Thy gift, if that it be of God,
Thou hast no warrant to appraise,
Nor say: “Here
part, O Muse, our ways,
The road too stony to be trod.”
Not thine to call the labor hard
And the reward inadequate.
Who haggles o’er his
hire with Fate
Is better bargainer than bard.
What! count the effort labor lost
When thy good angel holds
the reed?
It were a sorry thing indeed
To stay him till thy palm be crossed.
“The laborer is worthy”—nay,
The sacred ministry of song
Is rapture!—’t
were a grievous wrong
To fix a wages-rate for play.
A FOOL.
Says Anderson, Theosophist:
“Among the many that exist
In modern halls,
Some lived in ancient Egypt’s clime
And in their childhood saw the prime
Of Karnak’s walls.”
Ah, Anderson, if that is true
’T is my conviction, sir, that you
Are one of those
That once resided by the Nile,
Peer to the sacred Crocodile,
Heir to his woes.
My judgment is, the holy Cat
Mews through your larynx (and your hat)
These many years.
Through you the godlike Onion brings
Its melancholy sense of things,
And moves to tears.
In you the Bull divine again
Bellows and paws the dusty plain,
To nature true.
I challenge not his ancient hate
But, lowering my knurly pate,
Lock horns with you.
And though Reincarnation prove
A creed too stubborn to remove,
And all your school
Of Theosophs I cannot scare—
All the more earnestly I swear
That you’re a fool.
You’ll say that this is mere abuse
Without, in fraying you, a use.
That’s plain
to see
With only half an eye. Come, now,
Be fair, be fair,—consider
how
It eases me!
