Part 17 (2/2)
'Would, to appease Him, cut a finger off, Or of my three kid yearlings burn the best, Or let the toothsome apples rot on tree, Or push my tame beast for the orc to taste: While myself lit a fire, and made a song And sung it, ”_What I hate, be consecrate To celebrate Thee and Thy state, no mate For Thee; what see for envy in poor me?_”
Hoping the while, since evils sometimes mend, Warts rub away and sores are cured with slime, That some strange day, will either the Quiet catch And conquer Setebos, or likelier He Decrepit may doze, doze, as good as die.
[What, what? A curtain o'er the world at once!
Crickets stop hissing; not a bird--or, yes, There scuds His raven that has told Him all!
It was fool's play, this prattling! Ha! The wind Shoulders the pillared dust, death's house o' the move And fast invading fires begin! White blaze-- A tree's head snaps--and there, there, there, there, there, His thunder follows! Fool to gibe at Him!
Lo! 'Lieth flat and loveth Setebos!
'Maketh his teeth meet through his upper lip, Will let those quails fly, will not eat this month One little mess of whelks, so he may 'scape!]
A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL
Let us begin and carry up this corpse, Singing together.
Leave we the common crofts, the vulgar thorpes, Each in its tether Sleeping safe on the bosom of the plain, Cared-for till c.o.c.k-crow.
Look out if yonder's not the day again r.i.m.m.i.n.g the rock-row!
That's the appropriate country--there, man's thought, Rarer, intenser, Self-gathered for an outbreak, as it ought, Chafes in the censer!
Leave we the unlettered plain its herd and crop; Seek we sepulture On a tall mountain, citied to the top, Crowded with culture!
All the peaks soar, but one the rest excels; Clouds overcome it; No, yonder sparkle is the citadel's Circling its summit!
Thither our path lies--wind we up the heights-- Wait ye the warning?
Our low life was the level's and the night's; He's for the morning!
Step to a tune, square chests, erect the head, 'Ware the beholders!
This is our master, famous, calm, and dead, Borne on our shoulders.
Sleep, crop and herd! sleep, darkling thorpe and croft, Safe from the weather!
He, whom we convey to his grave aloft, Singing together, He was a man born with thy face and throat, Lyric Apollo!
Long he lived nameless: how should spring take note Winter would follow?
Till lo, the little touch, and youth was gone!
Cramped and diminished, Moaned he, ”New measures, other feet anon!
My dance is finished?”
No, that's the world's way! (Keep the mountain-side, Make for the city.) He knew the signal, and stepped on with pride Over men's pity; Left play for work, and grappled with the world Bent on escaping: ”What's in the scroll,” quoth he, ”thou keepest furled?
Show me their shaping, Theirs, who most studied man, the bard and sage,-- Give!”--So he gowned him, Straight got by heart that book to its last page: Learned, we found him!
Yea, but we found him bald too--eyes like lead, Accents uncertain: ”Time to taste life,” another would have said, ”Up with the curtain!”
This man said rather, ”Actual life comes next?
Patience a moment!
Grant I have mastered learning's crabbed text, Still, there's the comment.
Let me know all. Prate not of most or least, Painful or easy: Even to the crumbs I'd fain eat up the feast, Ay, nor feel queasy!”
Oh, such a life as he resolved to live, When he had learned it, When he had gathered all books had to give; Sooner, he spurned it!
Image the whole, then execute the parts-- Fancy the fabric Quite, ere you build, ere steel strike fire from quartz, Ere mortar dab brick!
(Here's the town-gate reached: there's the market-place Gaping before us.) Yea, this in him was the peculiar grace (Hearten our chorus), Still before living he'd learn how to live-- No end to learning.
Earn the means first--G.o.d surely will contrive Use for our earning.
Others mistrust and say, ”But time escapes,-- Live now or never!”
He said, ”What's Time? leave Now for dogs and apes!
Man has Forever.”
Back to his book then: deeper drooped his head; _Calculus_ racked him: Leaden before, his eyes grew dross of lead; _Tussis_ attacked him.
”Now, Master, take a little rest!”--not he!
(Caution redoubled!
Step two abreast, the way winds narrowly.) Not a whit troubled, Back to his studies, fresher than at first, Fierce as a dragon He (soul-hydroptic with a sacred thirst) Sucked at the flagon.
Oh, if we draw a circle premature, Heedless of far gain, Greedy for quick returns of profit, sure, Bad is our bargain!
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