Verses 1889-1896

EVARRA AND HIS GODS

  Read here:  This is the story of Evarra – man –  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.  Because the city gave him of her gold,   Because the caravans brought turquoises,   Because his life was sheltered by the King,   So that no man should maim him, none should steal,   Or break his rest with babble in the streets   When he was weary after toil, he made   An image of his God in gold and pearl,   With turquoise diadem and human eyes,   A wonder in the sunshine, known afar,   And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,   Because the city bowed to him for God,   He wrote above the shrine:  “Thus Gods are made,   And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”    And all the city praised him…  Then he died.  Read here the story of Evarra – man —  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.   Because the city had no wealth to give,   Because the caravans were spoiled afar,   Because his life was threatened by the King,   So that all men despised him in the streets,   He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears,   And reared a God against the morning-gold,   A terror in the sunshine, seen afar,   And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,   Because the city fawned to bring him back,   He carved upon the plinth:  “Thus Gods are made,   And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”    And all the people praised him…  Then he died.  Read here the story of Evarra – man —  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.   Because he lived among a simple folk,   Because his village was between the hills,   Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes,   He cut an idol from a fallen pine,   Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell   Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair   Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.   And all the village praised him for this craft,   And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.   Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad,   He scratched upon that log:  “Thus Gods are made,   And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”    And all the people praised him…  Then he died.  Read here the story of Evarra – man —  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.   Because his God decreed one clot of blood   Should swerve one hair’s-breadth from the pulse’s path,   And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone,   Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields,   Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees,   And mocking at the mist, until his God   Drove him to labour.  Out of dung and horns   Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God,   Abhorrent, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,   And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,   He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds,   And howled among the beasts:  “Thus Gods are made,   And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”    Thereat the cattle bellowed…  Then he died.  Yet at the last he came to Paradise,  And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote;  And marvelled, being very near to God,  What oaf on earth had made his toil God’s law,  Till God said mocking:  “Mock not.  These be thine.”   Then cried Evarra:  “I have sinned!” – “Not so.  If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods  Had rested in the mountain and the mine,  And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods,  And thy more wondrous law, Evarra.  Thine,  Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine.”   Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes,  Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise.  This is the story of Evarra – man —  Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

  When the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden’s green and gold,  Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;  And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,  Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”  Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew —  The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread review;  And he left his lore to the use of his sons – and that was a glorious gain  When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.  They fought and they talked in the North and the South,    they talked and they fought in the West,  Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest —  Had rest till that dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,  And the Devil bubbled below the keel:  “It’s human, but is it Art?”  They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,  Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks:  “It’s striking, but is it Art?”   The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,  While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.  The tale is as old as the Eden Tree – and new as the new-cut tooth —  For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;  And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,  The Devil drum on the darkened pane:  “You did it, but was it Art?”  We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,  We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,  We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;  But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old:  “It’s clever, but is it Art?”  When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room’s green and gold,  The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens in the mould —  They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves,    and the ink and the anguish start,  For the Devil mutters behind the leaves:  “It’s pretty, but is it Art?”  Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,  And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago,  And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry through,  By the favour of God we might know as much – as our father Adam knew!

