YE WEARIE WAYFARER 



On the current of Time's remorseless flight, 

 Have they swept to return no more ? 



While, like phantoms bright of the fever'd 

 night. 

 That have vex'd our slumbers of yore. 



You follow us still in your ghostly might, 

 Dead days that have gone before. 



Vain dreams, again and again retold, 



Must you crowd on the weary brain, 

 Till the fingers are cold that entwin'd of old 



Round foil and trigger and rein. 

 Till stay'd for aye are the roving feet, 



Till the restless hands are quiet, 

 Till the stubborn heart has forgotten to beat. 



Till the hot blood has ceas'd to riot. 



In Exeter Hall the saint may chide. 



The sinner may scoff outright, 

 The Bacchanal steep'd in the flagon's tide, 



Or the sensual Sybarite ; 

 But Nolan's name will flourish in fame. 



When our galloping days are past. 

 When we go from the place from whence we 

 came. 



Perchance to find rest at last. 



39 



