"THE DESPOT'S DESPOT"

VITÆ SUMMA BREVIS SPEM NOS VETAT INCOHARE LONGAM

THEY are not long, the weeping and the laughter,

Love and desire and hate;

I think they have no portion in us after

We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream

Our path emerges for a while, then closes

Within a dream.

Ernest Dowson [1867-1900]

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST

From "The Contention of Ajax and Ulysses

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate;

Death lays his icy hand on kings:
Scepter and Crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

"

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill:
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had;
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,
The sun sets, the shadow flies,
The gourd consumes, and man-he dies!

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like a bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearlèd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,
The hour is short, the span not long,
The swan near death,-man's life is done!

Like to a bubble in the brook,

Or in a glass much like a look,

Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand,

Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of a stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there, in life and death.
The bubble's out, the look's forgot,
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot,
The thought is past, the dream is gone,
The water glides,-man's life is done!

Like to a blaze of fond delight,
Or like a morning clear and bright,
Or like a frost, or like a shower,

Or like the pride of Babel's tower,
Or like the hour that guides the time,
Or like to Beauty in her prime;