Chapter 120

"How, indeed?" he asked,"When all to see, after some twenty years,Were your own fool-face waiting for the sight,Faced by as wide a grin from ear to earO' the knaves who, while the fools were waiting, worked—Broke yet another generation's heart—Twenty years' respite helping! Teach your nurse'Compliance with, before you suck, the teat!'Find what that means, and meanwhile hold your tongue!"Whereof the war came which he knew must be.Now, this had proved the dry-rot of the raceHe ruled o'er, that, i' the old day, when was needThey fought for their own liberty and life,Well did they fight, none better: whence, such loveOf fighting somehow still for fighting's sakeAgainst no matter whose the libertyAnd life, so long as self-conceit should crowAnd clap the wing, while justice sheathed her claw,—That what had been the glory of the worldWhen thereby came the world's good, grew its plagueNow that the champion-armor, donned to dareThe dragon once, was clattered up and downHighway and by-path of the world, at peace,Merely to mask marauding, or for sakeO' the shine and rattle that apprised the fieldsHohenstiel-Schwangau was a fighter yet,And would be, till the weary world suppressedHer peccant humors out of fashion now.Accordingly the world spoke plain at last,Promised to punish who next played with fire.So, at his advent, such discomfitureTaking its true shape of beneficence,Hohenstiel-Schwangau, half-sad and part-wise,Sat: if with wistful eye reverting oftTo each pet weapon, rusty on its peg,Yet, with a sigh of satisfaction tooThat, peacefulness become the law, herselfGot the due share of godsends in its train,Cried shame and took advantage quietly.Still, so the dry-rot had been nursed intoBlood, bones and marrow, that, from worst to best,All,—clearest brains and soundest hearts save here,—All had this lie acceptable for lawPlain as the sun at noonday—"War is best,Peace is worst; peace we only tolerateAs needful preparation for new war:War may be for whatever end we will—Peace only as the proper help thereto.Such is the law of right and wrong for usHohenstiel-Schwangau: for the other world,As naturally, quite another law.Are we content? The world is satisfied.Discontent? Then the world must give us leaveTo strike right, left, and exercise our armTorpid of late through overmuch repose,And show its strength is still superlativeAt somebody's expense in life or limb:Which done,—let peace succeed and last a year!"Such devil's-doctrine so was judged God's law,We say, when this man stepped upon the stage,That it had seemed a venial fault at mostHad he once more obeyed Sagacity."You come i' the happy interval of peace,The favorable weariness from war:Prolong it! artfully, as if intentOn ending peace as soon as possible.Quietly so increase the sweets of easeAnd safety, so employ the multitude,Put hod and trowel so in idle hands,So stuff and stop up wagging jaws with bread,That selfishness shall surreptitiouslyDo wisdom's office, whisper in the earOf Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there 's a pleasant feelIn being gently forced down, pinioned fastTo the easy arm-chair by the pleading armsO' the world beseeching her to there abideContent with all the harm done hitherto,And let herself be petted in return,Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse,The old unjust wars, nay—in verse and proseAnd speech,—to vaunt new victories, shall proveA plague o' the future,—so that words sufficeFor present comfort, and no deeds denoteThat—tired of illimitable line on lineOf boulevard-building, tired o' the theatreWith the tuneful thousand in their thrones above,For glory of the male intelligence,And Nakedness in her due niche below,For illustration of the female use—That she, 'twixt yawn and sigh, prepares to slipOut of the arm-chair, wants fresh blood againFrom over the boundary, to color-upThe sheeny sameness, keep the world awareHohenstiel-Schwangau's arm needs exerciseDespite the petting of the universe!Come, you 're a city-builder: what 's the wayWisdom takes when time needs that she enticeSome fierce tribe, castled on the mountain-peak,Into the quiet and amenityO' the meadow-land below? By crying 'DoneWith fight now, down with fortress'? Rather—'DareOn, dare ever, not a stone displaced!'Cries Wisdom: 'Cradle of our ancestors,Be bulwark, give our children safety still!Who of our children please may stoop and tasteO' the valley-fatness, unafraid,—for why?At first alarm they have thy mother-ribsTo run upon for refuge; foes forgetScarcely that Terror on her vantage-coign,Couchant supreme among the powers of air,Watches—prepared to pounce—the country wide!Meanwhile the encouraged valley holds its own,From the first hut's adventure in descent,Half home, half hiding-place,—to dome and spireBefitting the assured metropolis:Nor means offence to the fort which caps the crag,All undismantled of a turret-stone,And bears the banner-pole that creaks at timesEmbarrassed by the old emblazonment,When festal days are to commemorate:Otherwise left untenanted, no doubt,Since, never fear, our myriads from belowWould rush, if needs were, man the walls again,Renew the exploits of the earlier timeAt moment's notice! But till notice sound,Inhabit we in ease and opulence!'And so, till one day thus a notice sounds,Not trumpeted, but in a whisper-gustFitfully playing through mute city streetsAt midnight weary of day's feast and game—'Friends, your famed fort 's a ruin past repair!Its use is—to proclaim it had a useObsolete long since. Climb and study thereHow to paint barbican and battlementI' the scenes of our new theatre! We fightNow—by forbidding neighbors to sell steelOr buy wine, not by blowing out their brains!Moreover, while we let time sap the strengthO' the walls omnipotent in menace once,Neighbors would seem to have prepared surprise—Run up defences in a mushroom-growth,For all the world like what we boasted: brief—Hohenstiel-Schwangau's policy is peace!'"Ay, so Sagacity advised him filchFolly from fools; handsomely substituteThe dagger o' lath, while gay they sang and danced,For that long dangerous sword they liked to feel,Even at feast-time, clink and make friends start.No! he said: "Hear the truth, and bear the truth,And bring the truth to bear on all you areAnd do, assured that only good comes thenceWhate'er the shape good take! While I have rule,Understand!—war for war's sake, war for sakeO' the good war gets you as war's sole excuse,Is damnable and damned shall be. You wantGlory? Why so do I, and so does God.Where is it found,—in this paraded shame,—One particle of glory? Once you warredFor liberty against the world, and won:There was the glory. Now, you fain would warBecause the neighbor prospers overmuch,—Because there has been silence half-an-hour,Like Heaven on earth, without a cannon-shotAnnouncing Hohenstielers-SchwangaueseAre minded to disturb the jubilee,—Because the loud tradition echoes faint,And who knows but posterity may doubtIf the great deeds were ever done at all,Much less believe, were such to do again,So the event would follow: therefore, proveThe old power, at the expense of somebody!Oh, Glory,—gilded bubble, bard and sageSo nickname rightly,—would thy dance endureOne moment, would thy vaunting make believeOnly one eye thy ball was solid gold,Hadst thou less breath to buoy thy vacancyThan a whole multitude expends in praise,Less range for roaming than from head to headOf a whole people? Flit, fall, fly again,Only, fix never where the resolute handMay prick thee, prove the glassy lie thou art!Give me real intellect to reason with,No multitude, no entity that apesOne wise man, being but a million fools!How and whence wishest glory, thou wise one?Wouldst get it,—didst thyself guide Providence,—By stinting of his due each neighbor roundIn strength and knowledge and dexteritySo as to have thy littleness grow largeBy all those somethings once, turned nothings now,As children make a molehill mountainousBy scooping out a trench around their pile,And saving so the mudwork from approach?Quite otherwise the cheery game of life,True yet mimetic warfare, whereby manDoes his best with his utmost, and so endsThe victor most of all in fair defeat.Who thinks,—would he have no one think beside?Who knows, who does,—save his must learning dieAnd action cease? Why, so our giant provesNo better than a dwarf, once rivalryProstrate around him. Let the whole race standFor him to try conclusions fairly with!Show me the great man would engage his peerRather by grinning 'Cheat, thy gold is brass!'Than granting 'Perfect piece of purest ore!Still, is it less good mintage, this of mine?'Well, and these right and sound results of soulI' the strong and healthy one wise man,—shall suchBe vainly sought for, scornfully renouncedI' the multitude that make the entity—The people?—to what purpose, if no less,In power and purity of soul, belowThe reach of the unit than, by multipliedMight of the body, vulgarized the more,Above, in thick and threefold brutishness?See! you accept such one wise man, myself:Wiser or less wise, still I operateFrom my own stock of wisdom, nor exactOf other sort of natures you admire,That whoso rhymes a sonnet pays a tax,Who paints a landscape dips brush at his cost,Who scores a septett true for strings and windMulcted must be—else how should I imposeProperly, attitudinize aright,Did such conflicting claims as these divertHohenstiel-Schwangau from observing me?Therefore, what I find facile, you be sure,With effort or without it, you shall dare—You, I aspire to make my better selfAnd truly the Great Nation. No more warFor war's sake, then! and,—seeing, wickednessSprings out of folly,—no more foolish dreadO' the neighbor waxing too inordinateA rival, through his gain of wealth and ease!What?—keep me patient, Powers!—the people here,Earth presses to her heart, nor owns a prideAbove her pride i' the race all flame and airAnd aspiration to the boundless Great,The incommensurably Beautiful—Whose very falterings groundward come of flightUrged by a pinion all too passionateFor heaven and what it holds of gloom and glow:Bravest of thinkers, bravest of the braveDoers, exalt in Science, rapturousIn Art, the—more than all—magnetic raceTo fascinate their fellows, mould mankindHohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion,—these, what?—theseWill have to abdicate their primacyShould such a nation sell them steel untaxed,And such another take itself, on hireFor the natural sennight, somebody for lordUnpatronized by me whose back was turned?Or such another yet would fain build bridge,Lay rail, drive tunnel, busy its poor selfWith its appropriate fancy: so there 's—flash—Hohenstiel-Schwangau up in arms at once!Genius has somewhat of the infantine:But of the childish, not a touch nor taintExcept through self-will, which, being foolishness,Is certain, soon or late, of punishment.Which Providence avert!—and that it mayAvert what both of us would so deserve,No foolish dread o' the neighbor, I enjoin!By consequence, no wicked war with him,While I rule!"Does that mean—no war at allWhen just the wickedness I here proscribeComes, haply, from the neighbor? Does my speechPrecede the praying that you beat the swordTo ploughshare, and the spear to pruning-hook,And sit down henceforth under your own vineAnd fig-tree through the sleepy summer month,Letting what hurly-burly please explodeOn the other side the mountain-frontier? No,Beloved! I foresee and I announceNecessity of warfare in one case,For one cause: one way, I bid broach the bloodO' the world. For truth and right, and only rightAnd truth,—right, truth, on the absolute scale of God,No pettiness of man's admeasurement,—In such case only, and for such one cause,Fight your hearts out, whatever fate betideHands energetic to the uttermost!Lie not! Endure no lie which needs your heartAnd hand to push it out of mankind's path—No lie that lets the natural forces workToo long ere lay it plain and pulverized—Seeing man's life lasts only twenty years!And such a lie, before both man and God,Proving, at this time present, Austria's ruleO'er Italy,—for Austria's sake the first,Italy's next, and our sake last of all,Come with me and deliver Italy!Smite hip and thigh until the oppressor leaveFree from the Adriatic to the AlpsThe oppressed one! We were they who laid her lowIn the old bad day when Villany braved TruthAnd Right, and laughed 'Henceforward, God deposed,Satan we set to rule forevermoreI' the world!'