THE LEGEND OF EVIL

I  This is the sorrowful story   Told when the twilight fails  And the monkeys walk together   Holding their neighbours’ tails: —  “Our fathers lived in the forest,   Foolish people were they,  They went down to the cornland   To teach the farmers to play.  “Our fathers frisked in the millet,   Our fathers skipped in the wheat,  Our fathers hung from the branches,   Our fathers danced in the street.  “Then came the terrible farmers,   Nothing of play they knew,  Only..they caught our fathers   And set them to labour too!  “Set them to work in the cornland   With ploughs and sickles and flails,  Put them in mud-walled prisons   And – cut off their beautiful tails!  “Now, we can watch our fathers,   Sullen and bowed and old,  Stooping over the millet,   Sharing the silly mould,  “Driving a foolish furrow,   Mending a muddy yoke,  Sleeping in mud-walled prisons,   Steeping their food in smoke.  “We may not speak to our fathers,   For if the farmers knew  They would come up to the forest   And set us to labour too.”  This is the horrible story   Told as the twilight fails  And the monkeys walk together   Holding their kinsmen’s tails.II  ‘Twas when the rain fell steady an’ the Ark was pitched an’ ready,   That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below;  He dragged them all together by the horn an’ hide an’ feather,   An’ all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.  Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely,   An’ thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: —  “Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you —   Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!” an’ the Donkey went aboard.  But the wind was always failin’, an’ ‘twas most onaisy sailin’,   An’ the ladies in the cabin couldn’t stand the stable air;  An’ the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an’ died in batches,   Till Noah said: – “There’s wan av us that hasn’t paid his fare!”  For he heard a flusteration ‘mid the bastes av all creation —   The trumpetin’ av elephints an’ bellowin’ av whales;  An’ he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy   The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin’ their tails.  The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: —   “To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?”   An’ the Divil gave for answer: – “Evict me if you can, sir,   For I came in wid the Donkey – on Your Honour’s invitation.”  “We may not speak to our fathers,   For if the farmers knew  They would come up to the forest   And set us to labour too.”

THE ENGLISH FLAG

Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack,

remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately

when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts,

and seemed to see significance in the incident. —

DAILY PAPERS.  Winds of the World, give answer!  They are whimpering to and fro —  And what should they know of England who only England know? —  The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag,  They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!  Must we borrow a clout from the Boer – to plaster anew with dirt?  An Irish liar’s bandage, or an English coward’s shirt?  We may not speak of England; her Flag’s to sell or share.  What is the Flag of England?  Winds of the World, declare!  The North Wind blew: – “From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;  I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;  By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,  And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.  “I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,  Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came;  I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,  And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.  “The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,  The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my bergs to dare,  Ye have but my drifts to conquer.  Go forth, for it is there!”  The South Wind sighed: – “From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta’en  Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,  Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon  Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.  “Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys,  I waked the palms to laughter – I tossed the scud in the breeze —  Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone,  But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown.  “I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn;  I have chased it north to the Lizard – ribboned and rolled and torn;  I have spread its fold o’er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea;  I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free.  “My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross,  Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross.  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my reefs to dare,  Ye have but my seas to furrow.  Go forth, for it is there!”  The East Wind roared: – “From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come,  And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home.  Look – look well to your shipping!  By the breath of my mad typhoon  I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon!  “The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before,  I raped your richest roadstead – I plundered Singapore!  I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose,  And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows.  “Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake,  But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England’s sake —  Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid —  Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed.  “The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows,  The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows.  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my sun to dare,  Ye have but my sands to travel.  Go forth, for it is there!”  The West Wind called: – “In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly  That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die.  They make my might their porter, they make my house their path,  Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath.  “I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole,  They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll,  For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath,  And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death.  “But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day,  I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away,  First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky,  Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by.  “The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it – the frozen dews have kissed —  The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist.  What is the Flag of England?  Ye have but my breath to dare,  Ye have but my waves to conquer.  Go forth, for it is there!”

“CLEARED”

(In Memory of a Commission)

  Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt,  Help for an honourable clan sore trampled in the dirt!  From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song,  The honourable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong.  Their noble names were mentioned – O the burning black disgrace! —  By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case;  They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it,  And “coruscating innocence” the learned Judges gave it.  Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon’s knife,  The honourable gentlemen deplored the loss of life!  Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger,  No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger!  Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies,  Like ph]oenixes from Ph]oenix Park (and what lay there) they rise!  Go shout it to the emerald seas – give word to Erin now,  Her honourable gentlemen are cleared – and this is how: —  They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price,  They only helped the murderer with counsel’s best advice,  But – sure it keeps their honour white – the learned Court believes  They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves.  They never told the ramping crowd to card a woman’s hide,  They never marked a man for death – what fault of theirs he died? —  They only said “intimidate”, and talked and went away —  By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they!  Their sin it was that fed the fire – small blame to them that heard —  The “bhoys” get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at a word —  They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too,  The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew, and well they knew.  They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail,  They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clanna-Gael.  If black is black or white is white, in black and white it’s down,  They’re only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.  “Cleared”, honourable gentlemen!  Be thankful it’s no more: —  The widow’s curse is on your house, the dead are at your door.  On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South  The hand of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth.  “Less black than we were painted”? – Faith, no word of black was said;  The lightest touch was human blood, and that, you know, runs red.  It’s sticking to your fist to-day for all your sneer and scoff,  And by the Judge’s well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off.  Hold up those hands of innocence – go, scare your sheep together,  The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether;  And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen,  Tell them it’s tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again!  “The charge is old”? – As old as Cain – as fresh as yesterday;  Old as the Ten Commandments – have ye talked those laws away?  If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball,  You spoke the words that sped the shot – the curse be on you all.  “Our friends believe”? – Of course they do – as sheltered women may;  But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay?  They! – If their own front door is shut,    they’ll swear the whole world’s warm;  What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm?  The secret half a county keeps, the whisper in the lane,  The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane,  The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees,  And shows the “bhoys” have heard your talk – what do they know of these?  But you – you know – ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead,  Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred,  The mangled stallion’s scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer’s low.  Who set the whisper going first?  You know, and well you know!  My soul!  I’d sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight,  Pure crime I’d done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate,  Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered,  While one of those “not provens” proved me cleared as you are cleared.  Cleared – you that “lost” the League accounts – go, guard our honour still,  Go, help to make our country’s laws that broke God’s law at will —  One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal “strike again”;  The other on your dress-shirt-front to show your heart is clane.  If black is black or white is white, in black and white it’s down,  You’re only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown.  If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: —  We are not ruled by murderers, but only – by their friends.

AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT

  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed,  To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need,  He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat,  That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set.  The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew —  Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe.  And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil,  And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil.  And the young King said: – “I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek:  The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak;  With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line,  Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood – sign!”  The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby,  And a wail went up from the peoples: – “Ay, sign – give rest, for we die!”   A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl,  When – the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall.  And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain —  Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane.  And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke;  And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke: —  “There’s a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone;  We’re going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own,  With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top;  And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop.”  And an English delegate thundered: – “The weak an’ the lame be blowed!  I’ve a berth in the Sou’-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road;  And till the ‘sociation has footed my buryin’ bill,  I work for the kids an’ the missus.  Pull up?  I be damned if I will!”  And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran: —  “Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man.  If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit;  But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt.”  They passed one resolution: – “Your sub-committee believe  You can lighten the curse of Adam when you’ve lightened the curse of Eve.  But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen,  We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen.”  Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held —  The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled,  The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands,  The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands.

