BATHYLLUS 
89 
 
Not babes to the war of the ages 
 Thy dews of devotion beget ;   
But thoughts that illumine the sages 
 Are flowers of our fashioning yet. 
Music and song are thereof 
Gotten, my god, and above 
Love, the fulfilling of love. 
 
Ah master !  thy fire the enrichment 
 Of all the vain store of the shrine !   
All mine to entice by bewitchment 
 The joy that is utterly thine !   
Ah !  but thou sailest, a swan 
Stately and splendid upon 
The lake that was waste and wan !   
 
Oh now !  let thy rage interrupt 
 My mischievous petulant smile 
Whose secret is hot and corrupt, 
 Leers loose at the lips and is vile !   
Tear off the virginal wreath !   
Tear it with tigerish teeth !   
Then, oh the sword to its sheath ! 
 
Thine anger is redder and rougher ;   
 Thou huntest with thyrsus and thong. 
Ah God !  it is I that must suffer, 
 For thee ’tis enough to be strong. 
Strike !  ere libation be spilt. 
Home !  through the grace of the gilt. 
Stab !  to the hilt !  to the hilt !