Philosophies

Name: Philosophies
Author: Ross, Ronald, Sir
Ross, Ronald, Sir
Poetry
*        *        *        *        *

                LIES

                 I

    Come, lie to us, let us glow;
      Pour out the red wine; speak;
    Pour out the sweet lies—so
      We shall be warm and sleek.

    Tell us in manner high
      The flattering things that soothe;
    But hush the outer cry
      And crush the inner truth.

    What matters all the din
      Of truth—discordant cries?
    We quaff the joyous wine
      And lap ourselves in lies.

    The lordly anthem peals
      The while the people rot;
    The gilded church reveals
      The penury of their lot.

    No matter—let them starve!
      The gorgeous mass atones;
    These glorious arches serve
      To sepulchre their bones.

    Come, hymn the dying wretch
      With pæans on the harps;
    Nard and vermilion fetch
      To paint and scent the corpse.


                 II

    Into the hand of man,
      When by the gods first form’d,
    They gave this talisman,
      The dull stone Reason, arm’d

    With which to brave the skies
      And make the earth his throne.
    But to his infant eyes
      A brighter treasure shone—

    The tinsel Fancy, flame
      Illusive; and alas,
    He flung away the gem
      And took the glittering glass.


                 III

    Vain, vain the visions—vain,
      Dreams that intoxicate
    In the dark day when men
      Come face to face with fate.

    Not out of knowledge grown
      The empty dogmas rise,
    But gilded bubbles blown
      From the foul froth of lies.

    Cease! Let the lies be hurl’d
      Back to the darkling past.
    Truth, only, saves the world,
      And Science rules the vast.

                 *        *        *        *        *

     TRUTH-SERVICE AND SELF-SERVICE

                 I

    Alas! we know not what
      Withholds us from the goal
    For ever; an inner rot
      Consumes the seeing soul.

    Only the truth will serve;
      But he who follows it,
    And finds, has not the nerve
      To rule the world with it.

    The cunning keep the crown;
      And fate decrees that he
    Who lives with truth alone
      Shall win no victory.


                 II

    Not to be granted great,
      Not to be crowned in youth,
    His soul is passionate
      With anger for the truth.

    He feels the spirit-drouth,
      He seeks the mad emprise
    To mock the mocking mouth
      And smite the lips of lies.

    Not his the happy guile
      To veil the flinching eye,
    Here where we sit and smile
      To hear each other lie.

    But ours to live, forsooth;
      We keep a decent face
    And seize the skirts of truth
      And skip into a place;

    With bearded wisdom thence
      Our noble plan unfold
    For gathering good—pretence
      Indeed for gathering gold.

    But he—he cannot rise;
      He slowly falls apart;
    For all these human lies
      Are needles in his heart.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Philosophies

No reviews yet
