I have long dreamed of such a kind of man,
So surfeit swelled, so old and so profane,
But being awake I do despise my dream.
Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace:
Leave gormandizing: know the grave doth gape
For thee thrice wider than for other men.
Reply not to me with a fool-born jest:
Presume not that I am the thing I was;

For God doth know, so shall the world perceive,
That I have turned away my former self;
So will I those that kept me company.
When thou dost hear I am as I have been
Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast,
The tutor and the feeder of my riots:
'Till then, I banish thee, on pain of death,
As I have done the rest of my misleaders;
Not to come near our person by ten miles.
For competence of life I will allow you,
That lack of means enforce you not to evil:
And, as we hear you do reform yourselves,
We will, according to your strength and qualities,
Give you advancement."

EDWARD QUINN, '06.

THE NEW

THE LAST GOOD-BYE.

Dedicated to the Class of 1904, Holy Cross.

'Tis sad to say the last good-bye! We linger o'er the joys of by-gone hours,Hours we deemed so vain, they were the flowers Of life, the blooms in springtime of life's year, Fair roses that have withered grown and sere, Their petals soon to fall, to rise no more, 'Tis sad to say the last good-bye!

'Tis sad to say the last good-bye!

To say farewell to yesterday and all
That once we loved, that now we love to call
Our own, is bitter for the heart to bear:

Each sigh, each pain, each sorrow born of care,
Is the wine that cools the eager lips,—

now

'Tis sad to say the last good-bye!

Tis sad to say the last good-bye!

Why must we leave our joyous youthful dream,
With naught but whispering memories to redeem
The past, to still the plaint of heart-born tears?
E'en though the calling voices each one hears,
Tis sad to bid the last good-bye to all,-

'Tis sad to say the last good-bye!

Joseph F. Wickham, '04.

A BRILLIANT CATHOLIC POET.

When a distinguished reviewer recently declared that it is most gratifying "to behold the Church, the nurse of the Mother of all true poetry, ably represented in the language of Milton and Shakspeare and Dryden," he referred to the work that has been done and is now being done by the present-day Catholic poet-Mr. Francis Thompson.

Those who have read and studied the socalled "poets of the younger generation" know that, during the last years of the nineteenth century, there were three prominent Catholic writers in Great Britain,--DeVere, Patmore and Thompson. The latter, the youngest of the three, experienced a rapid and rather peculiar rise to fame. In the course of a single year, he finished a few poems which won for him a sort of distant and half-doubtful admiration. Among the common readers he became a great favorite, but among the critics his efforts caused much discussion and dissension; and, indeed, not many years ago Mr. Thompson was the most talked-about litterateur in all England. There were those who declared him the equal of Tennyson, who praised his imagery and his opulence of expression; and there were those who found great fault with his works and criticised them in a manner most severe. To use the words of William Archer,-"it is easy to ridi