Collected Works (Vol. III)

THE STAR AND THE GARTER 19 ‘See art: see truth as I who see, (Am wellnigh fallen in the fight !) Then the last lie, duality, May break before the victor sight. Then, and then only, That. Sweet hours Of trivial passion deep as death, Ye are past: I'face the solemn powers Of sex and soul, of brain and breath. For you I lift the veil: discover The actual, for I was your lover. What should such word imply? I showed Late, in the earlier dithyramb. But—in yon stone there lurks a toad !— The Quarter bleats no palinode ; Goat it may be, no woolly lamb. Arithmetic assuage your wrath Should Cambridge wit write quarter ‘‘ fourth” ! What said the unctuous slime of art, Scrapings of beauty’s palette, pimps Of serious studios, stews or mart . Of filth, not vice? Those painter shrimps! What did they gloat upon, delight To think of better folk than they? Hear then their oracle of might, The sortes of a Balaam bray. Through muddy glasses Delphi squints ; Cowards lack words and glut on hints. VI. Sibyl says nothing—she’s a Sphinx ! I wonder, though, what Sibyl thinks. She argues ‘‘ he would have her grow So fell a Trixy—point device !— His Dante to her Beatrice Should seem—let music’s language show :— Andante move to Allegro, Alas for pianissimo!” And, in return, suspects I don One glory more than Solomon: ‘* Rocks cannot satisfy the coney ; Lingerie’s always worth the money.” In fine, flop, German, from thy throne ! Leave Greek and Papuan alone! What foreign tongues be worth our own? Is Armour jointed unawares ? Is Canning King, as Carlyle swears? This is indeed Cumaean lore— Ah well, ‘tis pity !—say no more! | Yet to yourself avail. There's one and twenty for your score, Ah, how your divination slewed awry, Ye prurient guttersnipes of prudery ! We know as much, my girl! We laughed, And still can laugh at Barbercraft Plied thus askew. Then leave them so! Evoke the ancient afterglow Rose on our sacramental snow Of silent love, of mountain grace. Remember the old tenderness Even in these bitter words that press Their ardent breast, their iron face, Out to expression. Ay! remember The ancient phantom fire of flowers, The Druid altars of December, The Virgin priestess, the dread hours Of solemn love. Then quail before The deadly import of my word! Forget your silly self, and store Its vital horror, stabbed and spurred To fearful pace and torture wild Deep in your true heart’s core, my child ! For though I strip you bare, and run My red-hot iron through your flesh, There is a citadel that none May touch—not God! The rotten rest Evacuate ; be seated there. Let there be music, and Rome burn! Then you may climb to be aware How well you serve my idle turn, There too Lies a last doubtful chance for you. Behold who dare! (Ay, you are fain !) Purblind with prejudice? No vision, Palsied with passion? Sight in vain. Stupid with sense of self? Division. Picture, not model? Then you win. I painted soul, who saw your skin :— Be soul! That saves you. If you fail, Why, then, you fail! Enough of this— (Read not again Macbeth amiss !) Give me one customary kiss— An end of it! I rend the veil. The flag falls for the Stakes of Song. Run, filly, for the odds are long !1 1(This ‘‘ possible Part II.” is still 72 nudsbus unless we are to suppose from the Greek Dedications (pp. 1 and 16) that ‘‘ Rosa Mundi” is to be taken as such.]