time, Yet wrought them blushfully. And now when ’buses night by night Were stopped, conductors slain, When youths and men, and maids unwed, Were stabbed or knocked upon the head, Then B. 13 grew sternly bright, And was himself again! Pomona Road and Gardens, N., Are now a name of fear. p. 94Commercial travellers flee in haste, Revolvers girt about the waist Are worn by city gentlemen Who have their mansions near. p. 94 But B. 13 elated goes, Detection in his eye; While Howard Fry does deeds of bale (With which I do not stain my tale) To lighten that Policeman’s woes, But does them blushfully. MORAL Such is Philanthropy, my friends, Too often such her plan, She shoots, and stabs, and robs, and flings Bombs, and all sorts of horrid things. Ah, not to serve her private ends, But for the good of Man! p. 95NEIGES D’ANTAN p. 95 p. 97IN ERCILDOUNE p. 97 In light of sunrise and sunsetting, The long days lingered, in forgetting That ever passion, keen to hold What may not tarry, was of old Beyond the doubtful stream whose flood Runs red waist-high with slain men’s blood. In Was beauty once a thing that died? Was pleasure never satisfied? Was rest still broken by the vain Desire of action, bringing pain, To die in vapid rest again? All this was quite forgotten, there No winter brought us cold and care, Nor spring gave promise unfulfilled, Nor, with the heavy summer killed, The languid days droop autumnwards. So magical a season guards p. 98The constant prime of a green June. So slumbrous is the river’s tune, That knows no thunder of rushing rains, Nor ever in the summer wanes, Like waters of the summer-time In lands far from the fairy clime. p. 98 Alas! no words can bring the bloom Of Fairyland, the lost perfume. The sweet low light, the magic air, To minds of who have not been there: Alas! no words, nor any spell Can lull the heart that knows too well The towers that by the river stand, The lost fair world of
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