Collected Works (Vol. III)

22 WHY JESUS WEPT Allan, who broke his wand of flame, Discharged his faithful poltergeist, Gave up attempts to say The Name,! Ananda Maitriya became, By yellow robes allured, enticed ; Leaving me all alone to shame The cunning missionary game ; And, by bad critics topped and sliced, Put the ky-bosh on ? Jesus Christ. I sing a tale of modern life (Suited for reading to my wife) Of how Sir Percy Percivale Grew from a boy into a man ; Well ware of every metric plan A bard may dream, a rhymester scrawl, Avoiding with deliberate ‘‘ Damn!” (Ut supra) In Memoriam ;8 For such suggestion would suffice To turn your blood to smoke or ice, Dismissing with a hearty curse Eunuch psychology, pimp verse. Moreover, lest my metre move From year to year in one dull groove, Invention, hearme! Strange device Hatch from this egg a cockatrice Of novel style, that you who read The Sword of Song—(your poor, poor head !) Shall stand amazed (at the new note Flung faultless from this trembling throat) That Crowley, ever versatile And lord of many a new bad style Should still in’s gun have one more cartridge, And who Ixtaccihuatl’s 4 smart ridge Achieved should still be full of mettle To go up Popocatapetl. As song then chills or aches or burns, The metre shall slew round by turns. 1 The great task of Western occultism is to ‘ pronounce the name”’ of Jehovah ; if this be correctly done, the universe (z.e. of sense) is annihilated, and the true universe, of spirit, is made present to the consciousness. 2 To stop or silence ; to spoil the plans of. 3 The four lines above are in the metre of Tennyson’s poem ‘‘In Memoriam.” Its lack of manliness prompts Crowley's satire. 4 Mountains in Mexico climhed by Crowley in Igor. The gross and bestial demand prose. (Glance at the page, lass, stop your nose, And turn to where short lines proclaim That purity has won the game !) But stow your prudery, wives and mothers, You know as much muck as—those others ! Your modest homes are dull; you need me ! Don’t let your husbands know; but—read me! SCENE I. The Poet tnducts hts matter. I draw no picture of the Fates (Recitativo—rhyming 8s) Presiding over birth and so on. I leave the Gods alone, and go on. Sir Percival de Percivale Sat in his vast baronial hall (All unsuspicious of the weird : ‘* One day a person with a beard Shall write of thee, and write a lot Too like the late Sir Walter Scott.”) } Sir Percival de Percivale (Begin again !) was over all The pangs of death foreseen ; his eye Sought the high rafter vacantly. A week, and he would see no more! His lady long had gone—O Lor’! I hear ‘‘ St. Agnes’ Eve” * suggest To this 8’s better a far best ; Spenserian solemnitie Fits this part of my minstrelsie. Now is the breath of winter in the hall. The logs die out—the knight would be alone ! The brave Sir Percival de Percivale Sits like an image hewen out of stone. Ay! he must die. The doctors all are gone, 1 Many of Scott’s narrative poems are in the same metre as this passage. 2 By John Keats, written in Spenserian stanzas. What follows is in part a parody of this style.