Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold By "F. Harald Williams"[i.e. F. W. O. Ward]. First Edition |
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CHRIS. |
 | Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold |  |
CHRIS.
Fair-haired Chris
Has forever a smile at command,
And at this
He is perfect, and none can withstand
The bright face like a blessing,
The manners caressing
That twine all about you a beautiful wreath;
Yes, he beams like an angel, but what is beneath?
For the charms are a vagrant
And transient breath,
And the blossom so fragrant
Is blossom of death.
Has forever a smile at command,
And at this
He is perfect, and none can withstand
The bright face like a blessing,
The manners caressing
That twine all about you a beautiful wreath;
Yes, he beams like an angel, but what is beneath?
For the charms are a vagrant
And transient breath,
And the blossom so fragrant
Is blossom of death.
Merry Chris
Is a mask of a horrible shape,
And the bliss
He assumes hides a lecherous ape
With unspeakable vices,
Whom nothing suffices;
The jubilant laugh and the innocent look,
Are the baits that he smears on the murderous hook;
For his heart's black obscurity
Is a black tide,
And the love and the purity
Are just outside.
Is a mask of a horrible shape,
And the bliss
He assumes hides a lecherous ape
With unspeakable vices,
Whom nothing suffices;
The jubilant laugh and the innocent look,
Are the baits that he smears on the murderous hook;
For his heart's black obscurity
Is a black tide,
And the love and the purity
Are just outside.
466
Golden Chris
Woos damnation in drink like the rest,
And the hiss
Of the serpent sounds under his jest;
A mere baby he follows
The vilest and wallows
In garbage of sin as a sow in the mire,
And beyond his brute appetites feels no desire;
Though he seems hardly seven
For ruin he's ripe,
Holds the gin palace heaven
And swears by his pipe.
Woos damnation in drink like the rest,
And the hiss
Of the serpent sounds under his jest;
A mere baby he follows
The vilest and wallows
In garbage of sin as a sow in the mire,
And beyond his brute appetites feels no desire;
Though he seems hardly seven
For ruin he's ripe,
Holds the gin palace heaven
And swears by his pipe.
And yet Chris
Could be tamed, ere the mischief is done,
By a kiss
And with kindness might surely be won;
In that nebulous nature
God's own legislature
Is written and conscience is there not yet dead,
And the angel at bottom might still raise his head:
There is hope for the purging
His dungeon of sin
With its passionate surging,
If love would begin.
Could be tamed, ere the mischief is done,
By a kiss
And with kindness might surely be won;
In that nebulous nature
God's own legislature
Is written and conscience is there not yet dead,
And the angel at bottom might still raise his head:
There is hope for the purging
His dungeon of sin
With its passionate surging,
If love would begin.
| Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold | |