 | Carol and Cadence |  |
63
THE BOOK OF BEASTS.
65
THE GROCER'S DOG.
From the door's shadow, on the sunlight blazing
The sheepdog looks and on the passers-by:
A world of woe, as there he sits a-gazing,
Is in his mild and melancholy eye.
The sheepdog looks and on the passers-by:
A world of woe, as there he sits a-gazing,
Is in his mild and melancholy eye.
A mystery of meek and hopeless yearning
Darkens for him the daybeam and the light;
The shadow of some land of no-returning
Between the sunshine hovers and his sight.
Darkens for him the daybeam and the light;
The shadow of some land of no-returning
Between the sunshine hovers and his sight.
His look bespeaks unutterable sorrow;
His brown eyes in a sea of sadness steep,
The sadness of a soul that knows no morrow,
Too woebegone its harrowed hopes to weep.
His brown eyes in a sea of sadness steep,
The sadness of a soul that knows no morrow,
Too woebegone its harrowed hopes to weep.
The roar of traffic fills the air with riot;
The earth beneath the motor-busses quakes:
But he no heed, in his despairful quiet,
Of Life's apocalyptic uproar takes.
The earth beneath the motor-busses quakes:
But he no heed, in his despairful quiet,
Of Life's apocalyptic uproar takes.
I stop to pat his rugged head, in going,
For friends we are these many bygone days;
And for a friend's my hand and greeting knowing,
He lifts to me his sad and grateful gaze.
For friends we are these many bygone days;
And for a friend's my hand and greeting knowing,
He lifts to me his sad and grateful gaze.
What in this easy life of thine, then, fails thee?
What sorrow irks thee, sheepdog, thus, my friend?
What is the secret malady that ails thee
And stirs in thee this yearning without end?
What sorrow irks thee, sheepdog, thus, my friend?
What is the secret malady that ails thee
And stirs in thee this yearning without end?
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Art thou belike a son of moor and mountain
And longest for the land of hill and lake,
There, ere thou die, at some familiar fountain
The thirst of body and of soul to slake?
And longest for the land of hill and lake,
There, ere thou die, at some familiar fountain
The thirst of body and of soul to slake?
Dost thou, like me, thyself in dreams remember
Of antenatal lives of endless youth,
Where May foredarkened is by no December
And beauty fareth hand in hand with truth?
Of antenatal lives of endless youth,
Where May foredarkened is by no December
And beauty fareth hand in hand with truth?
Or is it but the world-woe that possesses
Thy sombre heart and frets thy speechless soul;
The load of pain perpetual, that oppresses
Our globe of grief, still frustred of its goal?
Thy sombre heart and frets thy speechless soul;
The load of pain perpetual, that oppresses
Our globe of grief, still frustred of its goal?
He answers not, but still his eye, appealing
To some vague power beyond the earth and air,
Speaks of a sorrow past all hope of healing,
A pain too deep to tell, too sharp to share.
To some vague power beyond the earth and air,
Speaks of a sorrow past all hope of healing,
A pain too deep to tell, too sharp to share.
Well, fare thee well, poor friend, since nought to quicken
Thy thought obscure I may or ease thy pain;
And (sooth to say) my soul, like thine, death-stricken
Is by a grief, whereof to tell were vain.
Thy thought obscure I may or ease thy pain;
And (sooth to say) my soul, like thine, death-stricken
Is by a grief, whereof to tell were vain.
THE FISHMONGER'S CAT.
Sleepy and sleek and fat,
On the sill of the shopwindow basks in the sunshine the fishmonger's cat;
Her fur in the sun shines black.
As happy is she as the course of the midsummer day is long:
Her paunch well-filled and the sun on her back,
Her song
She sings and looks with the scorn of content on the throng:
There's nothing that she doth lack.
On the sill of the shopwindow basks in the sunshine the fishmonger's cat;
Her fur in the sun shines black.
As happy is she as the course of the midsummer day is long:
Her paunch well-filled and the sun on her back,
Her song
She sings and looks with the scorn of content on the throng:
There's nothing that she doth lack.
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I stop to stroke her fur;
She answers my light caress with a low perfunctory purr,
Too much at her ease to budge:
There's nothing that's worth in the world her stirring from her place.
She blinks from her bed on the folk, that trudge
Apace
In the sun and the dust, with a careless, indifferent grace;
She beareth the world no grudge.