—whereof to stop the consequence,And for atonement of false glory thereGaped at and gabbled over by the world,I purpose to get God enthroned againFor what the world will gird at as sheer shameI' the cost of blood and treasure, 'All for naught—Not even, say, some patch of province, spliceO' the frontier?—some snug honorarium-feeShut into glove and pocketed apace?'(Questions Sagacity) 'in deferenceTo the natural susceptibilityOf folks at home, unwitting of that pitchYou soar to, and misdoubting if Truth, RightAnd the other such augustnesses repayExpenditure in coin o' the realm,—but promptTo recognize the cession of SavoyAnd Nice as marketable value!' No,Sagacity, go preach to Metternich,And, sermon ended, stay where he resides!Hohenstiel-Schwangau, you and I must marchThe other road! war for the hate of war,Not love, this once!" So Italy was free.What else noteworthy and commendableI' the man's career?—that he was resolute—No trepidation, much less treacheryOn his part, should imperil from its poiseThe ball o' the world, heaved up at such expenseOf pains so far, and ready to rebound,Let but a finger maladroitly fall,Under pretence of making fast and sureThe inch gained by late volubility,And run itself back to the ancient restAt foot o' the mountain. Thus he ruled, gave proofThe world had gained a point, progressive so,By choice, this time, as will and power concurred,O' the fittest man to rule; not chance of birth,Or such-like dice-throw. Oft SagacityWas at his ear: "Confirm this clear advance,Support this wise procedure! You, electO' the people, mean to justify their choiceAnd out-king all the kingly imbeciles;But that 's just half the enterprise: remainsYou find them a successor like yourself,In head and heart and eye and hand and aim,Or all done 's undone; and whom hope to mouldSo like you as the pupil Nature sends,The son and heir's completeness which you lack?Lack it no longer! Wed the pick o' the world,Where'er you think you find it. Should she beA queen,—tell Hohenstielers-Schwangauese,'So do the old enthroned decrepitudesAcknowledge, in the rotten hearts of them,Their knell is knolled, they hasten to make peaceWith the new order, recognize in meYour right to constitute what king you will,Cringe therefore crown in hand and bride on arm,To both of us: we triumph, I suppose!'Is it the other sort of rank?—bright eye,Soft smile, and so forth, all her queenly boast?Undaunted the exordium—'I, the manO' the people, with the people mate myself:So stand, so fall. Kings, keep your crowns and brides!Our progeny (if Providence agree)Shall live to tread the baubles underfootAnd bid the scarecrows consort with their kin.For son, as for his sire, be the free wifeIn the free state!'"That is, SagacityWould prop up one more lie, the most of allPernicious fancy that the son and heirReceives the genius from the sire, himselfTransmits as surely,—ask experience else!Which answers,—never was so plain a truthAs that God drops his seed of heavenly flameJust where he wills on earth: sometimes where manSeems to tempt—such the accumulated storeOf faculties—one spark to fire the heap;Sometimes where, fireball-like, it falls uponThe naked unpreparèdness of rock,Burns, beaconing the nations through their night.Faculties, fuel for the flame? All helpsCome, ought to come, or come not, crossed by chance,From culture and transmission. What 's your wantI' the son and heir? Sympathy, aptitude,Teachableness, the fuel for the flame?You 'll have them for your pains: but the flame's self,The novel thought of God shall light the world?No, poet, though your offspring rhyme and chimeI' the cradle,—painter, no, for all your petDraws his first eye, beats Salvatore's boy,—Andthrice no, statesman, should your progenyTie bib and tucker with no tape but red,And make a foolscap-kite of protocols!Critic and copyist and bureaucratTo heart's content! The seed o' the apple-treeBrings forth another tree which bears a crab:'T is the great gardener grafts the excellenceOn wildings where he will."How plain I view,Across those misty years 'twixt me and Rome"—(Such the man's answer to Sagacity)"The little wayside temple, halfway downTo a mild river that makes oxen whiteMiraculously, un-mouse-colors skin,Or so the Roman country people dream!I view that sweet small shrub-embedded shrineOn the declivity, was sacred onceTo a transmuting Genius of the land,Could touch and turn its dunnest natures bright,—Since Italy means the Land of the Ox, we know.Well, how was it the due succession fellFrom priest to priest who ministered i' the coolCalm fane o' the Clitumnian god? The sireBrought forth a son and sacerdotal sprout,Endowed instinctively with good and graceTo suit the gliding gentleness below—Did he? Tradition tells another tale.Each priest obtained his predecessor's staff,Robe, fillet and insignia, blamelessly,By springing out of ambush, soon or late,And slaying him: the initiative riteSimply was murder, save that murder took,I' the case, another and religious name.So it was once, is now, shall ever beWith genius and its priesthood in this world:The new power slays the old—but handsomely.There he lies, not diminished by an inchOf stature that he graced the altar with,Though somebody of other bulk and buildCries, 'What a goodly personage lies hereReddening the water where the bulrush roots!May I conduct the service in his place,Decently and in order, as did he,And, as he did not, keep a wary watchWhen meditating 'neath yon willow shade!'Find out your best man, sure the son of himWill prove best man again, and, better stillSomehow than best, the grandson-prodigy!You think the world would last another dayDid we so make us masters of the trickWhereby the works go, we could pre-arrangeTheir play and reach perfection when we please?Depend on it, the change and the surpriseAre part o' the plan: 't is we wish steadiness;Nature prefers a motion by unrest,Advancement through this force which jostles that.And so, since much remains i' the world to see,Here 's the world still, affording God the sight."Thus did the man refute Sagacity,Ever at this old whisper in his ear:"Here are you picked out, by a miracle,And placed conspicuously enough, folks sayAnd you believe, by Providence outrightTaking a new way—nor without success—To put the world upon its mettle: good!But Fortune alternates with Providence;Resource is soon exhausted. Never countOn such a happy hit occurring twice!Try the old method next time!""Old enough,"(At whisper in his ear, the laugh outbroke,)"And mode the most discredited of all,By just the men and women who make boastThey are kings and queens thereby! Mere self-defenceShould teach them, on one chapter of the lawMust be no sort of trifling—chastity:They stand or fall, as their progenitorsWere chaste or unchaste. Now, run eye aroundMy crowned acquaintance, give each life its lookAnd no more,—why, you 'd think each life was ledPurposely for example of what painsWho leads it took to cure the prejudice,And prove there 's nothing so unprovableAs who is who, what son of what a sire,And—inferentially—how faint the chanceThat the next generation needs to fearAnother fool o' the selfsame type as heHappily regnant now by right divineAnd luck o' the pillow! No: select your lordBy the direct employment of your brainsAs best you may,—bad as the blunder prove,A far worse evil stank beneath the sunWhen some legitimate blockhead managed soMatters that high time was to interfere,Though interference came from hell itselfAnd not the blind mad miserable mobHappily ruled so long by pillow-luckAnd divine right,—by lies in short, not truth.And meanwhile use the allotted minute ..."One,—Two, three, four, five—yes, five the pendule warns!Eh? Why, this wild work wanders past all boundAnd bearing! Exile, Leicester Square, the lifeI' the old gay miserable time, rehearsed,Tried on again like cast clothes, still to serveAt a pinch, perhaps? "Who 's who?" was aptly asked,Since certainly I am not I! since when?Where is the bud-mouthed arbitress? A nodOut-Homering Homer! Stay—there flits the clueI fain would find the end of! Yes,—"Meanwhile,Use the allotted minute!" Well, you see,(Veracious and imaginary Thiers,Who map out thus the life I might have led,But did not,—all the worse for earth and me,—Doff spectacles, wipe pen, shut book, decamp!)You see 't is easy in heroics! PlainPedestrian speech shall help me perorate.Ah, if one had no need to use the tongue!How obvious and how easy 't is to talkInside the soul, a ghostly dialogue—Instincts with guesses,—instinct, guess, againWith dubious knowledge, half-experience: eachAnd all the interlocutors alikeSubordinating,—as decorum bids,Oh, never fear! but still decisively,—Claims from without that take too high a tone,—("God wills this, man wants that, the dignityPrescribed a prince would wish the other thing")—Putting them back to insignificanceBeside one intimatest fact—myselfAm first to be considered, since I liveTwenty years longer and then end, perhaps!But, where one ceases to soliloquize,Somehow the motives, that did well enoughI' the darkness, when you bring them into lightAre found, like those famed cave-fish, to lack eyeAnd organ for the upper magnitudes.The other common creatures, of less fineExistence, that acknowledge earth and heaven,Have it their own way in the argument.Yes, forced to speak, one stoops to say—one's aimWas—what it peradventure should have been:To renovate a people, mend or endThat bane come of a blessing meant the world—Inordinate culture of the sense made quickBy soul,—the lust o' the flesh, lust of the eye,And pride of life,—and, consequent on these,The worship of that prince o' the power o' the airWho paints the cloud and fills the emptinessAnd bids his votaries, famishing for truth,Feed on a lie.Alack, one lies one's selfEven in the stating that one's end was truth,Truth only, if one states as much in words!Give me the inner chamber of the soulFor obvious easy argument! 't is thereOne pits the silent truth against a lie—Truth which breaks shell a careless simple bird,Nor wants a gorget nor a beak filed fine,Steel spurs and the whole armory o' the tongue,To equalize the odds. But, do your best,Words have to come: and somehow words deflectAs the best cannon ever rifled will."Deflect" indeed! nor merely words from thoughtsBut names from facts: "Clitumnus" did I say?As if it had been his ox-whitening waveWhereby folk practised that grim cult of old—The murder of their temple's priest by whoWould qualify for his succession. Sure—Nemi was the true lake's style. Dream had needOf the ox-whitening peace of prettinessAnd so confused names, well known once awake.So, i' the Residenz yet, not Leicester Square,Alone,—no such congenial intercourse!—My reverie concludes, as dreaming should,With daybreak: nothing done and over yet,Except cigars! The adventure thus may be,Or never needs to be at all: who knows?My Cousin-Duke, perhaps, at whose hard head—Is it, now—is this letter to be launched,The sight of whose gray oblong, whose grim seal,Set all these fancies floating for an hour?Twenty years are good gain, come what come will!Double or quits! The letter goes! Or stays?

