The Bromsgrovian/Volume 2/Number 5/Acrostic Number 4

by F. W. Parsons

Acrostic No. IV.

Better the stroke of open foe,
Than when false friendship deals the blow;
Happier were e'en a conquered land,
Than where death strikes with treacherous hand.

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She who, as poets tell, on silver wing
Roamed the wide world Heaven's dearest gift to bring.

As in old Greece, so oft by Ganges' stream
Some god shone manifest to mortals' dream.

Mid the dark woods that clothed that lonely height
The Mænads' cry thrilled through the summer night.

Good tidings by a bright-winged angel borne
Ere the glad dawning of that winter morn.

Master of wit and humour, round whose name
Lives yet the praise in life he would not claim.

Of hapless sons thou yet more hapless sire,
Dread monument of swift celestial ire!

Firm before kings and unafraid he stood,
Strong in the faith he witnessed with his blood.

F. W. P.