She answers my light caress with a low perfunctory purr,
Too much at her ease to budge:
There's nothing that's worth in the world her stirring from her place.
She blinks from her bed on the folk, that trudge
Apace
In the sun and the dust, with a careless, indifferent grace;
She beareth the world no grudge.
She knoweth the magic word,
That opens the Daedalus lock of the worlds unseen, unheard;
She holdeth the master-key,
The secret that sweeteneth life in weather foul and fair,
Things past unheeding and things to be,
Fore'er
In the golden Present to live and be and care
For nothing and nobody;
That opens the Daedalus lock of the worlds unseen, unheard;
She holdeth the master-key,
The secret that sweeteneth life in weather foul and fair,
Things past unheeding and things to be,
Fore'er
In the golden Present to live and be and care
For nothing and nobody;
To bask in the blessed sun,
To sleep by the homely hearth, when shining Summer's done,
Peace, only peace to prize,
In payment of scot for board and lodging, now and then,
The chase of a mouse for exercise,
—We men
At peace might have lived, like her, had Eve erewhen
And Adam but been wise.
To sleep by the homely hearth, when shining Summer's done,
Peace, only peace to prize,
In payment of scot for board and lodging, now and then,
The chase of a mouse for exercise,
—We men
At peace might have lived, like her, had Eve erewhen
And Adam but been wise.
Alack, with lore came thought
And hunger for what might ne'er be gotten, however sought:
Wish came and with it woe
And want of wisdom in peace to rest and be content
And will a-questing fore'er to go,
Intent
On phantom heavens, when heaven to us was lent
On earth, did we but know.
And hunger for what might ne'er be gotten, however sought:
Wish came and with it woe
And want of wisdom in peace to rest and be content
And will a-questing fore'er to go,
Intent
On phantom heavens, when heaven to us was lent
On earth, did we but know.
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Pussy, I envy thee:
Thou hast puzzled the problem out that is yet unsolved for me;
Thou art happier far than I,
Who have winnowed the world from East to West and nothing of worth
Or solace have founden far or nigh,
Whose dearth
There's nothing short of new heavens, above new earth
New-built, might satisfy.
Thou hast puzzled the problem out that is yet unsolved for me;
Thou art happier far than I,
Who have winnowed the world from East to West and nothing of worth
Or solace have founden far or nigh,
Whose dearth
There's nothing short of new heavens, above new earth
New-built, might satisfy.
THE CARTHORSE.
Midsummer in the skies unclouded burns;
The sun of noontide falls, with all its Dog-day force,
Upon a horse,
That, patient, at the corner stands and turns
His melancholy eye, appealing, sad,
On me,
As recognizing one, to whom recourse
Beast, bird or child in vain yet never had.
What is it ails thee, friend? Ah, there, I see:
The strap,
Whereby the nosebag o'er thy head was passed,
By some mishap,
Hath broken loose and down upon the ground
Its burden dropped, whilst thou, poor beast, being fast
To the constraining shafts, in the fierce heat
Disconsolate standest, hungering, yet meek,
And look'st, with mild misgiving gaze, around,
As if to seek
Some charitable hand to help thee to thy meat.
The sun of noontide falls, with all its Dog-day force,
Upon a horse,
That, patient, at the corner stands and turns
His melancholy eye, appealing, sad,
On me,
As recognizing one, to whom recourse
Beast, bird or child in vain yet never had.
What is it ails thee, friend? Ah, there, I see:
The strap,
Whereby the nosebag o'er thy head was passed,
By some mishap,
Hath broken loose and down upon the ground
Its burden dropped, whilst thou, poor beast, being fast
To the constraining shafts, in the fierce heat
Disconsolate standest, hungering, yet meek,
And look'st, with mild misgiving gaze, around,
As if to seek
Some charitable hand to help thee to thy meat.
Out knife, and in a trice the trick is done!
A new hole deftly bored, to hold the buckle-pin,
The strap within;
And lightly o'er thy head the bag is run,
Its mouth convenient offering to thine own.
So thou,
Unhampered, mayst anew to feed begin.
Then a step forward, where some shade is thrown
By the o'erhanging eaves, I lead thee. Now
At ease
From the brain-battering sun thou stand'st, at least,
Where some slight breeze
Freshens thy weary limbs and head down bowed,
And I may leave thee to thy frugal feast,
Obtempered having to thy silent suit,
Regardless of the idle passers-by,
Who gape and gather in an idiot crowd,
Dull wondering why
A man should service stay to render to a brute.