"How, indeed?" he asked,

"When all to see, after some twenty years,

Were your own fool-face waiting for the sight,

Faced by as wide a grin from ear to ear

O' the knaves who, while the fools were waiting, worked—

Broke yet another generation's heart—

Twenty years' respite helping! Teach your nurse

'Compliance with, before you suck, the teat!'

Find what that means, and meanwhile hold your tongue!"

Whereof the war came which he knew must be.

Now, this had proved the dry-rot of the raceHe ruled o'er, that, i' the old day, when was needThey fought for their own liberty and life,Well did they fight, none better: whence, such loveOf fighting somehow still for fighting's sakeAgainst no matter whose the libertyAnd life, so long as self-conceit should crowAnd clap the wing, while justice sheathed her claw,—That what had been the glory of the worldWhen thereby came the world's good, grew its plagueNow that the champion-armor, donned to dareThe dragon once, was clattered up and downHighway and by-path of the world, at peace,Merely to mask marauding, or for sakeO' the shine and rattle that apprised the fieldsHohenstiel-Schwangau was a fighter yet,And would be, till the weary world suppressedHer peccant humors out of fashion now.Accordingly the world spoke plain at last,Promised to punish who next played with fire.

Now, this had proved the dry-rot of the race

He ruled o'er, that, i' the old day, when was need

They fought for their own liberty and life,

Well did they fight, none better: whence, such love

Of fighting somehow still for fighting's sake

Against no matter whose the liberty

And life, so long as self-conceit should crow

And clap the wing, while justice sheathed her claw,—

That what had been the glory of the world

When thereby came the world's good, grew its plague

Now that the champion-armor, donned to dare

The dragon once, was clattered up and down

Highway and by-path of the world, at peace,

Merely to mask marauding, or for sake

O' the shine and rattle that apprised the fields

Hohenstiel-Schwangau was a fighter yet,

And would be, till the weary world suppressed

Her peccant humors out of fashion now.

Accordingly the world spoke plain at last,

Promised to punish who next played with fire.

