Dedicated to Reformers
There was a Man to wisdom dead
Who took a mad thought in his head—
‘A second Hercles I,’ he said.
‘Behold,’ he cried, ‘I will go forth
From east to west, from south to north,
And with this knotted bludgeon bash
The Things that Sting, and those that Gnash
Blood-dripping teeth, and Giants glum
So mighty that with finger and thumb
They pick and eat chance passengers.
And I will slay each thing that stirs
To grief of man and dole of beast,
Until the world from wrong released
Pronounce me Emperor at least.’
But as he spoke, upon the way
A casual Lion chanced to stray,
Just as on any other day;
And he, to measure of his thought
In ready deed inferior nought,
Sprang at him furious, and they fought.
Three hours they fought, until the sun
Ymounted in the vault begun
To make them wish that they had done.
‘Friend,’ quoth the Lion, ‘or why foe
Upon my word I do not know—
If we fight more we melt, I trow.’
‘A little grace,’ the Man replied,
Wiping his brow, ‘is not denied;
You’ll have but little when you’ve died.’
So each beneath a tree disposed
Took ease. The languid Lion dozed.
The Man, who should have done likewise
(So says the Saga that is wise),
Was waked each time he sued repose
By a great Fly upon his nose.
First in the one ear then in t’other
The winged monster buzz’d with bother;
The twitching tender nostrils tried,
The corners of the lips beside;
From lip to eyelid leapt with fuss,
Like old dame in an omnibus;
Delighted vastly to have met
So great a store of unctuous sweat.
At last to desperation driven
The Man accursed the Fly to Heaven,
And with his bludgeon great assay’d
To stay the small annoying raid.
Wielding to right and left he smote;
But still the nimble Fly, remote,
Laughed at his anger and enjoy’d
Fresh perspiration.
Thus annoy’d,
His bludgeon broken on the tree,
A helpless, weary wight was he.
The Lion rose, refresh’d, with glee;
‘I’m ready now,’ he said, ‘my man,
To end the work the Fly began.’
And this (the Chronicler explains)
Is why the Lion still remains.
[Orpheus and the Busy Ones]
Dedicated to the Public
Orpheus, the Stygian current cross’d,
When Hell stood still to hear him sing,
Torn from Eurydice twice lost
(Almost by music saved e’er lost)
Over the world went wandering.
One day, sate on a mountain slope,
Weary and sick for want of hope,
(Or rather, shall we term it, dead,
Since life is gone when hope is sped),
He twang’d his lyre; till song sublime
Out of the ashes of his prime
And fire of grief like Phoenix sprang;
And all the startled hillside rang.
Aroused, the dew-engrossed Flowers
Turn’d to him all their maiden eyes;
And from the sweet forgotten bowers
Flew forth a thousand Butterflies.
The Trees forgot their roots. Beneath,
The noisy Crickets of the heath
Rub’d each his forehead with amaze
To hear one sing such heavenly lays.
Under her stone the lumpy Toad
Peer’d forth; even the solid sod
Grew peopled with emerging Worms—
Such power hath Music on all forms.
Above, the pinched Pard amort
(She had three cublings in a den)
Forgot her hunger, and in short
Reposed herself to listen then,
Upon her furry paws her chin;
And from her vantage watch’d the Poet,
Delighted, but enraged to know it,
While all her spotted sleek of skin
Heaved with the pleasure she took in.
Not only this, but shall I say ’t,
The very Hills began debate
Whether, to hear the singing clearer,
They should not move a little nearer.