28 JULY 1894, Page 16

POETRY.

THE SOVEREIGN POET.

HE sits above the clang and dust of Time, With the world's secret trembling on his lips. He asks not converse nor companionship In the cold starlight where thou comet not climlla The undelivered tidings in his breast Stiffer him not to rest.

He sees afar the immemorable throng, And binds the scattered ages with a sang The glorious riddle of his rhythmic breath, His might, his spell, we know not what they be : We only feel, whate'er ho uttereth, This savours not of death,