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{The New Rome 1898}




(Westminster, March 1898.)



NOW the long volume of his life,
     As all in turn must be,
Is closed, and placed remote from strife
     In Death’s black library,

Eternal honour to the name
     Kept clean from youth to age,
With scarce a blot of sin or shame
     Upon the splendid page!

The Grand Old Man! how few have writ
     A scroll so clean and clear!—
Pilgrims shall come and ponder it
     For many and many a year;

And ever as their eyes are cast
     Upon it shall descry,
Yea, from the front page till the last,
     The name of the Most High!

For in an age where strong men doubt
     This strong man doubted nought,
But mail’d in faith, passed in and out
     The wind-blown flames of Thought;

And ever from his lips there came                                              86
     The words of happy prayer,
With which he, child-like, sought to shame
     The pessimist’s despair.

Ah, well, he was, when all is said,
     A gracious soul and kind—
I do not weep that he is dead,
     I weep that he was blind!

Blind with the Light that sears the sight
     With sheer excess of Day,—
So true, so eager for the Right,
     And yet—so oft astray!

A mighty leader and a guide,
     He led men long and well,
First in the van, tho’ blown aside
     By breaths from Heaven or Hell!

Out of his very weakness strong,
     His very blindness brave,
Serene and calm he march’d along
     To no inglorious grave.

And round him now the ribald throng
     That mock’d his march is dumb,
And honouring what they fear’d so long
     The rival factions come,—

Nay, priests of every creed attest                                             87
     Him King of Humankind,
Blessëd ’mong men, but blessedest
     Because his eyes were blind!



Battle and Storm? God screen’d his form
     From all Life’s fiercest airs;
His battle was of words, his storm
     Was one to lay with prayers!

As true as steel, as pure as snow,
     He lived his gentle life,
Too shielded in his place to know
     The stress of human strife,—

The woe, the anguish, the despair,
     Of mortals tempest-toss’d;
In his soul’s sails the wind blew fair
     Even when he struggled most!

Easy it seems for such a man
     To keep his soul’s page white—
God never bow’d him with his ban                                           [4:3]
     Or mar’d him with his blight!                                               [4:4]

His gentle hand ne’er lifted up
     The load of human pain,
His lips not even touch’d the cup
     The broken-hearted drain;

He thirsted not, nor lack’d for food,                                          88
     Nor stricken earthward grieved,
But, sure that God was kind and good,
     He gladden’d and believed!

His rose-crown’d cup ran o’er the brim
     With wine, not tear-drops sad—
His God was very good to him,
     And kept him blind and glad!



Peace, he was pure,—let that suffice!
     And brave in word and deed,—
Why envy, in these caves of ice,
     The sunshine of his creed?

The wind we feel so chill blows fresh
     On him, and such as he,—
Tho’ God who fashioneth the flesh
     Sendeth the Leprosy!

Blest was his child-like faith and prayer,
     If not afar, yet here,—
How dark and dull seems our despair
     Beside a faith so clear!

He walked the broad and easy way
     And died and lived a child,—
Yea, even on his stormiest day
     Folded his hands and smiled,

Believing all things, doubting not                                               89
     That all was surely well,—
Upon his soul one only blot,
     The death-stain of Parnell!

Cleanse that one blot away, his fame
     Was star-like ’mongst his kind,—
Yet even that from goodness came,
     Because God kept him blind!


The ‘Grand Old Man’ is William Ewart Gladstone (1809-1898). Gladstone died at Hawarden on the 19th May, 1898 and was buried in Westminster Abbey. Presumably, Buchanan’s March date is a misprint.

Alterations in the 1901 edition of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
Part II
v. 4, l. 3: God never bow’d him with His ban
v. 4, l. 4: Or marr’d him with His blight! ]





The speech our English freemen spoke
     Still fills the plains afar,
Where branches of our English oak
     Wave ’neath the Western star;
“Be free!” men cried in Shakespeare’s tongue,
     When smiting for the slave—
Thus Hampden’s cry for freedom rung
     As far as Lincoln’s grave!

Back rings that cry from far away
     To fill the Motherland,
Where ’neath the Union Jack this day
     Both false and true men stand—
Hark to the foes of all things free,
     Who, arm’d in hate, intone:
“The Union! let our war-cry be
     That word, and that alone!”

“The Union! Kiss the dead Christ’s face
     While brandishing the Sword,
Foster the scorn of race for race,
     Exult, and praise the Lord!
Carry the rule of pride and hate
     O’er earth, from pole to pole!
The Union! leave men desolate
     But keep the Empire whole!”

“The Union? Yes, in God’s name, still                                        91
     The Union!” we reply—
“The Union of a Nation’s will
     Against each timbrel’d lie!
The Union beautiful and good
     Of lands by Love made one!
One heart, one cause, one brotherhood,
     One Empire ’neath the sun!

“That Union which hath been so long
     Our boast from sea to sea,—
Justice, redressing human wrong,
     Love, keeping all men free;
Not that which starves one hapless land
     While others smile full-fed,
Not that, which from another’s hand
     Would snatch the daily bread!

“Union in strength of Love, not Hate!
     Union in Peace, not Strife!
Union to keep inviolate
     The sacraments of Life!
Union is one great common aim,
     Triumphant late or soon,
To share the freedom we proclaim
     With all who beg the boon!

Not Union based on braggart’s boasts
     Or on the robber’s creed,
Not Union thrust by armëd hosts
     On lives that would be freed!
Not Union fed by hate and wrath                                               92
     Where’er the weak make moan,—
No, Union on the heavenward path
     Where Justice hath her throne!

“Justice to all, and first to those
     Who speak our common speech—
Help to our brethren great or small,
     Free thought, free laws, for each;
Who chains his brother to his side
     Seeketh his help in vain,
And Might is impotent to guide
     The souls that Love may gain.

“This is the Union which is still
     Our strength from sea to sea—
Freedom, whose mandates we fulfil
     By leaving all men free!
To sheathe the sword, to help man’s lot,
     To break each cruel chain . . .
The Union? Yes, by God!—but not
     A pact ’tween Christ and Cain!”




The Arbitration Treaty, January 1897.



PEACE, not a Sword! She claims to-day
     The crown by Freedom wrought,—
Victorious Peace, with power to sway
     Free Life, free Speech, free Thought!
The Lord who gave the blind Seer sight
     Hath led us up and on,
And, lo! our Milton’s dream of Light
     Fulfill’d, at Washington!



In this great hour of righteous pride,
     Be hush’d, ye Voices vain,
Which still invite the Crucified
     To join the feasts of Cain;
Not by the hypocrite’s despair
     Shall Love’s last gift be priced,
Nay! Cain is Cain, although he wear
     The livery of the Christ!



Now, while ye greet your Jingo-god,
     Hounds of the mart and street,
We close the bloody winepress, trod
     By fratricidal feet!
The strife which savage priests have sung                                  94
     A thousand years shall cease,
For Glory’s banner shall be hung
     In the great Halls of Peace.



Despair not, Men, though Time should bring
     But part of all ye crave:—
Did not the cry of Hampden ring
     As far as Lincoln’s grave?
The voice which saith, “No brother’s hand
     May shed a brother’s blood,”
Shall grow till men in every land
     Are one vast Brotherhood!



Lo, now the seed by martyrs sown
     Springs up, a goodly tree,
Let every Despot on his throne
     Take heed, from sea to sea!
For he who still invokes the Sword
     Shall by that same Sword fall,
While he whom Wisdom’s Voice and Word
     Redeem, must conquer all!



Ring out, glad bells! now Night hath fled,
     The rose of Dawn shall bloom!
The Light that halo’d Whitman’s head
     Shines back on Shelley’s tomb!
Under the bloodless Flag we stand                                            95
     Which martyr-bards unfurl’d,
Heart link’d to heart, hand join’d to hand,
     The Freedmen of the World!

12th January 1897.


The Olney-Pauncefote Treaty of Arbitration between the United States and Great Britain was signed at Washington, January 11, 1897, but later defeated by the U.S. Senate. For further information about the treaty there is an article by John Fiske in The Atlantic Monthly (Vol. 79, 1897, p. 399 - 408) which is available on the Cornell University Making of America site.]





HARK now, what fretful voices
     Sound shrill from shore to shore!—
The home-bred curs of England
     Barking at England’s door,—
The weak wolf-hearted creatures
     Who gather multiform
And out of quiet waters
     Would fain shriek up the Storm!

Hark, how the half-breed answers
     With strident harsh refrain,
Echoed by Windmill-Journals
     That whirl yet grind no grain—
Out o’er the peaceful waters
     The hideous notes are hurl’d,
While poets of the banjo
     Defy the listening world!

