At bloody jawbone, at bees flitting From the stark lion’s hide: At these, the gates of well-walled Gaza, Clanking to my stride. CHILDREN OF DARKNESS (“In their generation wiser than the children of Light.”) We spurred our parents to the kiss, Though doubtfully they shrank from this-- Day had no courage to review What lusty dark alone might do-- Then were we joined from their caress In heat of midnight, one from two. This night-seed knew no discontent, In certitude his changings went; Though there were veils about his face, With forethought, even in that pent place, Down towards the light his way he bent To kingdoms of more ample space. Was Day prime error, that regret For darkness roars unstifled yet? That in this freedom, by faith won, Only acts of doubt are done? That unveiled eyes with tears are wet, They loathe to gaze upon the sun? RICHARD ROE AND JOHN DOE Richard Roe wished himself _Solomon_ Made cuckold, you should know, by one John Doe; _Solomon’s_ neck was firm enough to bear Some score of antlers more than Roe could wear. Richard Roe wished himself _Alexander_, Being robbed of house and land by the same hand; Ten thousand acres or a principal town Would have cost _Alexander_ scarce a frown. Richard Roe wished himself _Job_ the prophet, Sunk past reclaim in stinking rags and shame; _Job’s_ plight was utterly bad, his own even worse, He found no God to call on or to curse. He wished himself _Job_, _Solomon_, _Alexander_, For cunning, patience, power to overthrow His tyrant, but with heart gone so far rotten That most of all he wished himself John Doe. THE DIALECTICIANS Thought has a bias, Direction a bend, Space its inhibitions, Time a dead end. Is whiteness white? O then, call it black: Farthest from the truth Is yet half-way back. Effect ordains Cause, Head swallowing its tail; Does whale engulf sprat, Or sprat assume whale? Contentions weary, It giddies all to think; Then kiss, girl, kiss! Or drink, fellow, drink! THE LANDS OF WHIPPERGINNY (“Heaven or Hell or the Lands of Whipperginny.”--Nashe’s _Jack Wilton_.) Come closer yet, sweet honeysuckle, my coney, O my Jinny, With a low sun gilding the bloom of the wood. Be this Heaven, be it Hell, or the Lands of Whipperginny, It lies in a fairy lustre, it savours most good. Then stern proud psalms from the chapel on the moors Waver in the night wind, their firm rhythm broken, Lugubriously twisted to a howling of whores Or lent an airy glory too strange to be spoken. “THE GENERAL ELLIOTT”