the glen--at the gates of the horror beyond;
And those who have looked on it tell of the terrible growths that are there--
The flowerage fostered by hell, the blossoms that startle and scare.
If ever a wandering bird should light on Gehennas like this
Be sure that a cry will be heard, and the sound of the flat adder's hiss.
But hard by the jaws of the bend is a ghastly Thing matted with moss--
_Ah, Lord! be a father, a friend, for the sake of the Christ of the Cross._

Black Tom, with the sinews of five--that never a hangman could hang--
In the days of the shackle and gyve, broke loose from the guards of the gang.
Thereafter, for seasons a score, this devil prowled under the ban;
A mate of red talon and paw, a wolf in the shape of a man.
But, ringed by ineffable fire, in a thunder and wind of the north,
The sword of Omnipotent ire--the bolt of high Heaven went forth!
But, wan as the sorrowful foam, a grey mother waits by the sea
For the boys that have never come home these fifty-four winters and three.

From the folds of the forested hills there are ravelled and roundabout tracks,
Because of the terror that fills the strong-handed men of the axe!
Of the workers away in the range there is none that will wait for the night,
When the storm-stricken moon is in change and the sinister fog is in sight.
And later and deep in the dark, when the bitter wind whistles about,
There is never a howl or a bark from the dog in the kennel without,
But the white fathers fasten the door, and often and often they start,
At a sound like a foot on the floor and a touch like a hand on the heart.

When Underneath the Brown Dead Grass

When underneath the brown dead grass
My weary bones are laid,
I hope I shall not see the glass
At ninety in the shade.
I trust indeed that, when I lie
Beneath the churchyard pine,
I shall not hear that startling cry
"'Thermom' is ninety-nine!"

If one should whisper through my sleep
"Come up and be alive,"
I'd answer--_No, unless you'll keep
The glass at sixty-five._
I _might_ be willing if allowed
To wear old Adam's rig,
And mix amongst the city crowd
Like Polynesian "nig".

Far better in the sod to lie,
With pasturing pig above,
Than broil beneath a copper sky--
In sight of all I love!
Far better to be turned to grass
To feed the poley cow,
T