Not thus in days departed
     Did England’s triumphs come—
The Hero then was silent,
     The Martyr then was dumb!
Amid the roll of tempests
     You heard no rowdy’s song—
The Makers of our England
     Were still as they were strong!

Not thus the sons of England                                                     97
     Grew strong and great and free,
Bridling the white sea-horses
     That sweep from sea to sea,—
With stern lips set in silence
     They paused and bent the knee,
And prayed the God of Silence
     To give them victory!

The mighty hand of England
     Should be too strong to raise
The trumpet of the Braggart
     That sounds her own self-praise!
Her glory (still she gains it
     From sleepless year to year)
Is wrought through deeds of Heroes,
     Not shrieks of Chanticleer!

Out there upon the waters
     Heroes are living still,—
From land to land they wander
     With firm and fearless will;
They plough the stormy billow,
     But vaunt not what they do,—
The Mariners of England
     Are calm as they are true!

Yonder our legions gather
     Beneath the battle-flag,
They march to Death in silence
     And let the coward brag;
To urge their spirits onward                                                       98
     They need no savage song,—
The Warriors of England
     Are still as they are strong!

And still, erect and fearless,
     Unarm’d, or sword in hand,
Wherever Honour beckons
     Our silent Heroes stand:
They scorn the shrieking remnant
     Who gather multiform
And, safe from every danger,
     Would fain shriek up the Storm!






CROMWELL, what soul denies thy claim
     To honour in the Saxon’s sight?
Thy spirit, like a stormy flame,
     Still gleams through centuries of Night,
While Freedom’s weeping eyes are bent
On deeds that are thy monument!



Thanks to thy ruthless sword and thee
     Thy cruel creed is living yet,
And Christians still from sea to sea
     Owe thee and thine a deathless debt;
With thee to light them through the land,
Famine and Faith walk’d hand in hand.



Think not we scorn thee,—thou wast strong!
     Think not we wrong thee,—thou wast great!
Thou sharest with the kingly throng
     The aftermath of human Hate:
Among the thrones thy lightnings rent
Should surely be thy monument?



Hot gospeller of bloody War,
     Thy Cross became a slaughtering sword;
Thy Biblic thunders roll’d afar
     The message of thy King and Lord,—
The wondering Nations heard thy cry—
“Worship my God of Wrath, or die!”



Before thee, Tyrant, tyrants fell,
     By thee, O King, a King was slain,—
Honest as Cain and true as Hell,
     Scorner of mercy, thou didst reign;
With blood and tears thou didst cement
This Union, thy monument!



Thy Throne was on a million graves,
     O Christian monarch of the free;
The curse of sixty thousand slaves,
     Torn from their homes and chain’d by thee,
From the plantations of the west
Arose, thy might to manifest!



Even thus on History’s bloodiest page
     Thy name is written, King of men,—
And evermore from age to age
     Thy seed of bigots springs again;
What needst thou further to content
Thy ghost, by way of monument?



The bigot’s strength and faith was thine,                                              [8:1]
     The bigot’s creed that hates the sun,—
And yet in Freedom’s name divine
     Thy bloody victories were won:
’Mong Monarchs keep thy place of pride,
With Charles’s Spectre at thy side!



Ask not the love our souls deny,
     But take our homage if thou wilt,—
Thy gospel was a living lie,
     Our blood was on thine altars spilt,—
Scourge by the God of Slaughter sent,
Be DROGHEDA thy monument!


The bronze statue of Oliver Cromwell by Sir William Hamo Thornycroft which stands outside the Houses of Parliament was the subject of much controversy. It was commissioned in 1894 by the Liberal Prime Minister, Lord Rosebery, but aroused the opposition of both royalist English MPs and also the Irish MPs, to whom the name Cromwell was anathema. The request for public funds was abandoned and an anonymous donor (thought to be Rosebery himself) provided the money for the statue, which was unveiled, without any public ceremony, at 7. 30 a.m., on November 14th., 1899.

The massacre at Drogheda has also been the subject of much debate. There are several accounts online and the consensus is that the scale of the massacre was exaggerated by Irish nationalists and also, following the Restoration of Charles II, by English royalists. What is not in dispute is what followed Cromwell’s military campaign, the subjugation of the native Irish, which led to their transplantation to the province of Connaught. Those who refused were deported to Barbados and other American colonies - the source for Buchanan’s line: “The curse of sixty-thousand slaves,”.

