rose nigh overblown,
And the wind of the autumn eves
Comes blowing and scattering all
The damask drift of the dead rose leaves
Under the orchard wall_.

"_Like late-blown roses the joy-days flit,
And soon will the east winds blow;
So the love years now must be lived and writ
In red on a page of snow_.

"_And here the rune of the rose I rede,
'Tis the heart of the rose and me--
O youth, O maid, in your hour of need,
Be true to the sacred three--
Be true to the love that is love indeed,
To thyself, and thy God, these three!_

"_Ere the bursting bud is grown
To a rose nigh overblown,
And the wind of the autumn eves
Comes blowing and scattering all
The damask drift of the dead rose leaves
Under the orchard wall_."

Euroclydon of the Red Head was the other name of the Reverend Sylvanus
Septimus Cobb during his student days--nothing more piratical than that.
Sylvanus obtained the most valuable part of his training in the
Canadian backwoods. During his student days he combined the theory of
theology with the practice of "logging," in proportions which were
mutually beneficial, and which greatly aided his success as a minister
on his return to the old country. Sylvanus Cobb studied in Edinburgh,
lodging with his brother in the story next the sky at the corner of
Simon Square, supported by red herrings, oatmeal, and the reminiscence
that Carlyle had done the same within eyeshot of his front window fifty
years before.

"And look at him now!" said Sylvanus Cobb pertinently.

Sylvanus had attained the cognomen of Euroclydon of the Red Head in that
breezy collegiate republic whose only order is the Prussian "For Merit."
He was always in a hurry, and his red head, with its fiery, untamed
shock of bristle, usually shot into the class-room a yard or so before
his broad shoulders. At least, this was the general impression produced.
Also, he always brought with him a draught of caller air, like one
coming into a close and fire-warmed room out of the still and
frost-bound night.

But Edinburgh, its bare "lands" and barren class-rooms, in time waxed
wearisome to Sylvanus. He grew to loathe the drone of the classes, the
snuffy prelections of professors long settled on the lees of their
intellects, who still moused about among the dus