The Dead Lords.

Where are those mighty warriors of yore
Whose names have quivered in the mouths of men;
Or those old scholars, burdened deep with lore,
Who wrangled on the "how" and "why" and "when;"

Where are those artists who have wrought with care
The passing vision of a golden hour,
Some imaged beauty once surpassing fair
And sweet to see—but now surpassing sour?

Strewn in a little dust upon the streets,
Their dead forms lie and irritate our eyes,
And, when our teeth grate we with quick surmise
Wonder of whom we bite the dead heart-beats;
While, for his marble tomb, some unknown's death
Fills in the mouths of men a little breath.

C. Q. P.