The Winged Beetle

156 THE CAMP FIRE To you for help, who snarl “ I know,” and grasp, Mean mongrel whelp ! my bulging sporran’s clasp. So, Swinburne, sleep ! That which is written is written. I will not weep. The torch of song is smitten Into dry stray leaves elsehow doomed for sure To damp decay, Victorian manure, Miasmal squelch, black slough to mire the Sun, The stink and belch and snivel of Tennyson ! Hail and farewell, my brother ! I am he To plant in hell thy sunkissed sea-lily Thou has lived ! As I live, stars in midnight’s deep. Thou hast died. All die ; why boggle at the leap ? Serene and splendid blazed thy fire, night’s sun : Thy task is ended, brother, thy work done. Drone on thy shore, no pæan stir thy surge ! A period to life, death, heaven, and hell ! There is no God : hail, brother ! and farewell !