A new hole deftly bored, to hold the buckle-pin,
The strap within;
And lightly o'er thy head the bag is run,
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So thou,
Unhampered, mayst anew to feed begin.
Then a step forward, where some shade is thrown
By the o'erhanging eaves, I lead thee. Now
At ease
From the brain-battering sun thou stand'st, at least,
Where some slight breeze
Freshens thy weary limbs and head down bowed,
And I may leave thee to thy frugal feast,
Obtempered having to thy silent suit,
Regardless of the idle passers-by,
Who gape and gather in an idiot crowd,
Dull wondering why
A man should service stay to render to a brute.
But still thy gaze on me, thy fodder o'er,
As if, “Nay, go not yet!” beseeching, thou dost bend.
What is it, friend?
What ails thee yet? What wilt thou with me more?
That which I might indeed for thee I've done,
God wot:
Thy food unto thy lips I did commend
Again and eased thee of the galling sun.
For thee what more than this, meknoweth not,
I can.
But with thy look thou answerest me, “Thou
That art a man,
(And Man forsooth's the beasts' Divinity,)
My body hast thou succoured. Succour now
My sad dumb soul, that cannot voice its needs.
Help it return unto its dreamland's home:
From this grim round of grief deliver me
And let me roam
Once more the pleasant plains, the fragrant, flowering meads!”
As if, “Nay, go not yet!” beseeching, thou dost bend.
What is it, friend?
What ails thee yet? What wilt thou with me more?
That which I might indeed for thee I've done,
God wot:
Thy food unto thy lips I did commend
Again and eased thee of the galling sun.
For thee what more than this, meknoweth not,
I can.
But with thy look thou answerest me, “Thou
That art a man,
(And Man forsooth's the beasts' Divinity,)
My body hast thou succoured. Succour now
My sad dumb soul, that cannot voice its needs.
Help it return unto its dreamland's home:
From this grim round of grief deliver me
And let me roam
Once more the pleasant plains, the fragrant, flowering meads!”
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Alack, poor friend, I can no more for thee!
Man as I am, I share with thee in thy duresse;
Bondman, no less
Than thou, am I of blind fatality:
An exile, too, in this our world of woe
Am I
And know no balsam for the soul's distress.
Like thee, I walk its ways of strife and show,
Condemned in grief and gloom to live and die,
Nor hope
To see the enchanted meadows of my dreams,
Under Heaven's scope
Of gold and azure, flower beneath my feet.
Yet, if, beyond this place of shows and seems,
The lovelands of our hope, indeed, exist,
I doubt not, as with all on earth that fare
The exile's rugged road, with thee to meet,
Meek martyr, there;
And there, beyond Death's gate, poor friend, I give thee tryst.
Man as I am, I share with thee in thy duresse;
Bondman, no less
Than thou, am I of blind fatality:
An exile, too, in this our world of woe
Am I
And know no balsam for the soul's distress.
Like thee, I walk its ways of strife and show,
Condemned in grief and gloom to live and die,
Nor hope
To see the enchanted meadows of my dreams,
Under Heaven's scope
Of gold and azure, flower beneath my feet.
Yet, if, beyond this place of shows and seems,
The lovelands of our hope, indeed, exist,
I doubt not, as with all on earth that fare
The exile's rugged road, with thee to meet,
Meek martyr, there;
And there, beyond Death's gate, poor friend, I give thee tryst.
THE ASS.
Whenever by the way I see an ass
Standing sedate,
With pendent head and meditative eye,
Though all the world cry scorn, I cannot pass
The philosophic beast unheeded by,
But must, perforce,
Whatever errand wait,
Whatever purpose animate my feet,
A moment stay my course,
To lay my hand upon his hairy pate
And greeting mute
With him to exchange, such as to those seems meet
Whose hearts may not ignore the soul within the brute.
Standing sedate,
With pendent head and meditative eye,
Though all the world cry scorn, I cannot pass
The philosophic beast unheeded by,
But must, perforce,
Whatever errand wait,
Whatever purpose animate my feet,
A moment stay my course,
To lay my hand upon his hairy pate
And greeting mute
With him to exchange, such as to those seems meet
Whose hearts may not ignore the soul within the brute.
