Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus. NINETEENTH CENTURY AND AFTER 3 II. The Enemy's Camp. Chapter I. (To be continued) V. The Background of Drama, By E. A. Baughan IX. The Second Duma NINETEENTH CENTURY AND AFTER 32 39 47 NATION 56 FOR SIX DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, THE LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage, to any part of the U.S. or Canada. Postage to foreign countries in U. P. U. is 3 cents per copy or $1.56 per annum. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office or express money order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, express and money orders should be made payable to the order of THE LIVING AGE CO. Single Copies of THE LIVING AGE, 15 cents. When oak woods grew where barley waves And bare downs faced the sky, The fathers of our Saxon folk Set up their thorpes and homesteads, They were not over-masterful But the freeman's badge was the spear in hand And the war-sword at his side; The man who stood unarmed that day When we waged the War of a Hundred Years Or marched to Flodden fray, Each yeoman's chimney held its bow, Now cities gather them goods and gold And the Guilds of Craft wax fat and proud And every hind is free; And no man bears a weaponed belt heart As it was in the days of yore. The Spectator. Cymric ap Einion. THE GIPSY'S SONG. Beloved, I may not call you back, The lark from yonder web of blue. Oh, heart of mine-I see from here Through wide fields filled with slender wheat, The little path you trod last year The road is sweet with scented may, The pale wild roses are in bloom, The long track of the western way Shows white across the wold's gray gloom. Though all things strive to prison you, And hold you to my heart in vainThe fields you may not wander through, The silver lances of the rain; Yet always in my forth-faring The Outlook. MALAGA. Out between the sea and city the white dust is flying, Down in the dusty garden great roses blow, Dust on every tawny hillside where the wind is sighing, And deep in every rutty path where the mules and bullocks go. For the dust of Moor and Roman and of empires older, All dead pride and glory of the stormy ancient days, Lies along each street and valley, blows from hill and boulder, Wraps the sunset city in a dusky golden haze. Spain that once was famed and splendid, fame all turned to powder, Dried and dead her greatness like the brick-burnt hill, Where the burning sunsets fade away while winds grow louder Under this translucent sky blowing as they will. V. Eustace. |