So, at his advent, such discomfitureTaking its true shape of beneficence,Hohenstiel-Schwangau, half-sad and part-wise,Sat: if with wistful eye reverting oftTo each pet weapon, rusty on its peg,Yet, with a sigh of satisfaction tooThat, peacefulness become the law, herselfGot the due share of godsends in its train,Cried shame and took advantage quietly.Still, so the dry-rot had been nursed intoBlood, bones and marrow, that, from worst to best,All,—clearest brains and soundest hearts save here,—All had this lie acceptable for lawPlain as the sun at noonday—"War is best,Peace is worst; peace we only tolerateAs needful preparation for new war:War may be for whatever end we will—Peace only as the proper help thereto.Such is the law of right and wrong for usHohenstiel-Schwangau: for the other world,As naturally, quite another law.Are we content? The world is satisfied.Discontent? Then the world must give us leaveTo strike right, left, and exercise our armTorpid of late through overmuch repose,And show its strength is still superlativeAt somebody's expense in life or limb:Which done,—let peace succeed and last a year!"Such devil's-doctrine so was judged God's law,We say, when this man stepped upon the stage,That it had seemed a venial fault at mostHad he once more obeyed Sagacity."You come i' the happy interval of peace,The favorable weariness from war:Prolong it! artfully, as if intentOn ending peace as soon as possible.Quietly so increase the sweets of easeAnd safety, so employ the multitude,Put hod and trowel so in idle hands,So stuff and stop up wagging jaws with bread,That selfishness shall surreptitiouslyDo wisdom's office, whisper in the earOf Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there 's a pleasant feelIn being gently forced down, pinioned fastTo the easy arm-chair by the pleading armsO' the world beseeching her to there abideContent with all the harm done hitherto,And let herself be petted in return,Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse,The old unjust wars, nay—in verse and proseAnd speech,—to vaunt new victories, shall proveA plague o' the future,—so that words sufficeFor present comfort, and no deeds denoteThat—tired of illimitable line on lineOf boulevard-building, tired o' the theatreWith the tuneful thousand in their thrones above,For glory of the male intelligence,And Nakedness in her due niche below,For illustration of the female use—That she, 'twixt yawn and sigh, prepares to slipOut of the arm-chair, wants fresh blood againFrom over the boundary, to color-upThe sheeny sameness, keep the world awareHohenstiel-Schwangau's arm needs exerciseDespite the petting of the universe!Come, you 're a city-builder: what 's the wayWisdom takes when time needs that she enticeSome fierce tribe, castled on the mountain-peak,Into the quiet and amenityO' the meadow-land below? By crying 'DoneWith fight now, down with fortress'? Rather—'DareOn, dare ever, not a stone displaced!'Cries Wisdom: 'Cradle of our ancestors,Be bulwark, give our children safety still!Who of our children please may stoop and tasteO' the valley-fatness, unafraid,—for why?At first alarm they have thy mother-ribsTo run upon for refuge; foes forgetScarcely that Terror on her vantage-coign,Couchant supreme among the powers of air,Watches—prepared to pounce—the country wide!Meanwhile the encouraged valley holds its own,From the first hut's adventure in descent,Half home, half hiding-place,—to dome and spireBefitting the assured metropolis:Nor means offence to the fort which caps the crag,All undismantled of a turret-stone,And bears the banner-pole that creaks at timesEmbarrassed by the old emblazonment,When festal days are to commemorate:Otherwise left untenanted, no doubt,Since, never fear, our myriads from belowWould rush, if needs were, man the walls again,Renew the exploits of the earlier timeAt moment's notice! But till notice sound,Inhabit we in ease and opulence!'And so, till one day thus a notice sounds,Not trumpeted, but in a whisper-gustFitfully playing through mute city streetsAt midnight weary of day's feast and game—'Friends, your famed fort 's a ruin past repair!Its use is—to proclaim it had a useObsolete long since. Climb and study thereHow to paint barbican and battlementI' the scenes of our new theatre! We fightNow—by forbidding neighbors to sell steelOr buy wine, not by blowing out their brains!Moreover, while we let time sap the strengthO' the walls omnipotent in menace once,Neighbors would seem to have prepared surprise—Run up defences in a mushroom-growth,For all the world like what we boasted: brief—Hohenstiel-Schwangau's policy is peace!'"

So, at his advent, such discomfiture

Taking its true shape of beneficence,

Hohenstiel-Schwangau, half-sad and part-wise,

Sat: if with wistful eye reverting oft

To each pet weapon, rusty on its peg,

Yet, with a sigh of satisfaction too

That, peacefulness become the law, herself

Got the due share of godsends in its train,

Cried shame and took advantage quietly.

Still, so the dry-rot had been nursed into

Blood, bones and marrow, that, from worst to best,

All,—clearest brains and soundest hearts save here,—

All had this lie acceptable for law

Plain as the sun at noonday—"War is best,

Peace is worst; peace we only tolerate

As needful preparation for new war:

War may be for whatever end we will—

Peace only as the proper help thereto.

Such is the law of right and wrong for us

Hohenstiel-Schwangau: for the other world,

As naturally, quite another law.

Are we content? The world is satisfied.

Discontent? Then the world must give us leave

To strike right, left, and exercise our arm

Torpid of late through overmuch repose,

And show its strength is still superlative

At somebody's expense in life or limb:

Which done,—let peace succeed and last a year!"

Such devil's-doctrine so was judged God's law,

We say, when this man stepped upon the stage,

That it had seemed a venial fault at most

Had he once more obeyed Sagacity.

"You come i' the happy interval of peace,

The favorable weariness from war:

Prolong it! artfully, as if intent

On ending peace as soon as possible.

Quietly so increase the sweets of ease

And safety, so employ the multitude,

Put hod and trowel so in idle hands,

So stuff and stop up wagging jaws with bread,

That selfishness shall surreptitiously

Do wisdom's office, whisper in the ear

Of Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there 's a pleasant feel

In being gently forced down, pinioned fast

To the easy arm-chair by the pleading arms

O' the world beseeching her to there abide

Content with all the harm done hitherto,

And let herself be petted in return,

Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse,

The old unjust wars, nay—in verse and prose

And speech,—to vaunt new victories, shall prove

A plague o' the future,—so that words suffice

For present comfort, and no deeds denote

That—tired of illimitable line on line

Of boulevard-building, tired o' the theatre

With the tuneful thousand in their thrones above,

For glory of the male intelligence,

And Nakedness in her due niche below,

For illustration of the female use—

That she, 'twixt yawn and sigh, prepares to slip

Out of the arm-chair, wants fresh blood again

From over the boundary, to color-up

The sheeny sameness, keep the world aware

Hohenstiel-Schwangau's arm needs exercise

Despite the petting of the universe!

Come, you 're a city-builder: what 's the way

Wisdom takes when time needs that she entice

Some fierce tribe, castled on the mountain-peak,

Into the quiet and amenity

O' the meadow-land below? By crying 'Done

With fight now, down with fortress'? Rather—'Dare

On, dare ever, not a stone displaced!'

Cries Wisdom: 'Cradle of our ancestors,

Be bulwark, give our children safety still!

Who of our children please may stoop and taste

O' the valley-fatness, unafraid,—for why?

At first alarm they have thy mother-ribs

To run upon for refuge; foes forget

Scarcely that Terror on her vantage-coign,

Couchant supreme among the powers of air,

Watches—prepared to pounce—the country wide!

Meanwhile the encouraged valley holds its own,

From the first hut's adventure in descent,

Half home, half hiding-place,—to dome and spire

Befitting the assured metropolis:

Nor means offence to the fort which caps the crag,

All undismantled of a turret-stone,

And bears the banner-pole that creaks at times

Embarrassed by the old emblazonment,

When festal days are to commemorate:

Otherwise left untenanted, no doubt,

Since, never fear, our myriads from below

Would rush, if needs were, man the walls again,

Renew the exploits of the earlier time

At moment's notice! But till notice sound,

Inhabit we in ease and opulence!'

And so, till one day thus a notice sounds,

Not trumpeted, but in a whisper-gust

Fitfully playing through mute city streets

At midnight weary of day's feast and game—

'Friends, your famed fort 's a ruin past repair!

Its use is—to proclaim it had a use

Obsolete long since. Climb and study there

How to paint barbican and battlement

I' the scenes of our new theatre! We fight

Now—by forbidding neighbors to sell steel

Or buy wine, not by blowing out their brains!

Moreover, while we let time sap the strength

O' the walls omnipotent in menace once,

Neighbors would seem to have prepared surprise—

Run up defences in a mushroom-growth,

For all the world like what we boasted: brief—

Hohenstiel-Schwangau's policy is peace!'"

