The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.

Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.

His friends he loved. His direst earthly foe - Cats-I believe he did but feign to hate. My hand will miss the insinuated nose, Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.

Fiat justitia et ruant coeli. Let justice be done, though the heavens may fall. See Ferdinand I 320:1.

God, eldest of Poets.

The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.

And though circuitous and obscureThe feet of Nemesis how sure!