For thee he bade death defiance—till the heavens opened wide,
And his face grew bright with reflex of light from the face of the Crucified.
And his crown was in sight and his palm in reach and his glory all but won,
And then—he failed—God help us! with the worst of dying done.
Only to die on the treacherous down by the hands of the tempters spread—
Nay, nay—make way for the strangers! we have no right in the dead.
But oh, for the beacon quenched, that we dreamed would kindle and flame!
And oh, for the standard smirched and shamed, and the name we dare not name!
Over the lonesome grave the shadows gather fast;
Only the mother, like God, forgives, and comforts her heart with the past.
DREAMING OF CITIES DEAD
By Eleanor Rogers Cox
Dreaming of cities dead,
Of bright Queens vanished,
Of kings whose names were but as seed wind-blown
E'en when white Patrick's voice shook Tara's throne,
My way along the great world-street I tread,
And keep the rites of Beauty lost, alone.
