Then backward work; the name becomes
With pomp of metaphysic drums
A causa causans—God, soul, truth.
So raves the riot, age and youth,
The cart before the horse. Revered
And reverend master, is your beard
Darwin’s survival of some tail?
Who rants of soul were best to saddle
His face, his arms the ass to straddle
Since for his voice the part thus bare
Would serve as well to scent the air.
A. Where reverence ceases, ribald jest
Breaks forth, the wise allow the rest.
The perfect master stands confessed.
4. Why! I supposed your wrath would
burst ;
My name and number stand accurst
In the great Order of the West !
A. Nay: Buddha smiles; ’twas Jesus wept!
Arise, O brother and adept!
XN. Master!
A. The torture-hours are past.
V. The peace of pain is mine at last.
28