Across the polished board, wet and ashine, Appalling incantations late have passed.— For some, the mercy of dull anodyne; For others, hope destined an hour to last. Here has been sold courage to lift the weak That they embrace a great and noble doom. Here some have bought a clue they did not seek Into the wastes of an engulfing gloom. And amorous tears, and high indignant hate, Laughter, desires, passions, and hopes, and rest,— The drunkard’s sleep, the poet’s shout to fate,— All from these bottles filled a human breast! Magician of the apron! Let us see— What is that draught you are shaking now for me? VIII. THE DEVIL AMONG THE TAILORS They groaned—“His aims are not as ours.” He mused—“What end to mortal powers?” They urged—“Your fair ideals have fled.” He smiled.—“The living tramp the dead!” They told him—“You have done a wrong!” He asked—“Which is my faulty song?” They cried—“Your life lies wrecked and vain!” He laughed.—“That shell? Pray, look again!” They shrieked—“Go forth! An outcast be!” He answered—“Thanks. You make me free!” IX. THE NEWEST BELIEVER Through his sick brain the shrieking bullet stormed, Wrecking the chambers of his spirit’s state. The gleam that brightened and the glow that warmed Those arrassed halls sank quenched and desolate. Out of the balefully enfolding mesh, Life he would free from dominance of evil; And purpose deeper than the weak-willed flesh Bade him renounce the world, the flesh, the devil. And as I looked upon his shattered face Hideously fronting me in that dark room, I saw the Prophets of the Church take place Beside him,—they who dared the nether gloom For worlds of life or silence far away, So hated they the evil of their day. X. SONG OF A VERY SMALL DEVIL He who looks in golden state Down from ramparts of high heaven, Knows he any turn of fate, It must be of evil given— He perhaps shall wander late Downward through the luminous gate. He who makes himself a gay Dear familiar of things evil,— In some deepest tarn astray, Close-companioned of the Devil,— He can nowhere turn his way Save up brighter slopes of day. Plight it is, yet clear to see. Hence take solace of your sinning. As ye sink unfathomably, Heaven grows ever easier winning. Therefore ye who saved would be, Come and shake a leg with me! A New Standard of Art Criticism and a Significant Artist HUNTLEY CARTER