Fables in Song :: :: University of Virginia Library

The bellows, breathing, fann'd the forge:
Forth sprang the thrill'd white sparks in throngs:
The Young Smith from the furnace gorge
Pluck'd out between his pinching tongs,
And flat on the resonant anvil laid,
The red iron, ablush with a radiant glow:
The Old Smith, dealing it blow on blow,
With his ponderous hammer the hot mass bray'd.

2

And, whilst about it son and sire
In mutual mirth their business plied,
The iron, weeping tears of fire,
To hammer and to anvil cried

178

“It is iron ye be, yet, O torturing two,
It is iron ye torture!” But “Suffer thy lot,”—
They replied to him, “fool, and upbraid us not;
For there's some one above us is dealing the blow.”

3

Oh had the Old Smith, whirling fast
His hammer, heard that talk? For, gay
He, thro' the roar o' the furnace blast,
Laugh'd “Divide et impera!”
“Ámen! Ámen!” the iron replied, giving vent
To a groan, as it grew to a sword. This, anon,
To its place in the arsenal pass'd: and the son
Of the Old Smith into the army went.

4

One day the town's bad blood broke out.
The artizans arose in arms:
The Civic Guard they put to rout,
And fill'd the streets with fierce alarms.
But the soldiers came cantering into the town:
And, with patriot pride in so loyal a job,
Slashing this way and that as he rode thro' the mob,
A young soldier by chance the ringleader cut down.

5

“My son!” the giant gasp'd; and heard,
As grovelling in his gore he lay,

179

A captain, who had given the word,
Laugh “Divide et impera!”
“Ámen ! Ámen !” the Old Smith responded; and died
As the Young Smith, unnoticing, flourish'd his sword.
Revolution was ended and order restored
By the youth's unintentional parricide.

6

The King then went to war. Long while
His stricken subjects rued that day.
The foeman gain'd by gold and guile
One half the misruled realm away.
Thus, against itself upon all sides turn'd,
Did the gash'd land bleed at each gaping pore:
They but meant it well, the two armies swore:
Meanwhile they ravish'd, and robb'd, and burn'd.

7

And in the last great fight of all
The Old Smith's soldier son expired.
His ribs were broken by a ball
From his old Captain's pistol fired.
But, before the last breath of his life he breathed,
He resolved, at the least, not to breathe it in vain;
And the sword that erewhile had his father slain
In the breast of his leader lost he sheathed.

180

8

The conquering General rode that way,
Glowing and fierce as Mars' own Flamen,
Laugh'd “Divide et impera!”
And gallop'd onward. “Ámen! Ámen!”
With a finger sly on his Golden Fleece,
(While the General gave his moustache a twist)
Responded the smiling Diplomatist
Commission'd to settle and sign the Peace.

9

The Peace was sign'd: and, having wrought
The conquest thus confirm'd, elate,
The Military Party thought
Itself the master of the State.
But the Diplomat, hiding his own intent,
The Generals, jealous and fierce, inflamed
With a rival hope; and the fools proclaim'd
A Republic; that chose him as President.

10

For, whilst with faction faction fought,
The moderate man slipp'd in between;
The votes of either party bought,
And baulk'd them both. More calm and keen
Than the rival chiefs that around him vied,
When the popular choice he had charm'd away

181

The rogue laugh'd “Divide, impera!”
Praising himself with a secret pride.

11

Yet, tho' so soft the whisper'd word
He, laughing in his sleeve, let fall,
Its secret boast one listener heard;
Who, unobserved, observing all,
Behind him stood with a downcast eye,
And a serious smile on a meek lip set,
As “Ámen!” he mutter'd, and softlier yet
“Ámen!” again, to his rosary.

12

The Young priest, he, to whom by choice
The dame, whose charms in private bless'd
That charmer of the public voice,
The weakness of the flesh confess'd.
Thus craftsmen and soldiers and clerics and laymen
Do the burden pass, as they pass their way:
And the burden is Divide impera!
And the response to it is Ámen! Ámen!

13

Sic semper! Iron still is dasht
On iron: blood on blood. The hours
That rock the round world, rolling clasht
From the high tops of temple towers,

182

Are the hammers of Fate: and they fall and fall
Heavy and fast on the anvil of Time;
Where Humanity changes its shape as they chime,
And, save only in shape, never changes at all.

14

'Twixt hammer, thus, and anvil bruised,
The wretch upbraids that torturing two;
And they reply, the oft accused,
“There's one above us, deals the blow.”
Who is it, then? History's intricate page
Can but reckon the strokes, and record the gravamen.
Stat pro ratione voluntas. Ámen.
This is the song of the Iron Age.