CLIVE. 45

Tis when foes are foiled, and fighting’s finished that
vile rains invade,

Grass o’ergrows, o’ergrows till night-birds congregat-
ing find no holes

Fit to build like the topmost sockets made for banner-
poles.

So Clive crumbled slow in London, crashed at last.

A week before,

Dining with him, — after trying churchyard chat of
days of yore, —

Both of us stopped, tired as tombstones, head- pieces,
foot-piece, when they lean

Hach to other, drowsed in fog-smoke, o’er a coffined
Past between.

As I saw his head sink heavy, guessed the soul’s ex-
tinguishment

By the glazing eyeball, noticed how the furtive fingers
went |

Where a drug-box skulked behind the honest liquor,

—“One more throw

Try for Clive!” thought I: « Let’s venture some good
rattling question!” So—

“Come Clive, tell us” — out I blurted —“ what to
tell in turn, years hence,

When my boy —suppose I have One aes me on
what evidence

I maintain my friend of Plassy proved a warrior every
whit