We've Raleighs still for Raleigh's part,
We've Nelsons yet unknown;
The pulses of the Lion Heart

Beat on through Wellington.
Hold, Britain, hold thy creed of old,
Strong foe and steadfast friend,
And, still unto thy motto true,
Defy not, but defend.

England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;

Be thy first word thy last, -Ready, ay, ready!

Men whisper'd that our arm was weak,
Men said our blood was cold,
And that our hearts no longer speak
The clarion-note of old;

But let the spear and sword draw near
The sleeping lion's den,

His island shore shall start once more
To life with armed men.

England, stand fast; let heart and hand be steady;

Be thy first word thy last, Ready, ay,

ready!

Enter LYSIS.

Lys. Klydone, sir, Klydone [Stops. Myr. Comes she not? Tell her to make more speed, for I grow heavy.

Lys. She comes; she bade them carry her; she's half dead.

Myr. I am awake, I think. Say it again. Half dead?

Lys. She took the poison at due time; She said 't was at due time by thine own count;

She said thou shouldst have call'd her in an hour,

And she was ready then: but 't was too long,

More than an hour, and so she must go first That did but mean to follow thee afterwards.

Olymn. Well, 't is her right.
Myr.

Is it a message, boy? Lys. She said it by gasps; then bade me, if she died,

Tell it thee for her, and thou 'dst know and pardon.

She is coming.

Myr.

She go first! Klydone die ! Olymnios, hast thou heard?

- FREDERICK LOCKER

Lys. Myr.

sleep.

Yes.

465

Throw the curtains back.
Put out those lights. Now sing until I
[Exeunt Servants.
No dirges, boy; that song Klydone lov'd,
Philomel and the aloe flower, sing that.
Lys. [Sings.]

Joy that's half too keen and true
Makes us tears.

Oh the sweetness of the tears!
If such joy at hand appears,
Snatch it, give thine all for it:
Joy that is so exquisite,

Lost, comes not new.

(One blossom for a hundred years.)

Grief that 's fond, and dies not soon,
Makes delight.

Oh the pain of the delight!
If thy grief be Love's aright,
Tend it close and let it grow :
Grief so tender not to know

Loses Love's boon.