III.

Hath he not deeds to do and days to see
Yet ere the day that is to see him dead?

Beats there no brain yet in the poisonous head, Throbs there no treason? if no such thing there be, If no such thought, surely this is not he.

Look to the hands then; are the hands not red? What are the shadows about this man's bed? Death, was not this the cupbearer to thee? Nay, let him live then, till in this life's stead Even he shall pray for that thou hast to give ; Till seeing his hopes and not his memories fled Even he shall cry upon thee a bitter cry, That life is worse than death; then let him live,

Till death seem worse than life; then let him die.

IV.

O watcher at the guardless gate of kings,
O doorkeeper that serving at their feast

Hast in thine hand their doomsday drink, and seest
With eyeless sight the soul of unseen things;
Thou in whose ear the dumb time coming sings,
Death, priest and king that makest of king and
priest

A name, a dream, a less thing than the least,
Hover awhile above him with closed wings,
Till the coiled soul, an evil snake-shaped beast,
Eat its base bodily lair of flesh away;

If haply, or ever its cursed life have ceased,

Or ever thy cold hands cover his head

From sight of France and freedom and broad day, He may see these and wither and be dead.

PARIS, September, 1869.

XIII.

THE SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY.

I.

O SON of man, but of what man who knows? That broughtest healing on thy leathern wings To priests, and under them didst gather kings, And madest friends to thee of all man's foes; Before thine incarnation, the tale goes,

Thy virgin mother, pure of sensual stings,
Communed by night with angels of chaste things,
And, full of grace, untimely felt the throes
Of motherhood upon her, and believed
The obscure annunciation made when late

A raven-feathered raven-throated dove
Croaked salutation to the mother of love
Whose misconception was immaculate,
And when her time was come she misconceived.

II.

Thine incarnation was upon this wise,
Saviour; and out of east and west were led
To thy foul cradle by thy planet red
Shepherds of souls that feed their sheep with lies
Till the utter soul die as the body dies,

And the wise men that ask but to be fed

Though the hot shambles be their board and bed And sleep on any dunghill shut their eyes, So they lie warm and fatten in the mire :

And the high priest enthroned yet in thy name, Judas, baptised thee with men's blood for hire;

And now thou hangest nailed to thine own shame In sight of all time, but while heaven has flame Shalt find no resurrection from hell-fire.

December, 1869.

XIV.

MENTANA: SECOND ANNIVERSARY.

Est-ce qu'il n'est pas temps que la foudre se prouve,
Cieux profonds, en broyant ce chien, fils de la louve ?
La Légende des Siècles :—Ratbert.

I.

By the dead body of Hope, the spotless lamb
Thou threwest into the high priest's slaughtering-

room,

And by the child Despair born red therefrom As, thank the secret sire picked out to cram With spurious spawn thy misconceiving dam,

Thou, like a worm from a town's common tomb, Didst creep from forth the kennel of her womb, Born to break down with catapult and ram Man's builded towers of promise, and with breath And tongue to track and hunt his hopes to death : O, by that sweet dead body abused and slain, And by that child mismothered,—dog, by all Thy curses thou hast cursed mankind withal,

With what curse shall man curse thee back again?