In Collins-street standeth a statue tall—1    A statue tall on a pillar of stone,
    Telling its story, to great and small,
    Of the dust reclaimed from the sand waste lone.
    Weary and wasted, and worn and wan,
    Feeble and faint, and languid and low,
    He lay on the desert a dying man,
    Who has gone, my friends, where we all must go.

    There are perils by land, and perils by water,
    Short, I ween, are the obsequies
    Of the landsman lost, but they may be shorter
    With the mariner lost in the trackless seas;
    And well for him when the timbers start,
    And the stout ship reels and settles below,
    Who goes to his doom with as bold a heart
    As that dead man gone where we all must go.

    Man is stubborn his rights to yield,
    And redder than dews at eventide
    Are the dews of battle, shed on the field,
    By a nation's wrath or a despot's pride;
    But few who have heard their death-knell roll,
    From the cannon's lips where they faced the foe,
    Have fallen as stout and steady of soul
    As that dead man gone where we all must go.

    Traverse yon spacious burial-ground,
    Many are sleeping soundly there,
    Who pass'd with mourners standing around,
    Kindred and friends, and children fair;
    Did he envy such ending? 'twere hard to say;
    Had he cause to envy such ending? no;
    Can the spirit feel for the senseless clay
    When it once has gone where we all must go?

    What matters the sand or the whitening chalk,
    The blighted herbage, the black'ning log,
    The crooked beak of the eagle-hawk,
    Or the hot red tongue of the native dog?
    That couch was rugged, those sextons rude,
    Yet, in spite of a leaden shroud, we know
    That the bravest and fairest are earth-worms' food,
    When once they've gone where we all must go.

    With the pistol clenched in his failing hand,
    With the death mist spread o'er his fading eyes,
    He saw the sun go down on the sand,
    And he slept, and never saw it rise;
    'Twas well; he toil'd till his task was done,
    Constant and calm in his latest throe;
    The storm was weathered, the battle was won,
    When he went, my friends, where we all must go.

    God grant that whenever, soon or late,
    Our course is run and our goal is reach'd,
    We may meet our fate as steady and straight
    As he whose bones in yon desert bleach'd;
    No tears are needed—our cheeks are dry,
    We have none to waste upon living woe;
    Shall we sigh for one who has ceased to sigh,
    Having gone, my friends, where we all must go?

    We tarry yet, we are toiling still,
    He is gone and he fares the best,
    He fought against odds, he struggled up hill,
    He has fairly earned his season of rest;
    No tears are needed—fill out the wine,
    Let the goblets clash, and the grape juice flow;
    Ho! pledge me a death-drink, comrade mine,
    To a brave man gone where we all must go.

    Oh! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie,
    And the steed stood ready harness'd in the hall,
    And he left his lady's bower, and he sought the eastern tower,
    And he lifted cloak and weapon from the wall.

    "We were wed but yester-noon, must we separate so soon?
    Must you travel unassoiled and, aye, unshriven,
    With the blood stain on your hand, and the red streak on your brand,
    And your guilt all unconfessed and unforgiven?"

    "Tho' it were but yester-even we were wedded, still unshriven,
    Across the moor this morning I must ride;
    I must gallop fast and straight, for my errand will not wait;
    Fear naught, I shall return at eventide."

    "If I fear, it is for thee, thy weal is dear to me,
    Yon moor with retribution seemeth rife;
    As we've sown so must we reap, and I've started in my sleep
    At the voice of the avenger, 'Life for life'."

    "My arm is strong, I ween, and my trusty blade is keen,
    And the courser that I ride is swift and sure,
    And I cannot break my oath, though to leave thee I am loth,
    There is one that I must meet upon the moor."

    Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie,
    Down the avenue and through the iron gate,
    Spurr'd and belted, so he rode, steel to draw and steel to goad,
    And across the moor he galloped fast and straight.

    Oh! the sun shone on the lea, and the bird sang full of glee,
    Ere the mists of evening gather'd chill and grey;
    But the wild bird's merry note on the deaf ear never smote,
    And the sunshine never warmed the lifeless clay.

    Ere the sun began to droop, or the mist began to stoop,
    The youthful bride lay swooning in the hall;
    Empty saddle on his back, broken bridle hanging slack,
    The steed returned full gallop to the stall.

    Oh! the sun sank in the sea, and the wind wailed drearilie;
    Let the bells in yonder monastery toll,
    For the night rack nestles dark round the body stiff and stark,
    And unshriven to its Maker flies the soul.

    Fytte I
    By Wood and Wold
    [A Preamble]

    "Beneath the greenwood bough."—W. Scott.

    Lightly the breath of the spring wind blows,
    Though laden with faint perfume,
    'Tis the fragrance rare that the bushman knows,
    The scent of the wattle bloom.
    Two-thirds of our journey at least are done,
    Old horse! let us take a spell
    In the shade from the glare of the noonday sun,
    Thus far we have travell'd well;
    Your bridle I'll slip, your saddle