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Under his ragged hide, his tattered fur,
Whereon the signs
Of sufferance are writ and toil and blows,
The heart divines the true philosopher,
Who through Life's shadow-pageant unmoved goes
And unto pain
And joy himself resigns,
As void alike of true significance,
To this is not o'erfain
Nor overmuch for that, in turn, repines,
Who is not bond
To chance nor thrall to shifting circumstance,
But through Life's moment feels th'eternity beyond.
Whereon the signs
Of sufferance are writ and toil and blows,
The heart divines the true philosopher,
Who through Life's shadow-pageant unmoved goes
And unto pain
And joy himself resigns,
As void alike of true significance,
To this is not o'erfain
Nor overmuch for that, in turn, repines,
Who is not bond
To chance nor thrall to shifting circumstance,
But through Life's moment feels th'eternity beyond.
Like Chapman's hero-duke, the lore of life
And death knows he;
And who can tell what measureless contempt
For this dull round of vain and shiftless strife
Of ours he harbours in his head unkempt,
What dreams of lands
Phantasmagoric flee
Athwart the darkling chambers of his brain,
As, patient, there he stands
And waits, with head bowed wellnigh to his knee,
His master's will,
What visions pass, what Paradisal plain
His free thought roams and feeds therein its frolic fill?
And death knows he;
And who can tell what measureless contempt
For this dull round of vain and shiftless strife
Of ours he harbours in his head unkempt,
What dreams of lands
Phantasmagoric flee
Athwart the darkling chambers of his brain,
As, patient, there he stands
And waits, with head bowed wellnigh to his knee,
His master's will,
What visions pass, what Paradisal plain
His free thought roams and feeds therein its frolic fill?
What matter, brother, if men lightly thee,
If of thy name,
For unperceptive pride inapt or loath
To appraise thy stoic magnanimity,
A byword for unwit and stubborn sloth
They've idly made!
Be theirs, not thine, the shame!
As well on Epictetus' self they might
A like reproach have laid,
As well with Zeno's mighty memory frame
Or Socrates'
A title of contempt, as thus to slight
Thee, that, man insomuch as beast may, likenest these!
If of thy name,
For unperceptive pride inapt or loath
To appraise thy stoic magnanimity,
A byword for unwit and stubborn sloth
They've idly made!
Be theirs, not thine, the shame!
As well on Epictetus' self they might
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As well with Zeno's mighty memory frame
Or Socrates'
A title of contempt, as thus to slight
Thee, that, man insomuch as beast may, likenest these!
Certes, full measure unto them their scorn
Dost thou repay.
Brother, who knoweth but in asses' speech
The name of man in like contempt be borne
And with thy long-eared brethren, each with each
Fabling, it pass
For token and assay
Of brutish dulness and unreasoning pride,
Even as the name of ass
Unjustly among men is current? Nay,
I doubt it not;
For, underneath thy rough and hairy hide,
A spirit dwells that had deserved a loftier lot.
Dost thou repay.
Brother, who knoweth but in asses' speech
The name of man in like contempt be borne
And with thy long-eared brethren, each with each
Fabling, it pass
For token and assay
Of brutish dulness and unreasoning pride,
Even as the name of ass
Unjustly among men is current? Nay,
I doubt it not;
For, underneath thy rough and hairy hide,
A spirit dwells that had deserved a loftier lot.
O'er proud to murmur at thy case thou art.
Unlike mankind,
Who still with idle plaints the welkin shake,
Unable to preserve a constant heart,
And rail at heaven, if a finger ache,
Thou meetest ill
And weal with equal mind
And shakest but thine ears beneath the rain
Of blows, opposing still
Thy stoic sheer endurance to each wind
And blast of Fate,
Nor of thy magnanimity dost deign
Thy tyrant aught but scorn to render, and not hate.
Unlike mankind,
Who still with idle plaints the welkin shake,
Unable to preserve a constant heart,
And rail at heaven, if a finger ache,
Thou meetest ill
And weal with equal mind
And shakest but thine ears beneath the rain
Of blows, opposing still
Thy stoic sheer endurance to each wind
And blast of Fate,
Nor of thy magnanimity dost deign
Thy tyrant aught but scorn to render, and not hate.
God wot, thy life for cheer hath little scope;
A dreary round
Of dull monotonous toil, without a break,
And Heaven knows what at end thereof to hope,
Except it be to sleep and not to wake.
Uneath return
There may for thee be found
Unto the Syrian deserts of thy sires,
Whereas the vast suns burn
Upon the tamarisks and the jérboas bound
Across the sands;
Thy thought uneath beyond the Western fires
May look for life renewed in better, brighter lands.
A dreary round
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And Heaven knows what at end thereof to hope,
Except it be to sleep and not to wake.
Uneath return
There may for thee be found
Unto the Syrian deserts of thy sires,
Whereas the vast suns burn
Upon the tamarisks and the jérboas bound
Across the sands;
Thy thought uneath beyond the Western fires
May look for life renewed in better, brighter lands.
Who knows what fancies fill thy daylong dream,
That nought can stir,
And cuirass thee 'gainst curses, kicks and blows?
What mirages of peace before thee gleam,
What scapes of spheres beyond our world of woes,
There's none can tell.
But this aver we may;
Some secret solace fortifies thy soul,
Some anaesthetic spell
Deadens thy sense to all that doth o'erstray
Thy world unknown,
So that, impervious to joy and dole,
Walled in thy waking dream, thou liv'st and di'st alone.
That nought can stir,
And cuirass thee 'gainst curses, kicks and blows?
What mirages of peace before thee gleam,
What scapes of spheres beyond our world of woes,
There's none can tell.
But this aver we may;
Some secret solace fortifies thy soul,
Some anaesthetic spell
Deadens thy sense to all that doth o'erstray
Thy world unknown,
So that, impervious to joy and dole,
Walled in thy waking dream, thou liv'st and di'st alone.
Wherefore o'er all the beasts I honour thee,
Brother; for thou
Art even as the sage, that, in Life's night
Doomed, like an exile banished oversea,
To live in sorrow, far from love and light,
Fares with head bent
And meditative brow,
Upon his inward vision, mid Life's hum
Of vanities, intent;
Nor doubt to see the scorn, that brands thee now,
To honour turned,
In the time coming, if indeed it come,
When men the True and Fair to reverence shall have learned.
Brother; for thou
Art even as the sage, that, in Life's night
Doomed, like an exile banished oversea,
To live in sorrow, far from love and light,
Fares with head bent
And meditative brow,
Upon his inward vision, mid Life's hum
Of vanities, intent;
Nor doubt to see the scorn, that brands thee now,
To honour turned,
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When men the True and Fair to reverence shall have learned.
HOUSEHOLD GHOSTS.
My cats sit, gravely on the firelight gazing,
That flames and fades:
I see seven bask before the embers blazing;
But five are shades.
Top, Dandie, live; but Robin, Partie, Rover,
Shireen and Mick, their earthly ills are over,
Their bodies lie and rot beneath the mould.
Yet, in this ghost-evoking Yuletide weather,
All sit for me before the fire together;
Their kind cat-faces greet me, as of old.
That flames and fades:
I see seven bask before the embers blazing;
But five are shades.
Top, Dandie, live; but Robin, Partie, Rover,
Shireen and Mick, their earthly ills are over,
Their bodies lie and rot beneath the mould.
Yet, in this ghost-evoking Yuletide weather,
All sit for me before the fire together;
Their kind cat-faces greet me, as of old.
The live ones trench not on the dead ones' places;
Each hath his own;
His viewless limit unto each one traces
A hand unknown.
News of the land, no doubt, with shadow-voices,
The land whereas one mourns not nor rejoices,
Unto the live their shadow-fellows tell,
News of the world beyond the night and morning,
The world where gladness is not neither mourning,
Where all desireless is and all is well.
Each hath his own;
His viewless limit unto each one traces
A hand unknown.
News of the land, no doubt, with shadow-voices,
The land whereas one mourns not nor rejoices,
Unto the live their shadow-fellows tell,
News of the world beyond the night and morning,
The world where gladness is not neither mourning,
Where all desireless is and all is well.
Many are the friends with whom hath Time denied me
Till death to fare;
Many are the phantom-shapes that sit beside me,
Before the flare;
And oft for comrades, lovers, unforgetting,
Wrung is my heart with yearning and regretting.
Yet many an hour there is in which I'd fain,
Of all the dear dead, 'neath the clay that moulder,
Feel Rover's fondling head upon my shoulder
Or Partie's paws about my neck again.
Till death to fare;
Many are the phantom-shapes that sit beside me,
Before the flare;
And oft for comrades, lovers, unforgetting,
Wrung is my heart with yearning and regretting.
Yet many an hour there is in which I'd fain,
Of all the dear dead, 'neath the clay that moulder,
Feel Rover's fondling head upon my shoulder
Or Partie's paws about my neck again.
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What limboes they inhabit now, who knoweth,
What shadow-airs?
But this I know, in few men's bosoms gloweth
Such love as theirs.
And when folk say that Bismarck, Gladstone, Krüger,
Pro-Boer, Logroller, journalist, Landleaguer,
All souls possess and only these have none,
These for whom life was love, this, to my deeming,
Of all the lies that shame our world of seeming,
The idlest shows beneath the all-suffering sun.
What shadow-airs?
But this I know, in few men's bosoms gloweth
Such love as theirs.
And when folk say that Bismarck, Gladstone, Krüger,
Pro-Boer, Logroller, journalist, Landleaguer,
All souls possess and only these have none,
These for whom life was love, this, to my deeming,
Of all the lies that shame our world of seeming,
The idlest shows beneath the all-suffering sun.
THE PITY OF IT.
The patience of the brutes, it breaks my heart!
To see
The mule bowed down beneath the crushing load,
The sheep, the swine, the kine, through street and mart
To slaughter driven with dog and scourge and goad,
To mark it maddens me,
The horse's eye beneath the lash's smart,
The ass's martyr magnanimity.
To see
The mule bowed down beneath the crushing load,
The sheep, the swine, the kine, through street and mart
To slaughter driven with dog and scourge and goad,
To mark it maddens me,
The horse's eye beneath the lash's smart,
The ass's martyr magnanimity.
The brutes, that know no joy,
That drudge from dawn to night,
Year in, year out,
Bearing the burden, in their dull employ,
From morn till evening bring the dark about,
Their labour ended scarce with ended light,
That know of no surcease,
No time of pleasant peace,
No hour of dreaming in the summer day,
No pause of play,
No frolic wandering in the fields of May,
Nor even, to recompense
Of all their sweat's expense,
May look, — save here and there,
And only on our sacred Saxon soil,
Our dear-belovéd land,
Our isle of manlihead and gentleness,
— For aught but careless harshness at his hand
Who tradeth on their toil,
Nor (save in England's earth, which Heaven bless!)
Assurance due may have of drink and meat,
To stay them in their stress,
Of the sheer couch of straw and shelter feat,
Of common ruth and justice in duresse!
That drudge from dawn to night,
Year in, year out,
Bearing the burden, in their dull employ,
From morn till evening bring the dark about,
Their labour ended scarce with ended light,
That know of no surcease,
No time of pleasant peace,
No hour of dreaming in the summer day,
No pause of play,
No frolic wandering in the fields of May,
Nor even, to recompense
Of all their sweat's expense,
May look, — save here and there,
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Our dear-belovéd land,
Our isle of manlihead and gentleness,
— For aught but careless harshness at his hand
Who tradeth on their toil,
Nor (save in England's earth, which Heaven bless!)
Assurance due may have of drink and meat,
To stay them in their stress,
Of the sheer couch of straw and shelter feat,
Of common ruth and justice in duresse!
Marry how oft have I,
In Spanish, German, French, Italian ways,
(In England seldom yet, to God the praise!)
Driven to despair well nigh,
Possessed with pity inexpressible,
That forced me put my English muteness by,
To see the cattle's hell,
The mule's, the ass's, horse's scars unhealed,
The hopeless misery, the anguish mute,
The untended wounds ableed
Of the starved, tortured beasts, essayed to plead
With their churl tyrants, hearts to pity sealed,
And had to answer, “Pooh! 'Tis but a brute!”
In Spanish, German, French, Italian ways,
(In England seldom yet, to God the praise!)
Driven to despair well nigh,
Possessed with pity inexpressible,
That forced me put my English muteness by,
To see the cattle's hell,
The mule's, the ass's, horse's scars unhealed,
The hopeless misery, the anguish mute,
The untended wounds ableed
Of the starved, tortured beasts, essayed to plead
With their churl tyrants, hearts to pity sealed,
And had to answer, “Pooh! 'Tis but a brute!”
