Over our lines shall the vultures soar;
Hard on our flanks shall the jackals cry;
And the dead shall be as the sands of the shore;
And daily the living shall pray to die.
Nay, what matter!--When all is said,
Prince and Bishop will plunder still:
Lord and Lady must dance and wed.
Pity us, pray for us, ye that will!
It is only the fear of impinging on Mr. Young's copyright that prevents
me reprinting the graphic ballad of The Wanderer and the prologue of The
Strollers, which reads like a page from the prelude to some Old-World
miracle play. The setting of these things is frequently antique, but the
thought is the thought of today. I think there is a new generation of
readers for such poetry as Mr. Young's. I venture the prophecy that
it will not lack for them later when the time comes for the inevitable
rearrangement of present poetic values.
The author of "Wishmakers' Town" is the child of his period, and has not
escaped the _maladie du siecle_.
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