'Tis night: behold the dog and man alone!88
The man hath said his thirtieth noster pater,
The dog has supp'd, and having pick'd his bone
(The meat was salted), feels a wish for water;
Puts out in vain a reconnoitring paw,
Feels the cord, smells it, and begins to gnaw.
Abash'd Philosophy, that dog survey!89
Thou call'st on freemen—bah! expand thy scope;
"Aide-toi toi-même, et Dieu t'aidera!"
Doth thraldom bind thee?—gnaw thyself the rope.—
Whatever Laws, and Kings, and States may be;
Wise men in earnest can be always free.
By a dim lamp upon the altar stone90
Sir Gawaine mark'd the inventive work canine;
"Cords bind us both—the dog has gnaw'd his own;
O Dog skoinophagous[13]—a tooth for mine!—
And both may 'scape that too-refining Goddess
Who roasts to types what Nature meant for bodies."
Sir Gawaine calls the emancipated hound,91
And strives to show his own illegal ties;
Explaining how free dogs, themselves unbound,
With all who would be free should fraternize—
The dog look'd puzzled, lick'd the fetter'd hand,
Prick'd up his ears—but would not understand.
The unhappy Knight perceived the hope was o'er,92
And did again to fate his soul resign;
When hark! a footstep, and an opening door,
And lo, once more, the Hierarch of the shrine,
The dog his growl at Gawaine's whisper ceased,
And dog and Knight, both silent, watch'd the priest.
The subtle captive saw with much content93
No sacred comrades had that reverend man;
Beneath a load of sacred charcoal bent,
The Priest approach'd; when Gawaine thus began:
"It shames me much to see you thus bent double,
And feel myself the cause of so much trouble.
"Doth Freya's kitchen, ventrical and holy,94
Afford no meaner scullion to prepare
The festive rites?—on you depends it wholly
To heat the oven and to dress the fare?"
"To hands less pure are given the outward things,
To Hierarchs only, the interior springs,"
Replied the Priest—"and till my task be o'er,95
All else intruding, wrath divine incur."
Sir Gawaine heard and not a sentence more
Sir Gawaine said, than—"Up and seize him, Sir,"
Sprung at the word, the dog; and in a trice
Griped the Priest's throat and lock'd it like a vice.
"Pardon, my sacred friend," then quoth the Knight,96
"You are not strangled from an idle frolic,
When bit the biter, you'll confess the bite
Is full of sense, mordacious but symbolic;
In roasting men, O culinary brother,
Learn this grand truth—'one turn deserves another!'"
Extremely pleased, the oratoric Knight97
Regain'd the vantage he had lost so long,
For sore, till then, had been his just despite
That Northern wit should foil his golden tongue.
Now, in debate how proud was his condition,
The opponent posed and by his own position!