But who were they? By way of count, the eye
Had made them three—some treble pink, or clover there—
Tho’, sooth to say, I never saw the threefoil wear
The weird wild grace they conjured by.
But then, what can’t Illusion shadow forth,
That shames the needle, souths the north?
The First—in faith, all had a cunning trick
Of linking arms, a hang-together sort of look,
Which how to severalize and separate book
Comes hard, save unto whom, among Life’s pick
Of strange acquaintance, she makes free
Shall have close dealings with these Corporate Three.
This First—a lanky chap he was, of way-up size,
Clean-timbered, straight as pine-grain flows,
Or frank heart feels, yet now, for, certes, some heinous cause,
His way was curt, his speech came grim—some hanged surmise
His gaunt frame feels, which, as it shouldering brings
To view his level top, spoke curious things
While the Second, tho’ less staunch of thew,
Say, to the others beam as boards of clap,
Showed yet his ilk—a jaw alive as any trap;
Tho’ one, who backed his sense with feeling, too;
For the way he would warm up, take on, and lead,
When as some new light broke, was sight indeed.
And last, that sprawling Third—so meek, so mincing slim,
You’ld never ha’ dreamt how’s his gag was bound,
In the end, to clinch a subject, coil it round,
As he let out that twisting trick of him;
Which, till erring Man and Time debate no more,
Shall still leave points for Master Rope to score.
Well—here was Company, if all was square?
A doubt stood out, heard Heart say, “Brother Brain,
Good Sir, have you been chumming with the Wine again?”
When, “No,” flung back the Head, “I wasn’t there
This many a day; since when my kindling deities are
But a cup of Oolong and a mild cigar.”
Yet, drat the thing! ’Twould take no nay;
The stuff came fierce. Some blaze seemed on,
And, tho’ with no clear ground to go upon,
I thought I said, “Let come what may,
I’ll hear it out,” tho’ ’ts trick for strange now topped the score,
For by Grab and Stab! they spoke of War.
Yon feud that stains South Afric’s land,
The foul use to which a giant’s sword
Had long been put, ’gainst some young ward
Of freedom’s there. How the gallant tho’ forlorn band,
Compeers of Fame, made ring her page
With wonder of the strife they singly wage.
Nay, what took me most,—but then,
What good to ponder how these Councillors three
Came to speak so tactic-deep, so judgingly
’Bout how that bully’s brawl might not have been,
Had they, on strength of prospect, in their wholesome way,
From forth the tingling cheek of modern Day,
With timely hand, rebuking, wiped this burning shame,
Made knavery uncloak, ere treason flew
Her couriers flaunting of their liveried True,
And with craft of covert mired a goodly name;
No good to ponder this, now the vile flood has broke,
Yet fact, or no—it was the way these worthies spoke.