TOMLINSON

  Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square,  And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair —  A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away,  Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way:  Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease,  And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys.  “Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high  The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die —  The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!”   And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone.  “O I have a friend on earth,” he said, “that was my priest and guide,  And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side.”   – “For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair,  But now ye wait at Heaven’s Gate and not in Berkeley Square:  Though we called your friend from his bed this night,    he could not speak for you,  For the race is run by one and one and never by two and two.”   Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there,  For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare:  The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,  And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life.  “This I have read in a book,” he said, “and that was told to me,  And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy.”   The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path,  And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath.  “Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought,” he said,    “and the tale is yet to run:  By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer – what ha’ ye done?”   Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore,  For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven’s Gate before: —  “O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say,  And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway.”   – “Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack!    Ye have hampered Heaven’s Gate;  There’s little room between the stars in idleness to prate!  O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin  Through borrowed deed to God’s good meed that lies so fair within;  Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for doom has yet to run,  And..the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!”  The Spirit gripped him by the hair, and sun by sun they fell  Till they came to the belt of Naughty Stars that rim the mouth of Hell:  The first are red with pride and wrath, the next are white with pain,  But the third are black with clinkered sin that cannot burn again:  They may hold their path, they may leave their path,    with never a soul to mark,  They may burn or freeze, but they must not cease    in the Scorn of the Outer Dark.  The Wind that blows between the worlds, it nipped him to the bone,  And he yearned to the flare of Hell-Gate    there as the light of his own hearth-stone.  The Devil he sat behind the bars, where the desperate legions drew,  But he caught the hasting Tomlinson and would not let him through.  “Wot ye the price of good pit-coal that I must pay?” said he,  “That ye rank yoursel’ so fit for Hell and ask no leave of me?  I am all o’er-sib to Adam’s breed that ye should give me scorn,  For I strove with God for your First Father the day that he was born.  Sit down, sit down upon the slag, and answer loud and high  The harm that ye did to the Sons of Men or ever you came to die.”   And Tomlinson looked up and up, and saw against the night  The belly of a tortured star blood-red in Hell-Mouth light;  And Tomlinson looked down and down, and saw beneath his feet  The frontlet of a tortured star milk-white in Hell-Mouth heat.  “O I had a love on earth,” said he, “that kissed me to my fall,  And if ye would call my love to me I know she would answer all.”   – “All that ye did in love forbid it shall be written fair,  But now ye wait at Hell-Mouth Gate and not in Berkeley Square:  Though we whistled your love from her bed to-night, I trow she would not run,  For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!”   The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife,  And Tomlinson took up the tale and spoke of his sin in life: —  “Once I ha’ laughed at the power of Love and twice at the grip of the Grave,  And thrice I ha’ patted my God on the head that men might call me brave.”   The Devil he blew on a brandered soul and set it aside to cool: —  “Do ye think I would waste my good pit-coal on the hide of a brain-sick fool?  I see no worth in the hobnailed mirth or the jolthead jest ye did  That I should waken my gentlemen that are sleeping three on a grid.”   Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and there was little grace,  For Hell-Gate filled the houseless Soul with the Fear of Naked Space.  “Nay, this I ha’ heard,” quo’  Tomlinson, “and this was noised abroad,  And this I ha’ got from a Belgian book on the word of a dead French lord.”   – “Ye ha’ heard, ye ha’ read, ye ha’ got, good lack!    and the tale begins afresh —  Have ye sinned one sin for the pride o’ the eye    or the sinful lust of the flesh?”   Then Tomlinson he gripped the bars and yammered, “Let me in —  For I mind that I borrowed my neighbour’s wife to sin the deadly sin.”   The Devil he grinned behind the bars, and banked the fires high:  “Did ye read of that sin in a book?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”   The Devil he blew upon his nails, and the little devils ran,  And he said:  “Go husk this whimpering thief that comes in the guise of a man:  Winnow him out ‘twixt star and star, and sieve his proper worth:  There’s sore decline in Adam’s line if this be spawn of earth.”   Empusa’s crew, so naked-new they may not face the fire,  But weep that they bin too small to sin to the height of their desire,  Over the coal they chased the Soul, and racked it all abroad,  As children rifle a caddis-case or the raven’s foolish hoard.  And back they came with the tattered Thing, as children after play,  And they said:  “The soul that he got from God he has bartered clean away.  We have threshed a stook of print and book, and winnowed a chattering wind  And many a soul wherefrom he stole, but his we cannot find:  We have handled him, we have dandled him, we have seared him to the bone,  And sure if tooth and nail show truth he has no soul of his own.”   The Devil he bowed his head on his breast and rumbled deep and low: —  “I’m all o’er-sib to Adam’s breed that I should bid him go.  Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I gave him place,  My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my face;  They’d call my house a common stews and me a careless host,  And – I would not anger my gentlemen for the sake of a shiftless ghost.”   The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed to feel the flame,  And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of his own good name: —  “Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit ye down to fry:  Did ye think of that theft for yourself?” said he; and Tomlinson said, “Ay!”   The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart was free from care: —  “Ye have scarce the soul of a louse,” he said,    “but the roots of sin are there,  And for that sin should ye come in were I the lord alone.  But sinful pride has rule inside – and mightier than my own.  Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each his priest and whore:  Nay, scarce I dare myself go there, and you they’d torture sore.  Ye are neither spirit nor spirk,” he said; “ye are neither book nor brute —  Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake of Man’s repute.  I’m all o’er-sib to Adam’s breed that I should mock your pain,  But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come back again.  Get hence, the hearse is at your door – the grim black stallions wait —  They bear your clay to place to-day.  Speed, lest ye come too late!  Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed – go back with an open eye,  And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die:  That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one —  And..the God that you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!”