Till your enemy looms in the light of a brother,
And there’s peace—that strange peace that is lisped in the prayer
Of the sleepy-eyed brat at the knee of his mother.
[80]
]The old world chips in, in the guise of a friend,
As the solvent of hops humanises and mellows,
And the limits of brotherhood stretch and extend
Till the Devil himself seems the best of good fellows.
Then bring me a glass, or a tankard, or tank—
And the last, if permitted a voice in the choosing:
For, in all the crimes’ calendar, none is so rank