The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, Where the smoke of the cooking hung grey: He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey.

But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away, And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose.

The lark will make her hymn to G.o.d, The partridge call her brood, While I forget the heath I trod, The fields wherein I stood.

Tis dule to know not night from morn, But greater dule to know I can but hear the hunter's horn That once I used to blow.

There were three friends that buried the fourth, The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes, And they went south and east and north-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies.

There were three friends that spoke of the dead-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies-- 'And would he were here with us now,' they said, 'The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.'

Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him, Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, Yet at the last, with his masters around him, He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.

Yet at the last, though the Kafirs had maimed him, Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him, He called upon Allah, and died a Believer!

GALLIO'S SONG

(And Gallio cared for none of these things.--ACTS xviii. 17)

All day long to the judgment-seat The crazed Provincials drew-- All day long at their ruler's feet Howled for the blood of the Jew.

Insurrection with one accord Banded itself and woke, And Paul was about to open his mouth When Achaia's Deputy spoke--

'Whether the G.o.d descend from above Or the Man ascend upon high, Whether this maker of tents be Jove Or a younger deity-- I will be no judge between your G.o.ds And your G.o.dless bickerings.

Lictor, drive them hence with rods-- I care for none of these things!

'Were it a question of lawful due Or Caesar's rule denied, Reason would I should bear with you And order it well to be tried; But this is a question of words and names.

I know the strife it brings.

I will not pa.s.s upon any your claims.

I care for none of these things.

'One thing only I see most clear, As I pray you also see.

Claudius Caesar hath set me here Rome's Deputy to be.

It is Her peace that ye go to break-- Not mine, nor any king's.

But, touching your clamour of "Conscience sake,"

I care for none of these things.

'Whether ye rise for the sake of a creed, Or riot in hope of spoil, Equally will I punish the deed, Equally check the broil; Nowise permitting injustice at all From whatever doctrine it springs-- But--whether ye follow Priapus or Paul, I care for none of these things.'

THE BEES AND THE FLIES

A farmer of the Augustan Age Perused in Virgil's golden page, The story of the secret won From Proteus by Cyrene's son-- How the dank sea-G.o.d showed the swain Means to restore his hives again.

More briefly, how a slaughtered bull Breeds honey by the bellyful.

The egregious rustic put to death A bull by stopping of its breath, Disposed the carca.s.s in a shed With fragrant herbs and branches spread, And, having thus performed the charm, Sat down to wait the promised swarm.

Nor waited long. The G.o.d of Day Impartial, quickening with his ray Evil and good alike, beheld The carca.s.s--and the carca.s.s swelled.

Big with new birth the belly heaves Beneath its screen of scented leaves.

Past any doubt, the bull conceives!

The farmer bids men bring more hives To house the profit that arrives; Prepares on pan, and key and kettle, Sweet music that shall make 'em settle; But when to crown the work he goes, G.o.ds! what a stink salutes his nose!

Where are the honest toilers? Where The gravid mistress of their care?

A busy scene, indeed, he sees, But not a sign or sound of bees.

Worms of the riper grave unhid By any kindly coffin lid, Obscene and shameless to the light, Seethe in insatiate appet.i.te, Through putrid offal, while above The hissing blow-fly seeks his love, Whose offspring, supping where they supt, Consume corruption twice corrupt.

ROAD-SONG OF THE _BANDAR-LOG_

Here we go in a flung festoon, Half-way up to the jealous moon!

Don't you envy our pranceful bands?

Don't you wish you had extra hands?

Wouldn't you like if your tails were--_so_-- Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?

Now you're angry, but--never mind, _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_

Here we sit in a branchy row, Thinking of beautiful things we know; Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do, All complete, in a minute or two-- Something n.o.ble and grand and good, Won by merely wishing we could.

Now we're going to--never mind, _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_

All the talk we ever have heard Uttered by bat or beast or bird-- Hide or fin or scale or feather-- Jabber it quickly and all together!

Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!

Now we are talking just like men.

Let's pretend we are ... never mind, _Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_ This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

_Then join our leaping lines that sc.u.mfish through the pines, That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.

By the rubbish in our wake, and the n.o.ble noise we make, Be sure, be sure, we're going to do some splendid things._

'OUR FATHERS ALSO'

Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings, Are changing 'neath our hand; Our fathers also see these things But they do not understand.

By--they are by with mirth and tears, Wit or the works of Desire-- Cushioned about on the kindly years Between the wall and the fire.