“But love of man was all we meant;
Till, less in doubt each lode-star gaze,
At Heaven’s clear, tho’ mute intent,
By as we head, to hold her pace.
“And this fellow, certes, has sore behoof
To take a word from wiser mouths,
Who has stretched his crib and smoky roof
Whence North-from, down, the zone-line souths;
“Almost a split—a crying jag;
A scare at top, a threat, below;
An ugly tuck that scrimps the bag
We meant to fill as harvests grow.
“In our big sail a plaguy reef,
Were it not that craft o’ his pert make
With too much head have come to grief,
Strew bottom up our rushing wake.
“Against the owl what counts the mouse?
But no. That strains a bit the proper zest:
He shall have due of grounds and house,
We’ll dish for him as for the rest.
“’Twill daze him, sure, our big provide,
Till, on a breath, he vent his stare:
‘Such doors as these had best be tried,
Ere back to thatch and homely fare.’
“And say he sulks, we’ll coax him in:
What does he care who carves the meat?
So fill of fodder strew the bin,
Who rules the loft, or heads the treat?
“He will never quibble on a word,
Give simple ‘rob’ a double sense;
But loyal strain shall well accord
With leave of thrift and competence.
“And ’tis trite as dirt, where’er we go,
The sleek slut, Trade, trots close at heel,
’Gainst whose hard sense how fares the saw,
The musty fib—‘Thou shalt not steal!’
“Yes—we’ll be his staff and hedge him fine,
Till lust of Have like gospel read,
And his backbone in the general spine
Does merge its hump and dogged breed.