Man, so the adage runs,
The beasts' God is; say, rather, demon dire,
Such as that Moloch, who his servants' sons
And daughters erst devoured, their little ones,
Unpitying, clasping in his clutch of fire,
Or as the God of Sina's rugged hill,
With fire and thunder shod,
In blood and ravin wallowing His fill,
His friends scarce knowing from His enemies;
— Man such a demon-God to the beasts is.
And yet this barbarous God,
— As cruel as the God himself hath wrought
In his own likeness and in heaven on high
Set for his service, trembling at His nod
Whom he of his own thought
Hath fashioned for a fetish, in the sky
To stand between himself and formless Fate,
— This God, by whom the beasts are bought and sold'
This God, — ay, there's tbe rub! — they love, not hate.
The beasts' God is; say, rather, demon dire,
Such as that Moloch, who his servants' sons
And daughters erst devoured, their little ones,
Unpitying, clasping in his clutch of fire,
Or as the God of Sina's rugged hill,
With fire and thunder shod,
In blood and ravin wallowing His fill,
His friends scarce knowing from His enemies;
— Man such a demon-God to the beasts is.
And yet this barbarous God,
— As cruel as the God himself hath wrought
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Set for his service, trembling at His nod
Whom he of his own thought
Hath fashioned for a fetish, in the sky
To stand between himself and formless Fate,
— This God, by whom the beasts are bought and sold'
This God, — ay, there's tbe rub! — they love, not hate.
Such love who ever knew,
So pure, so frank, so true,
Such simple, uncorrupted faith from man
Who ever had, as that which any may,
During their narrow span
Of life, alack! their all too little day,
For just a word or two
Of careless kindness, for some scant and few
Caresses, for sheer food and shelter due,
From cat or dog or horse himself procure?
Who of us all, that hath but eyes to see
And ears to hark,
But every day must mark
How simpler, purer are the beasts than we,
Who, with our keener ken,
Knowing the light, yet follow on the dark,
How faithfuller they are, how passion-free,
How wiser, truer, better far than men?
So pure, so frank, so true,
Such simple, uncorrupted faith from man
Who ever had, as that which any may,
During their narrow span
Of life, alack! their all too little day,
For just a word or two
Of careless kindness, for some scant and few
Caresses, for sheer food and shelter due,
From cat or dog or horse himself procure?
Who of us all, that hath but eyes to see
And ears to hark,
But every day must mark
How simpler, purer are the beasts than we,
Who, with our keener ken,
Knowing the light, yet follow on the dark,
How faithfuller they are, how passion-free,
How wiser, truer, better far than men?
Nay, what boots preaching? Who are they that hear?
Who, in our darkling day
Of strife and stress and wild hysteric play,
Who is there to the message will give ear
Of him who crieth in the deserts grey?
Our current creeds are mute
Of duty to the brute:
To our exemplar, Christ, the beast was nought;
Man only had, in sum,
The franchise of the kingdom of His thought.
It booteth nothing till the new Gods come,
(Whose kingdom nigh at hand all signs foresay,
As dying Night foretells the nearing Day,)
Who, peradventure, by the lore of Ind,
Shall teach the heedless world that humankind
With its dumb brethren shares the Undifferenced Soul
And that one breath divine
For man and beast is and one common goal.
Who, in our darkling day
Of strife and stress and wild hysteric play,
Who is there to the message will give ear
Of him who crieth in the deserts grey?
Our current creeds are mute
Of duty to the brute:
To our exemplar, Christ, the beast was nought;
Man only had, in sum,
The franchise of the kingdom of His thought.
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(Whose kingdom nigh at hand all signs foresay,
As dying Night foretells the nearing Day,)
Who, peradventure, by the lore of Ind,
Shall teach the heedless world that humankind
With its dumb brethren shares the Undifferenced Soul
And that one breath divine
For man and beast is and one common goal.
Till then, the beasts' repine
To endure and this their dole
To see and hopeless of amendment know,
Still, patient as themselves, ourselves resign
Must we. But, yet, the pity of it, oh,
The pity, pity of it, brothers mine!
To endure and this their dole
To see and hopeless of amendment know,
Still, patient as themselves, ourselves resign
Must we. But, yet, the pity of it, oh,
The pity, pity of it, brothers mine!
| Carol and Cadence | |