THE INNER ROOM

It is mine—­the little chamber,
   Mine alone. 
I had it from my forbears
   Years agone. 
Yet within its walls I see
A most motley company,
And they one and all claim me
   As their own.

There’s one who is a soldier
   Bluff and keen;
Single-minded, heavy-fisted,
   Rude of mien. 
He would gain a purse or stake it,
He would win a heart or break it,
He would give a life or take it,
   Conscience-clean.

And near him is a priest
   Still schism-whole;
He loves the censer-reek
   And organ-roll. 
He has leanings to the mystic,
Sacramental, eucharistic;
And dim yearnings altruistic
   Thrill his soul.

There’s another who with doubts
   Is overcast;
I think him younger brother
   To the last. 
Walking wary stride by stride,
Peering forwards anxious-eyed,
Since he learned to doubt his guide
   In the past.

And ’mid them all, alert,
   But somewhat cowed,
There sits a stark-faced fellow,
   Beetle-browed,
Whose black soul shrinks away
From a lawyer-ridden day,
And has thoughts he dare not say
   Half avowed.

There are others who are sitting,
   Grim as doom,
In the dim ill-boding shadow
   Of my room. 
Darkling figures, stern or quaint,
Now a savage, now a saint,
 Showing fitfully and faint
   Through the gloom.

And those shadows are so dense,
   There may be
Many—­very many—­more
   Than I see. 
They are sitting day and night
Soldier, rogue, and anchorite;
And they wrangle and they fight
   Over me.

If the stark-faced fellow win,
   All is o’er! 
If the priest should gain his will
   I doubt no more! 
But if each shall have his day,
I shall swing and I shall sway
In the same old weary way
   As before.

THE IRISH COLONEL

Said the king to the colonel,
’The complaints are eternal,
   That you Irish give more trouble
      Than any other corps.’

Said the colonel to the king,
’This complaint is no new thing,
   For your foemen, sire, have made it
      A hundred times before.’

THE BLIND ARCHER

Little boy Love drew his bow at a chance,
   Shooting down at the ballroom floor;
He hit an old chaperone watching the dance,
   And oh! but he wounded her sore. 
      ’Hey, Love, you couldn’t mean that! 
      Hi, Love, what would you be at?’
         No word would he say,
         But he flew on his way,
For the little boy’s busy, and how could he stay?