 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
350
THE LAST OF THE GIANTS
He had outlived them all in every clime,
That band of mighty pleaders.
For there were heroes in the ancient time,
Though now are none such leaders;
And those were days when Truth itself came nigh,
And faith was big and bolder,
With men divine as Atlas, who held high
The spheres upon his shoulder;
When mountain forms stood out above the ruck,
And giant warred with giant,
And glorious hearts for honour grandly struck,
On love of right reliant.
That band of mighty pleaders.
For there were heroes in the ancient time,
Though now are none such leaders;
And those were days when Truth itself came nigh,
And faith was big and bolder,
With men divine as Atlas, who held high
The spheres upon his shoulder;
When mountain forms stood out above the ruck,
And giant warred with giant,
And glorious hearts for honour grandly struck,
On love of right reliant.
And still he stood, a venerable tower,
Scarred with the tempest levin,
And still with more than Promethean power
Drew down the fire from Heaven;
While lesser souls gazed at the god-like plan,
And caught a reflex splendour,
Transformed by him who passed all human span,
And seemed a world's defender;
They wondered at his strange unearthly might,
Which oped each sacred portal,
And in the presence of that conquering light,
Themselves grew half immortal.
Scarred with the tempest levin,
And still with more than Promethean power
Drew down the fire from Heaven;
While lesser souls gazed at the god-like plan,
And caught a reflex splendour,
Transformed by him who passed all human span,
And seemed a world's defender;
They wondered at his strange unearthly might,
Which oped each sacred portal,
And in the presence of that conquering light,
Themselves grew half immortal.
But when no open force could break the sweep
Of his sublime intention,
Then all the vermin hordes that crawl and creep
Conspired with vile invention;
They knew his spirit proud could not be bought,
By any bribe of money,
And flattery's jewelled poisoned cup they brought,
Which sweeter tastes than honey;
And this he drank while it became a rod,
Unto his own confusion,
Till he believed that he himself was God,
And lived upon delusion.
Of his sublime intention,
Then all the vermin hordes that crawl and creep
Conspired with vile invention;
They knew his spirit proud could not be bought,
By any bribe of money,
And flattery's jewelled poisoned cup they brought,
Which sweeter tastes than honey;
And this he drank while it became a rod,
Unto his own confusion,
Till he believed that he himself was God,
And lived upon delusion.
And when he lost his early loving hold
Of earth, which is our mother,
Vanished the touch that turned all clay to gold,
And made each man a brother;
The mocking mists of error round him drew
Their dim deceitful curtain,
And even familiar faces changed and grew
To other shapes uncertain;
And though the awful strength beyond his kind
Yet marked him out as Master,
It served no purpose now when he was blind,
But to beget disaster.
Of earth, which is our mother,
Vanished the touch that turned all clay to gold,
And made each man a brother;
The mocking mists of error round him drew
Their dim deceitful curtain,
And even familiar faces changed and grew
To other shapes uncertain;
And though the awful strength beyond his kind
Yet marked him out as Master,
It served no purpose now when he was blind,
But to beget disaster.
351
And thus he struck at random, and the blow
That should have raised a nation,
Laid only old and precious bulwarks low,
Or fools gave lordly station;
And thus when he no longer saw those ends,
Which once bade deserts blossom,
He wounded not his enemies but friends,
And pierced his country's bosom;
Till, in mad effort to redeem his fame,
Though by a land's seduction,
He brought upon his people nought but shame,
And to himself destruction.
That should have raised a nation,
Laid only old and precious bulwarks low,
Or fools gave lordly station;
And thus when he no longer saw those ends,
Which once bade deserts blossom,
He wounded not his enemies but friends,
And pierced his country's bosom;
Till, in mad effort to redeem his fame,
Though by a land's seduction,
He brought upon his people nought but shame,
And to himself destruction.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |