Oh, yes, thro' stress and truce, and right along, It still repeats the old-time game, How brother Weak met brother Strong, Who saw, and took, and felt no shame. Whom so self-dread, that final awe, Could graft on soul this chastening sense-- That endless widening circles Law, Rules nations' hopes as single mens'. But strangled fierce his safer light, Let smiling Nears hide frowning Fars, Whose then approach twice ruthless write, To hastening pace, fulfilling Stars. Who pinned on back of brazen years This shrift o' theirs to coming times: "He minded not the silent leers, The steady sooth the Sybil rhymes." Whose burdened wreath may never bear 'Mong graven gems this baser stone, Which, from low seat tho' crude it flare, Twice sorry dims the blazoned throne-- While doubly thence its legend reads: "I tithe no blench to higher Wills, But hold it cardinal 'mong creeds 'Tis love of self that all fulfills." Since, certes, good John, the wide Fates kiss: Their sum-up Clerks need not be told By one grim page to set this quizz-- "So little wise and yet so old." So heady still, spite curb of years, Such toper there where hard heads brew Against some Guest that sobering nears, From draff o' old the cleaner New. From cross of Days some bear-up Creed-- To sum of Why the sweet Reply, Than cyphered Fate of clearer breed, And purge to text she teacheth by-- The "yea" to "nay" of self-sick man, What crowns his raw and groan-fed Stars; With olived light the vulture's span That gores as yet all warding bars; Who, tho' still she strew her trophied trail O'er sanguine sore, but fading seas, Marks lift, and girt with nobler mail, As sturdy rise, white-bucklered Peace. * * * * * But I have had my little say:-- The Muse is such a taunting lass; She grips your hand, and will or nay, 'Tis bear her tongue ere brooked to pass-- In sooth, she says she's really done: O'erhead a prim and foolish Moon, In trappings borrowed from the Sun, Flaunts gay her frock and silver shoon. E'en so will human Wit fling wide Its took-on crest and glittering gear, What are but glancings as they glide From off the Truth's all-spanning sphere. So will the Muse stand hard at gaze Beneath this mystic, myriad Arch, Hear faint thro' rush of whirling days Time's silent roundsmen file and march-- Their never ending, ordered beat, Those footsteps yare that warning fall And charge each hand to bide the meet, Account his watch, or void the Roll. Nay, nothing daunted, pause to catch Perhaps their song, perhaps the jars; Through sting and throb, at strain to match Their measures to some boundless Star's.