Who are these from the strange, ineffable places, From the Topaze Mountain and Desert of Doubt, With the glow of the Yemen full on their faces, And a… - J. Meade Falkner

In the days of Caesar Augustus There went forth this decree:
Si quid rectus et justus Liveth in Galilee,
Let him go up to Jerusalem And pay his scot to me.There are passed one after the other Christmases fifty-three,
Since I sat here with my mother And heard the great decree:
How they went up to Jerusalem Out of Galilee.They have passed one after the other; Father and mother died,
Brother and sister and brother Taken and sanctified.
I am left alone in the sitting, With none to sit beside.On the fly-leaves of these old prayer-books The childish writings fade,
Which show that once they were their books In the days when prayer was made
For other kings and princesses, William and Adelaide.The pillars are twisted with holly, And the font is wreathed with yew,
Christ forgive me for folly, Youth’s lapses—not a few,
For the hardness of my middle life, For age’s fretful view.Cotton-wool letters on scarlet, All the ancient lore,
Tell how the chieftains starlit To Bethlehem came to adore;
To hail Him King in the manger, Wonderful, Counsellor.The bells ring out in the steeple The gladness of erstwhile,
And the children of other people Are walking up the aisle;
They brush my elbow in passing, Some turn to give me a smile.Is the almond-blossom bitter? Is the grasshopper heavy to bear?
Christ make me happier, fitter To go to my own over there:
Jerusalem the Golden, What bliss beyond compare!My Lord, where I have offended Do Thou forgive it me.
That so when, all being ended, I hear Thy last decree,
I may go up to Jerusalem Out of Galilee.

Ratsey raised his glass almost before it was filled. He sniffed the liquor and smacked his lips. 'O rare milk of Ararat!' he said, 'it is sweet and strong, and sets the heart at ease. And now get the backgammon-board, John, and set it for us on the table.' So they fell to the game, and I took a sly sip at the liquor, but nearly choked myself, not being used to strong waters, and finding it heady and burning in the throat. Neither man spoke, and there was no sound except the constant rattle of the dice, and the rubbing of the pieces being moved across the board. Now and then one of the players stopped to light his pipe, and at the end of a game they scored their totals on the table with a bit of chalk. So I watched them for an hour, knowing the game myself, and being interested at seeing Elzevir's backgammon-board, which I had heard talked of before.It had formed part of the furniture of the Why Not? for generations of landlords, and served perhaps to pass time for of the Civil Wars. All was of oak, black and polished, board, dice-boxes, and men, but round the edge ran a Latin inscription inlaid in light wood, which I read on that first evening, but did not understand till Mr. Glennie translated it to me. I had cause to remember it afterwards, so I shall set it down here in Latin for those who know that tongue, Ita in vita ut in lusu alae pessima jactura arte corrigenda est, and in English as Mr. Glennie translated it, As in life, so in a game of hazard, skill will make something of the worst of throws. At last Elzevir looked up and spoke to me, not unkindly, 'Lad, it is time for you to go home; men say that walks on the first nights of winter, and some have met him face to face betwixt this house and yours.' I saw he wanted to be rid of me, so bade them both good night, and was off home, running all the way thither, though not from any fear of Blackbeard, for Ratsey had often told me that there was no chance of meeting him unless one passed the churchyard by night.

We have done with dogma and divinity, Easter and Whitsun past,
The long, long Sundays after Trinity, Are with us at last;
The passionless Sundays after Trinity, Neither feast-day nor fast.Christmas comes with plenty, Lent spreads out its pall,
But these are five and twenty, The longest Sundays of all;
The placid Sundays after Trinity, Wheat-harvest, fruit-harvest, Fall.Spring with its burst is over, Summer has had its day,
The scented grasses and clover Are cut, and dried into hay;
The singing-birds are silent, And the swallows flown away.Post pugnam pausa fiet; Lord, we have made our choice;
In the stillness of autumn quiet, We have heard the still, small voice.
We have sung Oh where shall Wisdom? Thick paper, folio, Boyce.Let it not all be sadness, Not omnia vanitas,
Stir up a little gladness To lighten the Tibi cras;
Send us that little summer, That comes with Martinmas.When still the cloudlet dapples The windless cobalt blue,
And the scent of gathered apples Fills all the store-rooms through,
The gossamer silvers the bramble, The lawns are gemmed with dew.An end of tombstone Latinity, Stir up sober mirth,
Twenty-fifth after Trinity, Kneel with the listening earth,
Behind the Advent trumpets They are singing Emmanuel’s birth.