Alterations in the 1901 edition of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
v. 8, l. 1: The bigot’s strength and faith were thine, ]






“O WHAT’S the news from England?” the grey old Mother said,
“And what’s the news about my sons, and are they quick or dead?
I’ve waited on for many a year and prayed beside the sea,
Remembering how they drew the sword and swore to set me free!”
“O Mother, sure thy sons survive, tho’ better they had died,
They palter with the faith they learn’d before they left thy side;
Among the camp fires of thy foes the Fratricides are seen,
They hang upon the Tyrant’s nod, and blush to wear the Green!”

“My eyes are dim with weeping,” the grey old Mother said,
“The chains are still upon my hands, the sackcloth on my head;
I blest my sons before they went and deem’d them leal and true,
And eagerly with leaping hearts across the seas they flew.”
“O Mother, what was sown in pride thy sons now reap in scorn,
They help’d the pandars and the priests to slay thine Eldest-born,
Then for his raiment casting lots they reached out hands obscene,                  103
Dishonouring the noble dead who best had loved the Green!”

“Green be his grave in England, who loved me long and well,
May never freemen welcome back the butchers of Parnell!
I deem them sons of mine no more, I brand them sons of Cain,
Who slew their brother over there, the bigot’s smile to gain!”
“O Mother, sure not all thy sons are false and base like those,
Not all have traded truth and faith to win the English rose;
Among thy children over there are some whose hands are clean,
And these shall yet unbind thy chains, and glorify the Green!”

“O what’s the news from England?” the grey old Mother cried,
“Now he is slain, my Eldest-born, who stands as chief and guide?
What souls are false, what souls are true, of all that bear my name,
What son of mine shall lift me up and save me out of shame?”
“O Mother, sure they follow now the feeblest of thy clan,
A peddler with a woman’s heart, and not an Irish man!
And in his train the turncoat and the sycophant are seen,
And day by day dishonour comes to those who wear the Green!”

“And over there in England, the Saxon who had sworn                                104
To break thy bonds and set thee free has laughed thy woes to scorn;
For in the City’s Square they raise a likeness hewn in stone
To honour him who broke thy heart and left thee here alone!
Mother, remember Drogheda, and all thy woes of old,
And curse the butcher Cromwell’s name a thousand thousand fold!
Trust not the slaves that honour him who thy worst scourge has been,
But turn again from friends so false to those who wear the Green!

“We are the sons who love thee, O Erin, Mother dear!
We’ve borne thy Cross and blest thy name from weary year to year!
We’ve shamed the fratricidal crew who take thy name in vain,
We’ve fought for Ireland foot by foot although our Chief lay slain;
There’s hope for thee and Freedom yet, so long as we are true,
Our birthright still remains to us although our ranks are few,—
Please God we’ll save our country yet, and keep its record clean,
And preach from Cork to Donegal the wearing of the Green!”


Further information about the original ‘Wearing of the Green’ is available on wikipedia.]





OLD Flag, that floatest fair and proud
     Where’er our swift fleets fly,
Do they who shriek thy praise aloud
     Honour thee more than I,—
Who yield to none beneath the sun
     In love for thine and thee,
Altho’ I raise no song of praise
     Or hymn of victory?

Not love thee, dear old Flag? not bless
     This England, sea and shore?
O England, if I loved thee less
     My song might praise thee more,—
I’d have thee strong to right the wrong,
     And wise as thou art free;
For thee I’d claim a stainless fame,
     A bloodless victory!

Conquer’d thou hast! from west to east
     Thy fleets float on in pride,—
Thy glory, England, hath not ceased
     Since Nelson bled and died;
Peace to the brave, who to thee gave
     This Empire of the Sea,—
Yet would thy son from God had won
     A mightier victory!

The trumpets of thy rule are blown                                                     106
     Where’er thy hosts go by;
Blent with their sound I hear the moan
     Of martyr’d men who die;
Crush’d ’neath their tread lie quick and dead,
     And far away I see
The white Christ rise with weeping eyes
     To mourn thy victory!

Nay, is it victory at all
     The blood-red wreath to gain?
The hosts who curse thee as they fall
     But prove thy glory vain;
Thy legions strong still march along
     And reap the world for thee,
But nobler is the Sower’s song
     Than their best victory!

