like the calling of some mighty ocean. And now they
are utterly gone, and the reputation for which they strove avails
nothing; they are mixed in the dim twilight story of old unhappy
far-off things and battles long ago.

Critics say that our modern poetry is all sad; and so it is, save when
the dainty muse of Mr. Austin Dobson smiles upon us. The reason is not
far to seek--we know so much, and the sense of the vanity of human
effort is more keenly impressed upon us than ever it was on men of
more careless and more ignorant ages. We see what toys men set store
by, we see what shadows we are and what shadows we pursue, so there is
no wonder that we are mournful. The sweetest of our poets, the most
humorous of our many writers cannot keep the thought of death and
futility away. His loveliest lyric begins--

"Oh, fair maids Maying
In gardens green,
Through deep dells straying,
What end hath been.

Two Mays between
Of the flow'rs that shone
And your own sweet queen?
They are dead and gone."

There is the burden--"dead and gone." Another singer chants to us
thus--

"Merely a round of shadow shows
Shadow shapes that are born to die
Like a light that sinks, like a wind that goes,
Vanishing on to the By-and-by.

Life, sweet life, as she flutters nigh,
'Minishing, failing night and day,
Cries with a loud and bitter cry,
'Ev'rything passes, passes away.'

* * * * *

Who has lived as long as he chose?
Who so confident as to defy
Time, the fellest of mortals' foes?
Joints in his armour who can spy?
Where's the foot will nor flinch nor fly?
Where's the heart that aspires the fray?
His battle wager 'tis vain to try--
Ev'rything passes, passes away."

The age is diseased. Why should men be mournful because what they call
their aspirations--precious aspirations--are frustrated? They seek the
bubble reputation, and they whimper when the bubble is burst; but how
much better would it be to cleave to lowly duties, to do the thing
that lies next to hand, to accept cheerfully the bounteous harvest of
joys vouchsafed to the humble? Since we all end alike--since the
warrior, the statesman, the poet alike leave no name on earth save in
the case of the few Titans--what use is there in fretting ourselves
into green-sickness simply because we cannot quite get our own way? To
the wise man every moment of life may be made fruit