Ay, so Sagacity advised him filchFolly from fools; handsomely substituteThe dagger o' lath, while gay they sang and danced,For that long dangerous sword they liked to feel,Even at feast-time, clink and make friends start.No! he said: "Hear the truth, and bear the truth,And bring the truth to bear on all you areAnd do, assured that only good comes thenceWhate'er the shape good take! While I have rule,Understand!—war for war's sake, war for sakeO' the good war gets you as war's sole excuse,Is damnable and damned shall be. You wantGlory? Why so do I, and so does God.Where is it found,—in this paraded shame,—One particle of glory? Once you warredFor liberty against the world, and won:There was the glory. Now, you fain would warBecause the neighbor prospers overmuch,—Because there has been silence half-an-hour,Like Heaven on earth, without a cannon-shotAnnouncing Hohenstielers-SchwangaueseAre minded to disturb the jubilee,—Because the loud tradition echoes faint,And who knows but posterity may doubtIf the great deeds were ever done at all,Much less believe, were such to do again,So the event would follow: therefore, proveThe old power, at the expense of somebody!Oh, Glory,—gilded bubble, bard and sageSo nickname rightly,—would thy dance endureOne moment, would thy vaunting make believeOnly one eye thy ball was solid gold,Hadst thou less breath to buoy thy vacancyThan a whole multitude expends in praise,Less range for roaming than from head to headOf a whole people? Flit, fall, fly again,Only, fix never where the resolute handMay prick thee, prove the glassy lie thou art!Give me real intellect to reason with,No multitude, no entity that apesOne wise man, being but a million fools!How and whence wishest glory, thou wise one?Wouldst get it,—didst thyself guide Providence,—By stinting of his due each neighbor roundIn strength and knowledge and dexteritySo as to have thy littleness grow largeBy all those somethings once, turned nothings now,As children make a molehill mountainousBy scooping out a trench around their pile,And saving so the mudwork from approach?Quite otherwise the cheery game of life,True yet mimetic warfare, whereby manDoes his best with his utmost, and so endsThe victor most of all in fair defeat.Who thinks,—would he have no one think beside?Who knows, who does,—save his must learning dieAnd action cease? Why, so our giant provesNo better than a dwarf, once rivalryProstrate around him. Let the whole race standFor him to try conclusions fairly with!Show me the great man would engage his peerRather by grinning 'Cheat, thy gold is brass!'Than granting 'Perfect piece of purest ore!Still, is it less good mintage, this of mine?'Well, and these right and sound results of soulI' the strong and healthy one wise man,—shall suchBe vainly sought for, scornfully renouncedI' the multitude that make the entity—The people?—to what purpose, if no less,In power and purity of soul, belowThe reach of the unit than, by multipliedMight of the body, vulgarized the more,Above, in thick and threefold brutishness?See! you accept such one wise man, myself:Wiser or less wise, still I operateFrom my own stock of wisdom, nor exactOf other sort of natures you admire,That whoso rhymes a sonnet pays a tax,Who paints a landscape dips brush at his cost,Who scores a septett true for strings and windMulcted must be—else how should I imposeProperly, attitudinize aright,Did such conflicting claims as these divertHohenstiel-Schwangau from observing me?Therefore, what I find facile, you be sure,With effort or without it, you shall dare—You, I aspire to make my better selfAnd truly the Great Nation. No more warFor war's sake, then! and,—seeing, wickednessSprings out of folly,—no more foolish dreadO' the neighbor waxing too inordinateA rival, through his gain of wealth and ease!What?—keep me patient, Powers!—the people here,Earth presses to her heart, nor owns a prideAbove her pride i' the race all flame and airAnd aspiration to the boundless Great,The incommensurably Beautiful—Whose very falterings groundward come of flightUrged by a pinion all too passionateFor heaven and what it holds of gloom and glow:Bravest of thinkers, bravest of the braveDoers, exalt in Science, rapturousIn Art, the—more than all—magnetic raceTo fascinate their fellows, mould mankindHohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion,—these, what?—theseWill have to abdicate their primacyShould such a nation sell them steel untaxed,And such another take itself, on hireFor the natural sennight, somebody for lordUnpatronized by me whose back was turned?Or such another yet would fain build bridge,Lay rail, drive tunnel, busy its poor selfWith its appropriate fancy: so there 's—flash—Hohenstiel-Schwangau up in arms at once!Genius has somewhat of the infantine:But of the childish, not a touch nor taintExcept through self-will, which, being foolishness,Is certain, soon or late, of punishment.Which Providence avert!—and that it mayAvert what both of us would so deserve,No foolish dread o' the neighbor, I enjoin!By consequence, no wicked war with him,While I rule!

Ay, so Sagacity advised him filch

Folly from fools; handsomely substitute

The dagger o' lath, while gay they sang and danced,

For that long dangerous sword they liked to feel,

Even at feast-time, clink and make friends start.

No! he said: "Hear the truth, and bear the truth,

And bring the truth to bear on all you are

And do, assured that only good comes thence

Whate'er the shape good take! While I have rule,

Understand!—war for war's sake, war for sake

O' the good war gets you as war's sole excuse,

Is damnable and damned shall be. You want

Glory? Why so do I, and so does God.

Where is it found,—in this paraded shame,—

One particle of glory? Once you warred

For liberty against the world, and won:

There was the glory. Now, you fain would war

Because the neighbor prospers overmuch,—

Because there has been silence half-an-hour,

Like Heaven on earth, without a cannon-shot

Announcing Hohenstielers-Schwangauese

Are minded to disturb the jubilee,—

Because the loud tradition echoes faint,

And who knows but posterity may doubt

If the great deeds were ever done at all,

Much less believe, were such to do again,

So the event would follow: therefore, prove

The old power, at the expense of somebody!

Oh, Glory,—gilded bubble, bard and sage

So nickname rightly,—would thy dance endure

One moment, would thy vaunting make believe

Only one eye thy ball was solid gold,

Hadst thou less breath to buoy thy vacancy

Than a whole multitude expends in praise,

Less range for roaming than from head to head

Of a whole people? Flit, fall, fly again,

Only, fix never where the resolute hand

May prick thee, prove the glassy lie thou art!

Give me real intellect to reason with,

No multitude, no entity that apes

One wise man, being but a million fools!

How and whence wishest glory, thou wise one?

Wouldst get it,—didst thyself guide Providence,—

By stinting of his due each neighbor round

In strength and knowledge and dexterity

So as to have thy littleness grow large

By all those somethings once, turned nothings now,

As children make a molehill mountainous

By scooping out a trench around their pile,

And saving so the mudwork from approach?

Quite otherwise the cheery game of life,

True yet mimetic warfare, whereby man

Does his best with his utmost, and so ends

The victor most of all in fair defeat.

Who thinks,—would he have no one think beside?

Who knows, who does,—save his must learning die

And action cease? Why, so our giant proves

No better than a dwarf, once rivalry

Prostrate around him. Let the whole race stand

For him to try conclusions fairly with!

Show me the great man would engage his peer

Rather by grinning 'Cheat, thy gold is brass!'

Than granting 'Perfect piece of purest ore!

Still, is it less good mintage, this of mine?'

Well, and these right and sound results of soul

I' the strong and healthy one wise man,—shall such

Be vainly sought for, scornfully renounced

I' the multitude that make the entity—

The people?—to what purpose, if no less,

In power and purity of soul, below

The reach of the unit than, by multiplied

Might of the body, vulgarized the more,

Above, in thick and threefold brutishness?

See! you accept such one wise man, myself:

Wiser or less wise, still I operate

From my own stock of wisdom, nor exact

Of other sort of natures you admire,

That whoso rhymes a sonnet pays a tax,

Who paints a landscape dips brush at his cost,

Who scores a septett true for strings and wind

Mulcted must be—else how should I impose

Properly, attitudinize aright,

Did such conflicting claims as these divert

Hohenstiel-Schwangau from observing me?

Therefore, what I find facile, you be sure,

With effort or without it, you shall dare—

You, I aspire to make my better self

And truly the Great Nation. No more war

For war's sake, then! and,—seeing, wickedness

Springs out of folly,—no more foolish dread

O' the neighbor waxing too inordinate

A rival, through his gain of wealth and ease!