Not through thy legions arm’d to slay
     Hast thou survived and reigned,—
Through men who threw the sword away
     Thy glory hath been gained;
Strong, stubborn-kneed, they stood and freed
     The slave from sea to sea,
And Wilberforce’s bloodless deed
     Was England’s victory!

The men whose hands have raised thy throne,
     And guard it evermore,
Are such as lit the Eddystone
     And built the Skerryvore!
By blood unstain’d their hands maintain’d                                            107
     This Empire of the Sea,—
The white wreath won by Stephenson
     Crown’d Nelson’s victory!

To such as these, O Motherland,
     Let thy red hosts give room—
To those who wrought with patient hand
     The engine and the loom;
Thy gifts increase through acts of Peace,
     Not deeds men weep to see,
And Shakespeare’s page from age to age
     Is thy best victory!

Not love the dear old Flag? not bless
     Our England, sea and shore?
O England, those who love thee less
     May stoop to praise thee more.
To keep thy fame from taint of shame
     I pray on bended knee,
But where the braggart mouths thy name
     I hail no victory!

Thy place is yonder on the Deep
     That blows thy fleets abroad,
Thy strength is in the men who keep
     Their bloodless pact with God;
They love thee best who will not rest
     Until, from sea to sea,
Justice and Love, by all men blest,
     Complete thy victory!






HOW long, O God, how long shall we,
     The chosen of Thy race,
Wail in the night for Light to see
     The glory of Thy Face?
How long shall Death usurp Thy throne,
     While clouds of sorrow gather?
Hearken, O God! Thy children moan
     In darkness for their Father!



How long shall this foul Upas-tree,
     Hung with the butcher’d dead,
Cast on Thy Cross of Calvary
     Its shadow dark and dread?
As high as Heaven its branches rise
     While those black fruits swing under,
And yet no Hand from yonder skies
     Tears the black boughs asunder!



How long into our lives shall eat
     The leprosy of Lust,
While all things pure and fair and sweet
     Turn into strumous dust?
Crush’d ’neath the Leper’s conquering feet                                         109
     Crouches the white Slave, Woman,
While silently from street to street
     Glide hucksters of the Human!



Under Thy Cross the Throne still stands,
     A Woman sits thereon;
Beneath her cling with feeble hands
     Her brethren, woe-begone;
No help, no succour from on high,
     To bless their souls bereaven . . .
My God! they drag them thence to die,
     While Thou art dumb in Heaven!



The Atheist and the Priest, O Lord,
     Unite to forge our chains!
Under Thy Cross, arm’d with Thy Sword,
     Judge Ananias reigns!
Thy Priests stand by and make no sign,
     Thy Church lies mute and broken,
And that they know no Light Divine
     Thy Gallows stands for token!



Reach out Thy Hand, snatch back Thy Sword!
     God of the quick and dead!
Crush down these Upas-trees, O Lord,
     To dust beneath thy tread!
Each leaf of life that trembles there,                                                     110
     Withering broken-hearted,
Attests, despite a Nation’s prayer,
     Thy glory hath departed!



How long shall Man’s dark law abide
     And Thine be closely seal’d,
How long shall Truth and Mercy hide
     Forgotten, unreveal’d?
See, o’er this Flood whereon we move
     Burns War’s red Bow of Slaughter!
And still no sign of Thy White Dove
     Upon the crimson water!



Come from the darkness of the Deep,
     Open the Heavens up there,
We charge thee, by these tears we weep,
     And by these chains we bear!
Death rules Thine earth despite our cries,
     Heaven’s Throne, too, is assailéd,—
While from his stricken children’s eyes
     The Father’s Face is veiléd . . .
                     How long, O Lord, how long?






COWARDS and Slaves, who ne’er will learn
     Your own deep strength and might,
Who shut those eyes which should discern
     The Truth, the Right, the Light!
God helps not Man, who might control
     Ev’n God to his endeavour!—
The Titan with a Pigmy’s Soul
     Remains a Pigmy ever!



So long as those who might be free
     Crouch down and hug their chains,
In vain is their appeal to Me
     Or any God that reigns;
So long as mortal men despair,
     Self-martyr’d, self-polluted,
Those Upas-trees shall cloud the air
     With branches human-fruited!



