228 OF THE DAYS GONE BY 



Here death may deal not again forever ; 



Here change may come not till all change end. 

 From the graves they have made they shall rise up 



never, 



Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. 

 Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, 



While the sun and the rain live, these shall be ; 

 Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing, 

 Roll the sea. 



Till the slow sea rise, and the sheer cliff crumble, 



Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, 

 Till the strength of the waves of the high tides 



humble 



The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink, 

 Here now in his triumph where all things falter, 

 Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand 



spread, 



As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, 

 Death lies dead. 



ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. 



"AS WANDERING, I FOUND" 



As wandering, I found on my ruinous walk, 



By the dial-stone aged and green, 

 One Rose of the Wilderness left on its stalk, 



To mark where a garden had been : 

 Like a brotherless hermit, the last of its race, 



All wild, in the silence of nature it drew 

 From each wandering sunbeam a lovely embrace ; 

 For the night- weed and thorn overshadow'd the place 



Where the flower of my forefathers grew. 



