Still is it night, the world should yet sleep on,
And gather strength to meet the distant morn.
But one there is who, though no ray has shone,
Waits not, nor sleeps, but laughs all rest to scorn,
The demon-bird that crows his hideous jeer,
Restless, remorseless, hateful Chanticleer.
One did I say? Nay, hear them as they cry;
Six more accept the challenge of the foe:
From six stretched necks six more must make reply,
Echo, re-echo and prolong the crow.
First shrieking singly, then their notes they mix
In one combined cacophony of six.
Miscalled of poets "herald of the day,"
Spirit of evil, vain and wanton bird,
Was there then none to beg a moment's stay
Ere for thy being Fate decreed the word?
Could not ASCLEPIAS, when he ceased to be,
Take to the realms of death thy tribe and thee?
What boots it thus to question? for thou ART,
And still shalt be; but never canst be still,
Destined at midnight thus to play thy part,
And when all else is silent to be shrill.
Yea, as I lie all sleepless in the dark,
I love not those who housed thee in the Ark.
* * * * *
"AS GOOD AS A BETTER."
Dr. Andrew Wilson (in "Science Jottings," in the _Illustrated
London News_) dares disparage Golf "as an ideal game for young men,"
venturing to advocate the preferential claims of fogeyish Cricket, and
even of futile Lawn Tennis--
"O Scots, wha hae wi' BALFOUR teed.
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