It is not in my heart to hate the pleasant sins I leave. Earth’s passion flames within me fierce and strong. But this is like a shadow ever rising up to thieve Sin’s pleasures, and the lure of every pattern lust can weave, And charm of all things that can do Him wrong. THE BUGLER God dreamed a man; Then, having firmly shut Life like a precious metal in his fist, Withdrew, His labour done. Thus did begin Our various divinity and sin. For some to ploughshares did the metal twist, And others--dreaming empires--straightway cut Crowns for their aching foreheads. Others beat Long nails and heavy hammers for the feet Of their forgotten Lord. (Who dare to boast That he is guiltless?) Others coined it: most Did with it--simply nothing. (Here, again, Who cries his innocence?) Yet doth remain Metal unmarred, to each man more or less, Whereof to fashion perfect loveliness. For me, I do but bear within my hand (For sake of Him our Lord, now long forsaken) A simple bugle such as may awaken With one high morning note a drowsing man: That wheresoe’er within my motherland The sound may come, ’twill echo far and wide Like pipes of battle calling up a clan, Trumpeting men through beauty to God’s side. PRINTED BY HAZELL, WATSON AND VINEY, LD., LONDON AND AYLESBURY. TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.