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.

died.

Then he

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.
Mock not.

thine."

These be

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?"