So long as freemen yield the Thief
     Their birthright of the soil,
And let my earth remain in fief
     To Knaves who will not toil;
So long as Knaves by Slaves are sent                                                 112
     To rule my fair creation,
Wail on, ye Mortals, and lament
     Your own self-immolation!



Awake! arise! upraise your eyes,
     Ye Titans of mankind,—
One touch would break the chain of Lies
     Which ye yourselves have twined!
’Tis you alone who are the Strong,
     Not ev’n your God is stronger!—
Long as ye will, be Slaves,—so long!
     But not one heart’s-beat longer!



I made you free, I gave you might
     To lose or conquer all;
I help no coward in the fight,
     But calmly watch him fall!
So long as ye forget your dower,
     By your own wills bereaven,
Wail on, in impotence of power,
     But hope no help from Heaven! . . .
                             So long, O Men, so long!





         OLD ROME, whose thunderbolts were hurl’d
         So long across a wondering world,
         Whose legions swarmed from east to west,
               Whose eagles kept the storms at bay,
         Now Time hath lull’d thy heart to rest,
               Where is thy pride, O Rome, today? . . .
Thy heart is still, Old Rome, thy pride hath passed away!

         Mount Atlas rises as of yore;
         All round upon the Afric shore
         The vast and solitary stones
               Of thine imperial Cities stand—
         The mighty Monster’s bleaching bones
               Half-buried in the desert sand! . . .
Where are thy conquering eyes, O Rome, thy red right hand?

         The sleepless Eagle’s eyes at last
         Are closed, its sunward flight hath pass’d!
         But lo, afar across the sea
               This new imperial Rome doth rise,
         As strong, as fearless, and as free,
               It feels the sun and fronts the skies . . .
Thine ears are dust, Old Rome, and cannot hear its cries!

         Dust! and we too, who now adjust                                                     114
         Our pomp and pride, shall be as dust!
         And this, our Empire, too, shall share
                   The same inevitable doom,—
         Thy death, old Rome, and thy despair,
               With all the weary world for tomb;—
The new race comes, the old and worn-out race gives room!

         With bread and pageants we appease
         The home-bred mob, while o’er the seas,
         Snatching the spoil of many lands,
               Conquering we sweep with sword and fire,
         Nay, building up with bloody hands
               The glory of our heart’s desire,—
Raising (like thee, old Rome!) our own proud funeral pyre!

         Thy pride hath pass’d, and ours shall pass!
         Over our graves shall grow the grass,
         Within the cities we upraise
               Jackal and wolf shall make their home,
         A younger brow shall bear the bays,
               A fairer fleet shall face the foam,—
When this our Rome is dust and laid with thine, Old Rome!





AT hush of night, when all things seem
     To sleep, I waken and look forth,
And lo! I hear, or else I dream,
     The tramp of Legions o’er the earth!
               And in the dark
               Hush’d heavens I mark
Sentinel lights that flash o’erhead
From lonely bivouacs of the Dead!

Then, while the spectral Hosts sweep by,
     Unseen yet heard in the under gloom,
I see against the dim blue sky
     A Skeleton in cloak and plume;
               Beneath him crowd,
               Like cloud on cloud,
Sleeping on that great plain of dread,
Dark countless legions of the Dead.

No sound disturbs those camps so chill,
     No banner waves, no clarions ring,—
Imperial Death sits cloak’d and still
     With eyes turned earthward, listening
               To that great throng
               Which sweeps along
With battle cry and thunder tread,
To join the bivouacs of the Dead!

Sentinel-stars their vigil keep!                                                             116
     The hooded Spectre sitteth dumb,
While still to join the Hosts asleep
     The Legions of the Living come:
               ’Neath Heaven’s blue arch
               They march and march,
Ever more silent as they tread
More near the bivouacs of the Dead.

But when they reach those bivouacs chill
     Their cries are hush’d, their heads are bow’d,
And with their comrades, slumbering still,
     Silent they blend, like cloud with cloud:
               Light answers light
               Across the night,—
While quietly they seek their bed
Among the watch-fires of the Dead!

And night by night the Leader’s form
     Looms black ’gainst heavens cold and dim,
While evermore in silence swarm
     The human Hosts to rest with him;
               Hush’d grow their cries,
               Closëd their eyes,
Silent, until some trumpet dread
Shall wake the Legions of the Dead!



The New Rome continued

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The Fleshly School Controversy
Buchanan and the Press
Buchanan and the Law


The Critical Response
Harriett Jay


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