There was a loud, coarse laugh behind the barrier over this pessimistic effusion and its baptism of blood, and what made it sound stranger was that it rose from the midst of pæans and hosannahs over the poem that had borne the other aspirant up to the second arabesque. The echo sounded even to the porch; for the priests seemed to move and listen as in a dream. I was eager to see the production that had stirred such a commotion in the ranks of the guardians of fame; and Sneekape managed to get a copy for me, and translated it into Aleofanian; it must have suffered in the change; for it was difficult to see the superiority. It ran in rhythm and sentiment thus:
Ye are only the van
Of the army of man
That is marching over the sea.
Ye would seek to attain
The immortal fane
Of the glory that is to be.
No mightier god
Has ever trod
The crust of the quaking earth.