What?—keep me patient, Powers!—the people here,

Earth presses to her heart, nor owns a pride

Above her pride i' the race all flame and air

And aspiration to the boundless Great,

The incommensurably Beautiful—

Whose very falterings groundward come of flight

Urged by a pinion all too passionate

For heaven and what it holds of gloom and glow:

Bravest of thinkers, bravest of the brave

Doers, exalt in Science, rapturous

In Art, the—more than all—magnetic race

To fascinate their fellows, mould mankind

Hohenstiel-Schwangau-fashion,—these, what?—these

Will have to abdicate their primacy

Should such a nation sell them steel untaxed,

And such another take itself, on hire

For the natural sennight, somebody for lord

Unpatronized by me whose back was turned?

Or such another yet would fain build bridge,

Lay rail, drive tunnel, busy its poor self

With its appropriate fancy: so there 's—flash—

Hohenstiel-Schwangau up in arms at once!

Genius has somewhat of the infantine:

But of the childish, not a touch nor taint

Except through self-will, which, being foolishness,

Is certain, soon or late, of punishment.

Which Providence avert!—and that it may

Avert what both of us would so deserve,

No foolish dread o' the neighbor, I enjoin!

By consequence, no wicked war with him,

While I rule!

"Does that mean—no war at allWhen just the wickedness I here proscribeComes, haply, from the neighbor? Does my speechPrecede the praying that you beat the swordTo ploughshare, and the spear to pruning-hook,And sit down henceforth under your own vineAnd fig-tree through the sleepy summer month,Letting what hurly-burly please explodeOn the other side the mountain-frontier? No,Beloved! I foresee and I announceNecessity of warfare in one case,For one cause: one way, I bid broach the bloodO' the world. For truth and right, and only rightAnd truth,—right, truth, on the absolute scale of God,No pettiness of man's admeasurement,—In such case only, and for such one cause,Fight your hearts out, whatever fate betideHands energetic to the uttermost!Lie not! Endure no lie which needs your heartAnd hand to push it out of mankind's path—No lie that lets the natural forces workToo long ere lay it plain and pulverized—Seeing man's life lasts only twenty years!And such a lie, before both man and God,Proving, at this time present, Austria's ruleO'er Italy,—for Austria's sake the first,Italy's next, and our sake last of all,Come with me and deliver Italy!Smite hip and thigh until the oppressor leaveFree from the Adriatic to the AlpsThe oppressed one! We were they who laid her lowIn the old bad day when Villany braved TruthAnd Right, and laughed 'Henceforward, God deposed,Satan we set to rule forevermoreI' the world!'—whereof to stop the consequence,And for atonement of false glory thereGaped at and gabbled over by the world,I purpose to get God enthroned againFor what the world will gird at as sheer shameI' the cost of blood and treasure, 'All for naught—Not even, say, some patch of province, spliceO' the frontier?—some snug honorarium-feeShut into glove and pocketed apace?'(Questions Sagacity) 'in deferenceTo the natural susceptibilityOf folks at home, unwitting of that pitchYou soar to, and misdoubting if Truth, RightAnd the other such augustnesses repayExpenditure in coin o' the realm,—but promptTo recognize the cession of SavoyAnd Nice as marketable value!' No,Sagacity, go preach to Metternich,And, sermon ended, stay where he resides!Hohenstiel-Schwangau, you and I must marchThe other road! war for the hate of war,Not love, this once!" So Italy was free.

"Does that mean—no war at all

When just the wickedness I here proscribe

Comes, haply, from the neighbor? Does my speech

Precede the praying that you beat the sword

To ploughshare, and the spear to pruning-hook,

And sit down henceforth under your own vine

And fig-tree through the sleepy summer month,

Letting what hurly-burly please explode

On the other side the mountain-frontier? No,

Beloved! I foresee and I announce

Necessity of warfare in one case,

For one cause: one way, I bid broach the blood

O' the world. For truth and right, and only right

And truth,—right, truth, on the absolute scale of God,

No pettiness of man's admeasurement,—

In such case only, and for such one cause,

Fight your hearts out, whatever fate betide

Hands energetic to the uttermost!

Lie not! Endure no lie which needs your heart

And hand to push it out of mankind's path—

No lie that lets the natural forces work

Too long ere lay it plain and pulverized—

Seeing man's life lasts only twenty years!

And such a lie, before both man and God,

Proving, at this time present, Austria's rule

O'er Italy,—for Austria's sake the first,

Italy's next, and our sake last of all,

Come with me and deliver Italy!

Smite hip and thigh until the oppressor leave

Free from the Adriatic to the Alps

The oppressed one! We were they who laid her low

In the old bad day when Villany braved Truth

And Right, and laughed 'Henceforward, God deposed,

Satan we set to rule forevermore

I' the world!'—whereof to stop the consequence,

And for atonement of false glory there

Gaped at and gabbled over by the world,

I purpose to get God enthroned again

For what the world will gird at as sheer shame

I' the cost of blood and treasure, 'All for naught—

Not even, say, some patch of province, splice

O' the frontier?—some snug honorarium-fee

Shut into glove and pocketed apace?'

(Questions Sagacity) 'in deference

To the natural susceptibility

Of folks at home, unwitting of that pitch

You soar to, and misdoubting if Truth, Right

And the other such augustnesses repay

Expenditure in coin o' the realm,—but prompt

To recognize the cession of Savoy

And Nice as marketable value!' No,

Sagacity, go preach to Metternich,

And, sermon ended, stay where he resides!

Hohenstiel-Schwangau, you and I must march

The other road! war for the hate of war,

Not love, this once!" So Italy was free.

What else noteworthy and commendableI' the man's career?—that he was resolute—No trepidation, much less treacheryOn his part, should imperil from its poiseThe ball o' the world, heaved up at such expenseOf pains so far, and ready to rebound,Let but a finger maladroitly fall,Under pretence of making fast and sureThe inch gained by late volubility,And run itself back to the ancient restAt foot o' the mountain. Thus he ruled, gave proofThe world had gained a point, progressive so,By choice, this time, as will and power concurred,O' the fittest man to rule; not chance of birth,Or such-like dice-throw. Oft SagacityWas at his ear: "Confirm this clear advance,Support this wise procedure! You, electO' the people, mean to justify their choiceAnd out-king all the kingly imbeciles;But that 's just half the enterprise: remainsYou find them a successor like yourself,In head and heart and eye and hand and aim,Or all done 's undone; and whom hope to mouldSo like you as the pupil Nature sends,The son and heir's completeness which you lack?Lack it no longer! Wed the pick o' the world,Where'er you think you find it. Should she beA queen,—tell Hohenstielers-Schwangauese,'So do the old enthroned decrepitudesAcknowledge, in the rotten hearts of them,Their knell is knolled, they hasten to make peaceWith the new order, recognize in meYour right to constitute what king you will,Cringe therefore crown in hand and bride on arm,To both of us: we triumph, I suppose!'Is it the other sort of rank?—bright eye,Soft smile, and so forth, all her queenly boast?Undaunted the exordium—'I, the manO' the people, with the people mate myself:So stand, so fall. Kings, keep your crowns and brides!Our progeny (if Providence agree)Shall live to tread the baubles underfootAnd bid the scarecrows consort with their kin.For son, as for his sire, be the free wifeIn the free state!'"

What else noteworthy and commendable

I' the man's career?—that he was resolute—

No trepidation, much less treachery

On his part, should imperil from its poise

The ball o' the world, heaved up at such expense

Of pains so far, and ready to rebound,

Let but a finger maladroitly fall,

Under pretence of making fast and sure

The inch gained by late volubility,

And run itself back to the ancient rest

At foot o' the mountain. Thus he ruled, gave proof

The world had gained a point, progressive so,

By choice, this time, as will and power concurred,

O' the fittest man to rule; not chance of birth,

Or such-like dice-throw. Oft Sagacity

Was at his ear: "Confirm this clear advance,

Support this wise procedure! You, elect

O' the people, mean to justify their choice

And out-king all the kingly imbeciles;

But that 's just half the enterprise: remains

You find them a successor like yourself,

In head and heart and eye and hand and aim,

Or all done 's undone; and whom hope to mould

So like you as the pupil Nature sends,

The son and heir's completeness which you lack?

Lack it no longer! Wed the pick o' the world,

Where'er you think you find it. Should she be

A queen,—tell Hohenstielers-Schwangauese,

'So do the old enthroned decrepitudes

Acknowledge, in the rotten hearts of them,

Their knell is knolled, they hasten to make peace

With the new order, recognize in me

Your right to constitute what king you will,

Cringe therefore crown in hand and bride on arm,

To both of us: we triumph, I suppose!'

