"They say it was a shocking sight
After the field was won;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun:

But things like that, you know, must be

After a famous victory.

"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won
And our good Prince Eugene";

"Why 'twas a very wicked thing!"

Said little Wilhelmine;

"Nay ... nay... my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory.

"And every body praised the Duke

Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin:-

"Why that I cannot tell," said he,
"But 'twas a famous victory."

TO A STARING BABY IN A PERAMBULATOR

BY NANCY BYRD TURNER

Child, I surrender-and hereby declare
Whatever you may think I've done, I've done it:
Theft, arson, murder. You have laid bone-bare
My innermost being, weighed and passed upon it.
I had some prideful secrets, and a pair

Of fond delusions, and a scheme or two,

But all have perished in that long, light blue
Appraisal, in that bland, unblenching stare.

They call you "blessed innocent" and "lamb";-
I'd rather meet the Sphinx and Sophocles,
The Delphian sybil and Demosthenes
And Einstein, all together in one pram,
If so I might evade in any wise

The inquisition of your awful eyes.

From THE RUBÁIYAT OF OMAR KHAYYÁM As Paraphrased

BY EDWARD FITZGERALD

We are no other than a moving row
Of magic shadow-shapes that come and go
Round with this sun-illumin'd lantern held
In midnight by the Master of the Show;

Impotent pieces of the game He plays
Upon this checker-board of nights and days;

Hither and thither moves, and checks, and slays, And one by one back in the closet lays.

The ball no question makes of ayes and noes
But right or left as strikes the Player goes;

And He that toss'd you down into the field,
He knows about it all-HE knows-HE knows!

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on nor all your piety nor wit

Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all your tears wash out a word of it.

And that inverted bowl they call the Sky,
Whereunder crawling coop'd we live and die,
Lift not your hands to It for help for It
As impotently rolls as you or I.

ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT
Translated from the Latin of Owen
BY WILLIAM COWPER

Thou mayst of double ignorance boast,
Who knows't not that thou nothing knows't.

AN AUGUST MOOD

BY DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT

Where the pines have fallen on the hillside
The green needles burning in the sun
Make sweet incense in the vacant spaces

All along the run

Of the rill; and by the rillside

Rushes waver and shine;

In remote and shady places

Wintergreen abounds and interlaces

With the twinflower vine.

The young earth appears aloof and lonely
Swinging in the ether, only

Nature left with all her golden foison;

No ambitions here to wound or poison
With their fears and wishes,

The pure life of birds and beasts and fishes.

All our human passion and endeavour
Idle as a thistle-down

Lightly wheeling, blown about forever;
All our vain renown

Slighter is than flicker of the rushes;

All our prate of evil and of good

Lesser than the comment of two thrushes
Talking in the wood.

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON

The Mountain and the Squirrel

Had a quarrel,

And the former called the latter "Little Prig,"

Bun replied:

"You are doubtless very big;

But all sorts of things and weather

Must be taken in together

To make up a year,

And a sphere;

And I think it no disgrace

To occupy my place.

If I'm not so large as you,
You're not so small as I,
And not half so spry;

I'll not deny you make

A very pretty squirrel track.

Talents differ; all is well and wisely put;

If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut."