Why should'st thou sorrow? Why those bleeding feet? Thy humble garment? Yon rapt, far-off gaze? The voice that falters thro' its dim entreat? Thy brow, sore pondering of this thankless maze,-- Thy brow, where lo!--ah, 'tis the riddle which I blind pursue-- Yon fond star frets it and divides thy gloom: Hark! Wilt thou not lend it me? In guise of True, Let its rose be grafted on my baser bloom? Since, how then still goodlier might my outward show; My pose, my policy, each brood of shame, Which my wily statists at their game of draw-- My foxy henchmen--give a smoother name; How still more potent were my toils than now,-- When "Nay" spoke gently Glory, "that out-goes my leave: How might I stand me where the high Fates bow Before the Will, that crowns no issue not thine own achieve." "What! Thou wilt not?" Came the fierce respond, As on deep Night there rose a mocking and a damned wail, "Mark how I justify my bitter bond, How where fools refuse me there I grim assail!" When, forth, on its fell errand, went a grisly hand, As the dread skies shook them and the winds spoke hoarse, To grasp the star no wheedling parley, nor no harsh command, May impious sever from its bounden course. Nay, for one foul moment gripped it, made the Jewel press Those hairy temples where the gross thoughts strive To vie the light no false faith borrows, so its sheen may bless And cloak the trickster while his jugglings thrive; But like a shadow shall its wonder chill: So even here: it left more pinched the low brow there, Yet, as if sorry even for unrighteous will, Made still, for ruth, the base ridge wear, At upward blazon 'tward yon veiled Deeps, Where the lights ensky them past the zenith star, A blot--a bruise, whose fiery throb no opiate sleeps, A branding, brazen, yet a piteous scar; Which, in his better hour, he, the ogre, Greed, Applying to its sorry wound the comfort of the salve, Which 'gainst Time's woe, for even him, the high Hopes breed, Allays that brutal sting--his love of Rule and lust of Have. But out, alas! When sad companion of the fated Night, Whence, struggling tho' her bitter spur, his dark will came, He aims to conjure with yon gentler Light, To screen his knavish Cant, filch Glory's name; When cloaked in practise, till the Heavens doubt, False hopes estrange him with his franker star; How vengeful then, how giant grim, stands fiery out Yon thievish, brazen, branding Scar! TO ENGLAND: A FORECAST. (With a side-light on Kipling's verse "The Islanders.") "Those flanneled fools at the wicket, Those muddied Oafs at the goal."