Yea, left a name sublime
From that wild dawn of Time,
Whose light he haply saw
In supreme sunrise flow,
And from the shadows vast,
That filled the dim dead past,
A brighter glory draw,
A hundred years ago.
Perchance, he saw in dreams
Beside our sunlit streams
In some majestic hour
Old England's banners blow;
Mayhap, the radiant morn
Of this great nation born,
August with perfect power,
A hundred years ago.
We know not, — yet for thee
Far may the season be,
Whose harp in shameful sleep
Is soundless lying low!
Far be the noteless hour
That holds of fame no flower
For those who dared our deep
A hundred years ago.
M. A. Sinclair.
The Chatelaine
I have built one, so have you;
Paved with marble, domed with blue,
Battlement and ladies' bower,
Donjon keep and watchman's tower.
I have climbed, as you have done,
To the tower at set of sun —
Crying from its parlous height,
"Watchman, tell us of the night."
I have stolen at midnight bell,
Like you, to the secret cell,
Shuddering at its charnel breath —
Left lockfast the spectre, Death.
I have used your lure to call
Choice guests to my golden hall:
Rarely welcome, rarely free
To my hospitality.
In a glow of rosy light
Hours, like minutes, take their flight —
As from you they fled away,
When, like you, I bade them stay.