Page:Ballads of a Bohemian.djvu/185

Rh There are bits of him broken and bloody, to show you the place where he fell; I’ve reason to fear on his exquisite ear the rats have been banqueting well.

And speaking of Harley, the writer, I fancy I looked on him last, Sprawling and staring and writhing in the roar of the battle blast; Then a mad gun-team crashed over, and scattered his brains as it passed.

Oh, Harley and Fanning and Barret, they were bloody good mates o’ mine; Their bodies are empty bottles; Death has guzzled the wine; What’s left of them’s filth and corruption.… Where is the Fire Divine?

I’ll tell you.… At night in the trenches, as I watch and I do my part, Three radiant spirits I’m seeing, high heart revealing to heart. And they’re building a peerless palace to the splendor and triumph of Art.

Yet, alas! for the fame of Barret, the glory he might have trailed! And alas! for the name of Fanning, a star that beaconed and paled, Poor Harley, obscure and forgotten.… Well, who shall say that they failed!