE MOTE.

 Two shapes of august bearing, seraph tall, Of indolent imperturbable regard, Stood in the Tavern door to drink. As the first Lifted his glass to let the warm light melt In the slow bubbles of the wine, a sunbeam, Red and broad as smouldering autumn, smote Down through its mystery; and a single fleck, The tiniest sun-mote settling through the air, Fell on the grape-dark surface and there swam. Gently the Drinker with fastidious care Stretched hand to clear the speck away. "No, no!"— His comrade stayed his arm. "Why," said the first, "What would you have me do?" "Ah, let it float A moment longer!" And the second smiled. "Do you not know what that is?" "No, indeed." "A mere dust-mote, a speck of soot, you think, A plague-germ still unsatisfied. It is not. That is the Earth. See, I will stretch my hand Between it and the sun; the passing shadow Gives its poor dwellers a glacial period. Let it but stand an hour, it would dissolve, Intangible as the color of the wine. There, throw it away now! Lift it from the sweet Enveloping flood it has enjoyed so well;" (He smiled as only those who live can smile) "Its time is done, its revelry complete, Its being accomplished. Let us drink again." 

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