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                         Transcriber's Note:

    This is a tribute poem to Robert E. Howard the creator of Conan.

    This etext was produced from Weird Tales October 1936. Extensive
    research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on
    this publication was renewed.


                               R. E. H.

                         _Died June 11, 1936_


                           By R. H. BARLOW

       *       *       *       *       *

    Conan, the warrior king, lies stricken dead
      Beneath a sky of cryptic stars; the lute
      That was his laughter stilled, and sadly mute
    Upon the chilling earth his youthful head.
    There sounds for him no more the clamorous fray,
      But dirges now, where once the trumpet loud:
      About him press old memories for shroud,
    And ended is the conflict of the day.

    Death spilled the blood of him who loved the fight
      As men love mistresses, and fought it well--
      His fair young flesh is marble where he fell
    With broken sword that vanquished all but Night;
      And as of mythic kings our words must speak
      Of Conan now, who roves where dreamers seek.

       *       *       *       *       *