Poor fools, we dare not dream it! We that pule and whine Of art and science, we, whose great souls leave no shrine Unshattered, we that climb the Sinai Shakespeare trod, The Olivets where Beethoven walked and talked with God, We that have weighed the stars and reined the lightning, we That stare thro' heaven and plant our footsteps in the sea, We whose great souls have risen so far above the creeds That we can jest at Christ and leave Him where He bleeds, A legend of the dark, a tale so false or true That howsoe'er we jest at Him, the jest sounds new. (Our weariest dinner-tables never tire of that! Let the clown sport with Christ, never the jest falls flat!) Poor fools, we dare not dream a dream so strange, so great, As on this ball of dust to found one "world-wide state," To float one common flag above our little lands, And ere our little sun grows cold to clasp our hands In friendship for a moment! * * * * Hark, the violins Are swooning through the mist. The great blue band begins, Playing, in dainty scorn, a hymn we used to know, How long was it, ten thousand thousand years ago? _There is a green hill far away Beside a City wall!_-- And O, the music swung a-stray With a solemn dying fall; For it was a pleasant jest to play Hymns in the Devil's Hall. And yet, and yet, if aught be true, This dream we left behind, This childish Christ, be-mocked anew To please the men of mind, Yet hung so far beyond the flight Of our most lofty thought That--Lucifer laughed _at_ us that night. Not _with_ us, as he ought. Beneath the blood-red lamp of Mars, Cloaked with a scarlet cloud He gazed along the line of stars Above the guzzling crowd: Sinister, thunder-scarred, he raised His great world-wandering eyes, And on some distant vision gazed Beyond our cloudy skies. "_Poor bats_," he sneered, "_their jungle-dark Civilisation's noon! Poor wolves, that hunt in packs and bark Beneath the grinning moon; Poor fools, that cast the cross away, Before they break the sword; Poor sots, who take the night for day; Have mercy on me, Lord._ "_Beyond their wisdom's deepest skies I see Thee hanging yet, The love still hungering in Thine eyes, Thy plaited crown still wet! Thine arms outstretched to fold them all Beneath Thy sheltering breast; But--since they will not hear Thy call, Lord, I forbear to jest._ "_Lord, I forbear! The day I fell I fell at least thro' pride! Rather than these should share my hell Take me, thou Crucified! O, let me share Thy cross of grief, And let me work Thy will, As morning star, or dying thief. Thy fallen angel still._