Years later, Monsieur Gaston Paris, That learned Frenchman, came this way. It poured with rain. He could not tarry. He gave the cave a single day. He noticed that the mouth was blocked And asked the peasants 'why', who, shocked, Informed him how on summer nights The Sybil and her horrid sprites Came out and danced their hellish jigs, And crushed the corn and scared the pigs. On which unamiable narration The _savant_ made this observation-- That they were very simple fools To put their trust in masons' tools, Seeing that fiends, our souls' ill-wishers, Slip slyly through the smallest fissures. And, in effect, for all their skill, The peasants owned, _they dance there still._ O Hans Van Branbourg, I applaud You first, remembering you're a lord; And next the not-to-be-forgot, Your squire and my compatriot, Him, Pons. For since we're far from sure If Heaven will prove a sinecure, And seeing that it's quite uncertain What fate awaits beyond the curtain; Seeing you wanton down the years, While we are in the vale of tears, And even thus the odds are even On waking up in Hell or Heaven, While many hold the odds not small Against our waking up at all; I can't but think that you were wise To choose the Sibyl's paradise: I say it with a heavy heart, I think you chose the better part. For in man's dire perplexity, The old and best philosophy Holds that a woodcock in the shop is Well worth a couple in the coppice, And tons of may-be bliss don't measure One ounce of certain, solid pleasure. Whence, once in Anchiale's city Aristobulus found this witty Inscription cut with wise intent, Upon an ancient monument, ΕΣΘΙΕ ΠΙΝΕ ΠΑΙΖΕ, thus, By good king Sardanapalus, "Eat, drink, and--well, the rest's not worth a cuss." And so, my friends, though your adventure May get from others only censure, Though curates and idealists May call you 'rank materialists', And pompous atheistic prigs, 'Blind-worms' and 'Hedonistic pigs'; Though other men, and wise ones too, May hold that there is more to do Than laugh and let the world go by Saying "To-morrow we shall die"; Yet in a matter so obscure Wise men may differ to be sure. Myself, I never thought it clever To fuss about the "grand forever", And cultivate a soul with care for That vast but vague hereafter; wherefore In my opinion, you did well To live for love, though love is hell. [Illustration 03] [Footnote 1: In my opinion it is time To legalise the cockney rhyme.] [Footnote 2: Not 'facete'? No, because in modern times We're prouder of our Latin than our rhymes.] [Footnote 3: Perhaps I ought to add a line To say the verse is Sybilline; It is portentously ill writ; Scholars must make the best of it.] [Footnote 4: Both Sale and Andrea Baberino say "_Le coeur ne saurait les imaginer_".] [Footnote 5: Sale says they "_à la manière De couleuvres et de serpents_" were.] [Footnote 6: From this strange book well named '_La Salade_' End of Project Gutenberg's The Legend of Monte della Sibilla, by Clive Bell