And queer’st of all,—by some strange spell
They becked me on, and, edging ’round,
As in some magic circle held me bound,
When, “now,” cried they, “it fits us tell,
’Less thou be one of those, too apt by far,
Who, shuffling, try to shape their star,
By tale, lined smug with pleasing sooth,
And, like world-wise husbands, till and farm
No lease that tinge with thought of harm—
We doubt you sore—than sweat at back of rugged Truth;
Who expound all fact by textman Strong,
Glibbed ne’er so smooth with fine-spun Wrong.”
“Yes, ’swounds! said they, it fits us tell,’—
When, as with sense of proper cue,
The Beam—the fellow of the sturdy thew—
Spoke singly out: like tongue of rousing bell
That on still deeps of vasty midnight falls,
To doom of raging flood, or fire calls,
Reverberate rang his ghostly strain:
“Had I been there, on Afric’s shore,
Where homes mid toil the hardy Boer;
Or, there where erst was laid the train
And cunning fuse, whose rowdy charge
Set War’s deep-mouthed hounds at large—
Been there—good now and well-a-day!
Proud Cecil’s hunger for more Earth,
To swell a tottering empire in the girth,
No thought for ’ts feet, those props of clay,
Should for its fill, or nearways bound,
Have had a six foot some of Christian ground.
Or, grant, this stories not, by far,
Quite twists, the way his craving came;
That a wider mark went roves with Fame:
E’en so—the fatuous head he gave his star
Balked still true rise, yon warier climb,
Which must match foot with patient Time.
But, take in both; let honor owe
Some voice to each; yet some base touch no merit downs,
Sinks born kings to range with clowns,
Wreaked here its curse thro’ human law,
And, deriving whence no issue sleep,
Would have had yon stern verdict keep.
Since, so had no lure that Mammon piles
Blazed wide to men, “I know ye all;
Lo, here my truck, lo, there your soul!
And, what devil doubts, but damned files
For lasting count, scores twice this creed:
“Fair ends must bear what foul means breed.”
So had ne’er cried out ’gainst fearsome spilth
No brave mens’ blood, no blasted home
Made sick the times, sensed fierce the stars, past where they dome
Shrilled wildly forth “this is the husbandry whose tilth,
When gathered full its ghastly sheaf,
Shall blight with shame each laureled leaf,
“That England wears, where ranker grow,”—
Well—this topped, I thought, all patient sense,
And it seemed I said “Now pray you whence
This dire bode? What glass be yours that it should show
What veils all view,”—here, while my lip still quivering hung,
Their wizard spell had tied my tongue;
As from out my Dream there rose once more,
This time that other’s grim, now boding voice
I thought so sleek, yet full of poise,
And, tho’ still you traced the snap it bore,
’T had now an eager, vast, nay, solemn sound,
As if chiming with the sky-paths ’round.