Is it the other sort of rank?—bright eye,

Soft smile, and so forth, all her queenly boast?

Undaunted the exordium—'I, the man

O' the people, with the people mate myself:

So stand, so fall. Kings, keep your crowns and brides!

Our progeny (if Providence agree)

Shall live to tread the baubles underfoot

And bid the scarecrows consort with their kin.

For son, as for his sire, be the free wife

In the free state!'"

That is, SagacityWould prop up one more lie, the most of allPernicious fancy that the son and heirReceives the genius from the sire, himselfTransmits as surely,—ask experience else!Which answers,—never was so plain a truthAs that God drops his seed of heavenly flameJust where he wills on earth: sometimes where manSeems to tempt—such the accumulated storeOf faculties—one spark to fire the heap;Sometimes where, fireball-like, it falls uponThe naked unpreparèdness of rock,Burns, beaconing the nations through their night.Faculties, fuel for the flame? All helpsCome, ought to come, or come not, crossed by chance,From culture and transmission. What 's your wantI' the son and heir? Sympathy, aptitude,Teachableness, the fuel for the flame?You 'll have them for your pains: but the flame's self,The novel thought of God shall light the world?No, poet, though your offspring rhyme and chimeI' the cradle,—painter, no, for all your petDraws his first eye, beats Salvatore's boy,—Andthrice no, statesman, should your progenyTie bib and tucker with no tape but red,And make a foolscap-kite of protocols!Critic and copyist and bureaucratTo heart's content! The seed o' the apple-treeBrings forth another tree which bears a crab:'T is the great gardener grafts the excellenceOn wildings where he will.

That is, Sagacity

Would prop up one more lie, the most of all

Pernicious fancy that the son and heir

Receives the genius from the sire, himself

Transmits as surely,—ask experience else!

Which answers,—never was so plain a truth

As that God drops his seed of heavenly flame

Just where he wills on earth: sometimes where man

Seems to tempt—such the accumulated store

Of faculties—one spark to fire the heap;

Sometimes where, fireball-like, it falls upon

The naked unpreparèdness of rock,

Burns, beaconing the nations through their night.

Faculties, fuel for the flame? All helps

Come, ought to come, or come not, crossed by chance,

From culture and transmission. What 's your want

I' the son and heir? Sympathy, aptitude,

Teachableness, the fuel for the flame?

You 'll have them for your pains: but the flame's self,

The novel thought of God shall light the world?

No, poet, though your offspring rhyme and chime

I' the cradle,—painter, no, for all your pet

Draws his first eye, beats Salvatore's boy,—And

thrice no, statesman, should your progeny

Tie bib and tucker with no tape but red,

And make a foolscap-kite of protocols!

Critic and copyist and bureaucrat

To heart's content! The seed o' the apple-tree

Brings forth another tree which bears a crab:

'T is the great gardener grafts the excellence

On wildings where he will.

"How plain I view,Across those misty years 'twixt me and Rome"—(Such the man's answer to Sagacity)"The little wayside temple, halfway downTo a mild river that makes oxen whiteMiraculously, un-mouse-colors skin,Or so the Roman country people dream!I view that sweet small shrub-embedded shrineOn the declivity, was sacred onceTo a transmuting Genius of the land,Could touch and turn its dunnest natures bright,—Since Italy means the Land of the Ox, we know.Well, how was it the due succession fellFrom priest to priest who ministered i' the coolCalm fane o' the Clitumnian god? The sireBrought forth a son and sacerdotal sprout,Endowed instinctively with good and graceTo suit the gliding gentleness below—Did he? Tradition tells another tale.Each priest obtained his predecessor's staff,Robe, fillet and insignia, blamelessly,By springing out of ambush, soon or late,And slaying him: the initiative riteSimply was murder, save that murder took,I' the case, another and religious name.So it was once, is now, shall ever beWith genius and its priesthood in this world:The new power slays the old—but handsomely.There he lies, not diminished by an inchOf stature that he graced the altar with,Though somebody of other bulk and buildCries, 'What a goodly personage lies hereReddening the water where the bulrush roots!May I conduct the service in his place,Decently and in order, as did he,And, as he did not, keep a wary watchWhen meditating 'neath yon willow shade!'Find out your best man, sure the son of himWill prove best man again, and, better stillSomehow than best, the grandson-prodigy!You think the world would last another dayDid we so make us masters of the trickWhereby the works go, we could pre-arrangeTheir play and reach perfection when we please?Depend on it, the change and the surpriseAre part o' the plan: 't is we wish steadiness;Nature prefers a motion by unrest,Advancement through this force which jostles that.And so, since much remains i' the world to see,Here 's the world still, affording God the sight."Thus did the man refute Sagacity,Ever at this old whisper in his ear:"Here are you picked out, by a miracle,And placed conspicuously enough, folks sayAnd you believe, by Providence outrightTaking a new way—nor without success—To put the world upon its mettle: good!But Fortune alternates with Providence;Resource is soon exhausted. Never countOn such a happy hit occurring twice!Try the old method next time!"

"How plain I view,

Across those misty years 'twixt me and Rome"—

(Such the man's answer to Sagacity)

"The little wayside temple, halfway down

To a mild river that makes oxen white

Miraculously, un-mouse-colors skin,

Or so the Roman country people dream!

I view that sweet small shrub-embedded shrine

On the declivity, was sacred once

To a transmuting Genius of the land,

Could touch and turn its dunnest natures bright,

—Since Italy means the Land of the Ox, we know.

Well, how was it the due succession fell

From priest to priest who ministered i' the cool

Calm fane o' the Clitumnian god? The sire

Brought forth a son and sacerdotal sprout,

Endowed instinctively with good and grace

To suit the gliding gentleness below—

Did he? Tradition tells another tale.

Each priest obtained his predecessor's staff,

Robe, fillet and insignia, blamelessly,

By springing out of ambush, soon or late,

And slaying him: the initiative rite

Simply was murder, save that murder took,

I' the case, another and religious name.

So it was once, is now, shall ever be

With genius and its priesthood in this world:

The new power slays the old—but handsomely.

There he lies, not diminished by an inch

Of stature that he graced the altar with,

Though somebody of other bulk and build

Cries, 'What a goodly personage lies here

Reddening the water where the bulrush roots!

May I conduct the service in his place,

Decently and in order, as did he,

And, as he did not, keep a wary watch

When meditating 'neath yon willow shade!'

Find out your best man, sure the son of him

Will prove best man again, and, better still

Somehow than best, the grandson-prodigy!

You think the world would last another day

Did we so make us masters of the trick

Whereby the works go, we could pre-arrange

Their play and reach perfection when we please?

Depend on it, the change and the surprise

Are part o' the plan: 't is we wish steadiness;

Nature prefers a motion by unrest,

Advancement through this force which jostles that.

And so, since much remains i' the world to see,

Here 's the world still, affording God the sight."

Thus did the man refute Sagacity,

Ever at this old whisper in his ear:

"Here are you picked out, by a miracle,

And placed conspicuously enough, folks say

And you believe, by Providence outright

Taking a new way—nor without success—

To put the world upon its mettle: good!

But Fortune alternates with Providence;

Resource is soon exhausted. Never count

On such a happy hit occurring twice!

Try the old method next time!"

"Old enough,"(At whisper in his ear, the laugh outbroke,)"And mode the most discredited of all,By just the men and women who make boastThey are kings and queens thereby! Mere self-defenceShould teach them, on one chapter of the lawMust be no sort of trifling—chastity:They stand or fall, as their progenitorsWere chaste or unchaste. Now, run eye aroundMy crowned acquaintance, give each life its lookAnd no more,—why, you 'd think each life was ledPurposely for example of what painsWho leads it took to cure the prejudice,And prove there 's nothing so unprovableAs who is who, what son of what a sire,And—inferentially—how faint the chanceThat the next generation needs to fearAnother fool o' the selfsame type as heHappily regnant now by right divineAnd luck o' the pillow! No: select your lordBy the direct employment of your brainsAs best you may,—bad as the blunder prove,A far worse evil stank beneath the sunWhen some legitimate blockhead managed soMatters that high time was to interfere,Though interference came from hell itselfAnd not the blind mad miserable mobHappily ruled so long by pillow-luckAnd divine right,—by lies in short, not truth.And meanwhile use the allotted minute ..."

