While doubly thence its legend reads:
“I tithe no blench to higher Wills,
But hold it cardinal ’mong creeds
’Tis love of self that all fulfills.”
Since, certes, good John, the wide Fates kiss:
Their sum-up Clerks need not be told
By one grim page to set this quizz—
“So little wise and yet so old.”
So heady still, spite curb of years,
Such toper there where hard heads brew
Against some Guest that sobering nears,
From draff o’ old the cleaner New.
From cross of Days some bear-up Creed—
To sum of Why the sweet Reply,
Than cyphered Fate of clearer breed,
And purge to text she teacheth by—
The “yea” to “nay” of self-sick man,
What crowns his raw and groan-fed Stars;
With olived light the vulture’s span
That gores as yet all warding bars;
Who, tho’ still she strew her trophied trail
O’er sanguine sore, but fading seas,
Marks lift, and girt with nobler mail,
As sturdy rise, white-bucklered Peace.
* * * * * * * *
But I have had my little say:—
The Muse is such a taunting lass;
She grips your hand, and will or nay,
’Tis bear her tongue ere brooked to pass—
In sooth, she says she’s really done:
O’erhead a prim and foolish Moon,
In trappings borrowed from the Sun,
Flaunts gay her frock and silver shoon.
E’en so will human Wit fling wide
Its took-on crest and glittering gear,
What are but glancings as they glide
From off the Truth’s all-spanning sphere.
So will the Muse stand hard at gaze
Beneath this mystic, myriad Arch,
Hear faint thro’ rush of whirling days
Time’s silent roundsmen file and march—
Their never ending, ordered beat,
Those footsteps yare that warning fall
And charge each hand to bide the meet,
Account his watch, or void the Roll.