XVII

CARMEN PATIBULARE

To H. S.

TREE, Old Tree of the Triple Crook

And the rope of the Black Election,
'Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule
Can never achieve perfection :

So 'It's O, for the time of the new Sublime
And the better than human way,

When the Rat (poor beast) shall come to his own
And the Wolf shall have his day!'

For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam
And the power of provocation,
You have cockered the Brute with

fruit

your

dreadful

Till your thought is mere stupration:

And 'It's how should we rise to be pure and wise,

And how can we choose but fall,

So long as the Hangman makes us dread,

And the Noose floats free for all?'

So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign
And the trick there's no recalling,

They will haggle and hew till they hack you through
And at last they lay you sprawling :

When 'Hey! for the hour of the race in flower

And the long good-bye to sin!'

And the fires of Hell gone out for the lack
Of the fuel to keep them in !'

But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough
And the ghastly Dreams that tend you,
Your growth began with the life of Man,
And only his death can end you.
They may tug in line at your hempen twine,
They may flourish with axe and saw;
But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs
In the living rock of Law.

And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork,
When the spent sun reels and blunders

Down a welkin lit with the flare of the Pit

As it seethes in spate and thunders,

Stern on the glare of the tortured air

Your lines august shall gloom,

And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed

In the ruining roar of Doom.

XVIII

I. M.

MARGARET EMMA HENLEY

(1888-1894)

WHEN you wake in your crib,

You, an inch of experience-

Vaulted about

With the wonder of darkness

Wailing and striving

To reach from

your

feebleness

Something you feel

Will be good to and cherish you,

Something you know

And can rest upon blindly :

O, then a hand

(Your mother's, your mother's!)

By the fall of its fingers

All knowledge, all power to you,
Out of the dreary,

Discouraging strangenesses

Comes to and masters you,

Takes you, and lovingly

Woos you and soothes you

Back, as you cling to it,
Back to some comforting
Corner of sleep.

So

you wake in your bed, Having lived, having loved;

But the shadows are there,

And the world and its kingdoms

Incredibly faded;

And you grope through the Terror

Above you and under

For the light, for the warmth,

The assurance of life

;

But the blasts are ice-born,

And your heart is nigh burst
With the weight of the gloom
And the stress of your strangled
And desperate endeavour :
Sudden a hand-

Mother, O Mother!

God at His best to you,
Out of the roaring,
Impossible silences,