The smoke upon your Altar dies, The flowers decay, The Goddess of your sacrifice Has flown away. What profit, then, to sing or slay The sacrifice from day to day? "We know the Shrine is void," they said, "The Goddess flown-- Yet wreaths are on the Altar laid-- The Altar-Stone Is black with fumes of sacrifice, Albeit She has fled our eyes. "For it may be, if still we sing And tend the Shrine, Some Deity on wandering wing May there incline; And, finding all in order meet, Stay while we worship at Her feet." VIII RECESSIONAL The Recessional is one of the most popular poems of this century. It is a warning to age and a nation drunk with power, a rebuke to materialistic tendencies and boastfulness, a protest against pride. "Reverence is the master-key of knowledge." God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- Beneath whose awful Hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet Lest we forget--lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies-- The captains and the kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! Far-called our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boasting as the Gentiles use Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. IX L'ENVOI When Earth's last picture is painted, and the tubes are twisted and dried, When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died, We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it--lie down for an aeon or two, Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall set us to work anew! And those who were good shall be happy: they shall sit in a golden chair; They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comet's hair; They shall find real saints to draw from--Magdalene, Peter, and Paul; They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!