THE THREE SONGS

THE poet sang of a battle-field Where doughty deeds were done, Where stout blows rang on helm and shield And a kingdom’s fate was spun With the scarlet thread of victory, And honor from death’s grim revelry Like a flame-red flower was won! So bravely he sang that all who heard With the sting of the fight and the triumph were stirred, And they cried, “Let us blazon his name on high, He has sung a song that will never die !”

Again, full throated, he sang of fame And ambition’s honeyed lure, Of the Chaplet that garlands a mighty name, Till his listeners fired with the god-like flame ‘ To do, to dare, to endure! - The thirsty lips of the world were fain The cup of glamor he vaunted to drain, And the people murmured as he went by, “He has sung a song that will never die !”

And once more he sang, all low and apart, A song of the love that was born in his heart, Thinking to voice in unfettered strain

Its sweet delight and its sweeter pain;

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