SEA SPRAY &> SMOKE DRIFT 



Thy riddles grow dark, oh ! drifting cloud, 



And thy misty shapes grow drear, 

 Thou hang'st in the air like a shadowy 

 shroud. 

 But I am of lighter cheer ; 

 Though our future lot is a sable blot, 

 Though the wise ones of earth will blame 

 us, 

 Though our saddles will rot, and our rides 

 be forgot, 



•* DUM ViVIMUS, ViVAMUS ! " 



Fytte VIII 

 FINIS EXOPTATUS 



A METAPHYSICAL SONG 



•* There's something in this world amiss 

 Shall be unriddled by-and-bye."— Tennyson. 



Boot and saddle, see, the slanting 



Rays begin to fall, 

 Flinging lights and colours flaunting 



Through the shadows tall. 

 Onward ! onward ! must we travel ? 



When will come the goal? 

 Riddle I may not unravel, 



Cease to vex my soul. 



40 



