You, the strong sons of anger and the sea,
What darkness on the wings of battle flew?
Then the great dead made answer: “Also we
With Nelson found oblivion: Nelson, who
When cheering out of port in spirit grew
To be one purpose with the wind and tide—
Our nameless hulks are sunk and rotted through:
The Devil didn’t like us and we died.”
Envoi
Prince, may I venture (since it’s only you)
To speak discreetly of The Crucified?
He was extremely unsuccessful too:
The Devil didn’t like Him, and He died.
BALLADE OF THE HERESIARCHS
I
John Calvin whose peculiar fad
It was to call God murderous,
Which further led that feverish cad
To burn alive the Servetus.
The horrible Bohemian Huss,
The tedious Wycliffe, where are they?
But where is old Nestorius?
The wind has blown them all away.
II
The Kohen out of Novdograd
Who argued from the Roman Jus
“Privata fasta nihil ad
Rem nisi sint de sacribus.”
And Hume, who made a dreadful fuss
About the Resurrection Day
And said it was ridiculous—
The wind has blown them all away.
III
Of Smith the gallant Mormon lad
That took of wives an over-plus:
Johanna Southcott who was mad
And nasty Nietzsche, who was worse.
Of Tolstoy, the Eccentric Russ,
Our strong Posterity shall say:
“Lord Jesus! What are these to us?
The wind has blown them all away!”