It is Her peace that ye go to break

Not mine, nor any king's.

But, touching your clamour of 'Conscience sake,'

I care for none of these things.

Whether ye rise for the sake of a creed,

Or riot in hope of spoil,

Equally will I punish the deed,

Equally check the broil;

Nowise permitting injustice at all
From whatever doctrine it springs-
But whether ye follow Priapus or Paul,
I care for none of these things!"

THE BEES AND THE FLIES

A FARMER of the Augustan Age
Perused in Virgil's golden page,

The story of the secret won
From Proteus by Cyrene's son—

How the dank sea-god showed the swain

Means to restore his hives again.

More briefly, how a slaughtered bull

Breeds honey by the bellyful.

The egregious rustic put to death
A bull by stopping of its breath,
Disposed the carcass in a shed

With fragrant herbs and branches spread,
And, having well performed the charm,
Sat down to wait the promised swarm.

Nor waited long. The God of Day
Impartial, quickening with his ray
Evil and good alike, beheld

The carcass-and the carcass swelled.

Big with new birth the belly heaves
Beneath its screen of scented leaves.
Past any doubt, the bull conceives!

The farmer bids men bring more hives
To house the profit that arrives;
Prepares on pan, and key and kettle,
Sweet music that shall make 'em settle;
But when to crown the work he goes,
Gods! What a stink salutes his nose!

Where are the honest toilers? Where
The gravid mistress of their care?
A busy scene, indeed, he sees,
But not a sign or sound of bees.
Worms of the riper grave unhid
By any kindly coffin-lid,

Obscene and shameless to the light,
Seethe in insatiate appetite,

Through putrid offal, while above
The hissing blow-fly seeks his love,

Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.

ROAD-SONG OF THE BANDAR-LOG

HERE we go in a flung festoon,

Half-way up to the jealous moon! you envy our pranceful bands?

Don't

Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Wouldn't you like if your tails were—so—
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?

Now you're angry, but-never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two-
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.

Now we're going to-never mind,
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!

All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird-
Hide or fin or scale or feather-
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.

Let's pretend we are . . . Never mind!
Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure-be sure, we're going to do some splendid things!

THE FABULISTS

1914-18

WHEN all the world would keep a matter hid,
Since Truth is seldom friend to any crowd,

Men write in fable, as old Æsop did,

Jesting at that which none will name aloud. And this they needs must do, or it will fall Unless they please they are not heard at all

When desperate Folly daily laboureth

To work confusion upon all we have,

When diligent Sloth demandeth Freedom's death,
And banded Fear commandeth Honour's grave-
Even in that certain hour before the fall
Unless men please they are not heard at all.

Needs must all please, yet some not all for need
Needs must all toil, yet some not all for gain,
But that men taking pleasure may take heed,

Whom present toil shall snatch from later pain. Thus some have toiled but their reward was small Since, though they pleased, they were not heard at all.

This was the lock that lay upon our lips,

This was the yoke that we have undergone, Denying us all pleasant fellowships

As in our time and generation.

Our pleasures unpursued age past recall.
And for our pains-we are not heard at all.

What man hears aught except the groaning guns? What man heeds aught save what each instant brings? When each man's life all imaged life outruns,

What man shall pleasure in imaginings?

So it hath fallen, as it was bound to fall,
We are not, nor we were not, heard at all.

"OUR FATHERS ALSO❞

THRONES, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,
Are changing 'neath our hand.

Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.

By-they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire-

Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.

The grapes are pressed, the corn is shockedStandeth no more to glean;

For the Gates of Love and Learning locked When they went out between.

All lore our Lady Venus bares,

Signalled it was or told

By the dear lips long given to theirs

And longer to the mould.

All Profit, all Device, all Truth

Written it was or said

By the mighty men of their mighty youth,

Which is mighty being dead.

The film that floats before their eyes

The Temple's Veil they call;

And the dust that on the Shewbread lies

Is holy over all.

Warn them of seas that slip our yoke

Of slow-conspiring stars

The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?

By-they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire-
Cushioned about on the kindly years

Between the wall and the fire!