"Old enough,"

(At whisper in his ear, the laugh outbroke,)

"And mode the most discredited of all,

By just the men and women who make boast

They are kings and queens thereby! Mere self-defence

Should teach them, on one chapter of the law

Must be no sort of trifling—chastity:

They stand or fall, as their progenitors

Were chaste or unchaste. Now, run eye around

My crowned acquaintance, give each life its look

And no more,—why, you 'd think each life was led

Purposely for example of what pains

Who leads it took to cure the prejudice,

And prove there 's nothing so unprovable

As who is who, what son of what a sire,

And—inferentially—how faint the chance

That the next generation needs to fear

Another fool o' the selfsame type as he

Happily regnant now by right divine

And luck o' the pillow! No: select your lord

By the direct employment of your brains

As best you may,—bad as the blunder prove,

A far worse evil stank beneath the sun

When some legitimate blockhead managed so

Matters that high time was to interfere,

Though interference came from hell itself

And not the blind mad miserable mob

Happily ruled so long by pillow-luck

And divine right,—by lies in short, not truth.

And meanwhile use the allotted minute ..."

One,—Two, three, four, five—yes, five the pendule warns!Eh? Why, this wild work wanders past all boundAnd bearing! Exile, Leicester Square, the lifeI' the old gay miserable time, rehearsed,Tried on again like cast clothes, still to serveAt a pinch, perhaps? "Who 's who?" was aptly asked,Since certainly I am not I! since when?Where is the bud-mouthed arbitress? A nodOut-Homering Homer! Stay—there flits the clueI fain would find the end of! Yes,—"Meanwhile,Use the allotted minute!" Well, you see,(Veracious and imaginary Thiers,Who map out thus the life I might have led,But did not,—all the worse for earth and me,—Doff spectacles, wipe pen, shut book, decamp!)You see 't is easy in heroics! PlainPedestrian speech shall help me perorate.Ah, if one had no need to use the tongue!How obvious and how easy 't is to talkInside the soul, a ghostly dialogue—Instincts with guesses,—instinct, guess, againWith dubious knowledge, half-experience: eachAnd all the interlocutors alikeSubordinating,—as decorum bids,Oh, never fear! but still decisively,—Claims from without that take too high a tone,—("God wills this, man wants that, the dignityPrescribed a prince would wish the other thing")—Putting them back to insignificanceBeside one intimatest fact—myselfAm first to be considered, since I liveTwenty years longer and then end, perhaps!But, where one ceases to soliloquize,Somehow the motives, that did well enoughI' the darkness, when you bring them into lightAre found, like those famed cave-fish, to lack eyeAnd organ for the upper magnitudes.The other common creatures, of less fineExistence, that acknowledge earth and heaven,Have it their own way in the argument.Yes, forced to speak, one stoops to say—one's aimWas—what it peradventure should have been:To renovate a people, mend or endThat bane come of a blessing meant the world—Inordinate culture of the sense made quickBy soul,—the lust o' the flesh, lust of the eye,And pride of life,—and, consequent on these,The worship of that prince o' the power o' the airWho paints the cloud and fills the emptinessAnd bids his votaries, famishing for truth,Feed on a lie.

One,—

Two, three, four, five—yes, five the pendule warns!

Eh? Why, this wild work wanders past all bound

And bearing! Exile, Leicester Square, the life

I' the old gay miserable time, rehearsed,

Tried on again like cast clothes, still to serve

At a pinch, perhaps? "Who 's who?" was aptly asked,

Since certainly I am not I! since when?

Where is the bud-mouthed arbitress? A nod

Out-Homering Homer! Stay—there flits the clue

I fain would find the end of! Yes,—"Meanwhile,

Use the allotted minute!" Well, you see,

(Veracious and imaginary Thiers,

Who map out thus the life I might have led,

But did not,—all the worse for earth and me,—

Doff spectacles, wipe pen, shut book, decamp!)

You see 't is easy in heroics! Plain

Pedestrian speech shall help me perorate.

Ah, if one had no need to use the tongue!

How obvious and how easy 't is to talk

Inside the soul, a ghostly dialogue—

Instincts with guesses,—instinct, guess, again

With dubious knowledge, half-experience: each

And all the interlocutors alike

Subordinating,—as decorum bids,

Oh, never fear! but still decisively,—

Claims from without that take too high a tone,

—("God wills this, man wants that, the dignity

Prescribed a prince would wish the other thing")—

Putting them back to insignificance

Beside one intimatest fact—myself

Am first to be considered, since I live

Twenty years longer and then end, perhaps!

But, where one ceases to soliloquize,

Somehow the motives, that did well enough

I' the darkness, when you bring them into light

Are found, like those famed cave-fish, to lack eye

And organ for the upper magnitudes.

The other common creatures, of less fine

Existence, that acknowledge earth and heaven,

Have it their own way in the argument.

Yes, forced to speak, one stoops to say—one's aim

Was—what it peradventure should have been:

To renovate a people, mend or end

That bane come of a blessing meant the world—

Inordinate culture of the sense made quick

By soul,—the lust o' the flesh, lust of the eye,

And pride of life,—and, consequent on these,

The worship of that prince o' the power o' the air

Who paints the cloud and fills the emptiness

And bids his votaries, famishing for truth,

Feed on a lie.

Alack, one lies one's selfEven in the stating that one's end was truth,Truth only, if one states as much in words!Give me the inner chamber of the soulFor obvious easy argument! 't is thereOne pits the silent truth against a lie—Truth which breaks shell a careless simple bird,Nor wants a gorget nor a beak filed fine,Steel spurs and the whole armory o' the tongue,To equalize the odds. But, do your best,Words have to come: and somehow words deflectAs the best cannon ever rifled will.

Alack, one lies one's self

Even in the stating that one's end was truth,

Truth only, if one states as much in words!

Give me the inner chamber of the soul

For obvious easy argument! 't is there

One pits the silent truth against a lie—

Truth which breaks shell a careless simple bird,

Nor wants a gorget nor a beak filed fine,

Steel spurs and the whole armory o' the tongue,

To equalize the odds. But, do your best,

Words have to come: and somehow words deflect

As the best cannon ever rifled will.

"Deflect" indeed! nor merely words from thoughtsBut names from facts: "Clitumnus" did I say?As if it had been his ox-whitening waveWhereby folk practised that grim cult of old—The murder of their temple's priest by whoWould qualify for his succession. Sure—Nemi was the true lake's style. Dream had needOf the ox-whitening peace of prettinessAnd so confused names, well known once awake.

"Deflect" indeed! nor merely words from thoughts

But names from facts: "Clitumnus" did I say?

As if it had been his ox-whitening wave

Whereby folk practised that grim cult of old—

The murder of their temple's priest by who

Would qualify for his succession. Sure—

Nemi was the true lake's style. Dream had need

Of the ox-whitening peace of prettiness

And so confused names, well known once awake.

So, i' the Residenz yet, not Leicester Square,Alone,—no such congenial intercourse!—My reverie concludes, as dreaming should,With daybreak: nothing done and over yet,Except cigars! The adventure thus may be,Or never needs to be at all: who knows?My Cousin-Duke, perhaps, at whose hard head—Is it, now—is this letter to be launched,The sight of whose gray oblong, whose grim seal,Set all these fancies floating for an hour?

So, i' the Residenz yet, not Leicester Square,

Alone,—no such congenial intercourse!—

My reverie concludes, as dreaming should,

With daybreak: nothing done and over yet,

Except cigars! The adventure thus may be,

Or never needs to be at all: who knows?

My Cousin-Duke, perhaps, at whose hard head

—Is it, now—is this letter to be launched,

The sight of whose gray oblong, whose grim seal,

Set all these fancies floating for an hour?

Twenty years are good gain, come what come will!Double or quits! The letter goes! Or stays?

Twenty years are good gain, come what come will!

Double or quits! The letter goes! Or stays?

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