We shall peck out and discuss and dissect, and evert and extrude to our mind, The flaccid tissues of long-dead issues offensive to God and mankind-- (Precisely like vultures over an ox that the Army has left behind). We shall make walk preposterous ghosts of the glories we once created-- (Immodestly smearing from muddled palettes amazing pigments mismated) And our friends will weep when we ask them with boasts if our natural force be abated. The Lamp of our Youth will be utterly out: but we shall subsist on the smell of it, And whatever we do, we shall fold our hands and suck our gums and think well of it. Yes, we shall be perfectly pleased with our work, And that is the perfectest Hell of it! _This is our lot if we live so long and listen to those who love us-- That we are shunned by the people about and shamed by the Powers above us. Wherefore be free of your harness betimes; but being free be assured, That he who hath not endured to the death, from his birth he hath never endured!_ THE EXPLORER [Page 61] ‘There’s no sense in going further--it’s the edge of cultivation,’ So they said, and I believed it--broke my land and sowed my crop-- Built my barns and strung my fences in the little border station Tucked away below the foothills where the trails run out and stop. Till a voice, as bad as Conscience, rang interminable changes On one everlasting Whisper day and night repeated--so: ‘Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges-- ‘Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!’ So I went, worn out of patience; ’never told my nearest neighbours-- Stole away with pack and ponies--left ’em drinking in the town; And the faith that moveth mountains didn’t seem to help my labours As I faced the sheer main-ranges, whipping up and leading down. March by march I puzzled through ’em, turning flanks and dodging shoulders, Hurried on in hope of water, headed back for lack of grass; Till I camped above the tree-line--drifted snow and naked boulders-- Felt free air astir to windward--knew I’d stumbled on the Pass. ’Thought to name it for the finder: but that night the Norther found me-- Froze and killed the plains-bred ponies; so I called the camp Despair (It’s the Railway Gap to-day, though). Then my Whisper waked to hound me:-- ‘Something lost behind the Ranges. Over yonder. Go you there!’ Then I knew, the while I doubted--knew His Hand was certain o’er me. Still--it might be self-delusion--scores of better men had died-- I could reach the township living, but ... He knows what terrors tore me ... But I didn’t ... but I didn’t. I went down the other side.