or Marcus Aurelius!--but if there is still one inch of fight in his old
spirit, undishonoured. The faith which sustained him in his life-long
blindness and life-long disappointment will scarce even be required in
this last formality of laying down his arms. Give him a march with his
old bones; there, out of the glorious sun-coloured earth, out of the day
and the dust and the ecstasy--there goes another Faithful Failure!

From a recent book of verse, where there is more than one such beautiful
and manly poem, I take this memorial piece: it says better than I can,
what I love to think; let it be our parting word.

"A late lark twitters from the quiet skies;
And from the west,
Where the sun, his day's work ended,
Lingers as in content,
There falls on the old, gray city
An influence luminous and serene,
A shining peace.

"The smoke ascends
In a rosy-and-golden haze. The spires
Shine, and are changed. In the valley
Shadows rise. The lark sings on. The sun,
Closing his benediction,
Sinks, and the darkening air
Thrills with a sense of the triumphing night--
Night, with her train of stars
And her great gift of sleep.

"So be my passing!