* * * * *

TYRTÆUS.

When Sparta's heroes, tired of truce,
The fires of battle woke,
TYRTÆUS sang them golden lays
And bravely on their marching days
His queenly Muse outspoke.
TYRTÆUS' name's come down the years
And did deserve to do,
For so he dried men's eyes of tears,
So loosed their hearts from idle fears,
Stouter they thrust their ashen spears,
Their javelins further threw.

In those fair days TYRTÆUS' song
Was all men had to trust,
But while he hymned the coming fight
They did not wail, "He can't be right,"
They heard and cried, "He must!"
When men of craven soul came in--
Which now may Heaven forbid--
Then stout TYRTÆUS would begin:--
"Mere argument can be no sin,
But whining is; we're going to win."
And so, of course, they did.

TYRTÆUS' heart has ceased to beat,