THE BRUTE

Through his might men work their wills.

They have boweled out the hills For food to keep him toiling in the cages they have wrought; And they fling him, hour by hour, Limbs of men to give him power; Brains of men to give him cunning; and for dainties to devour Children's souls, the little worth; hearts of women, cheaply bought: He takes them and he breaks them, but he gives them scanty thought.

For about the noisy land, Roaring, quivering 'neath his hand, His thoughts brood fierce and sullen or laugh in l.u.s.t of pride O'er the stubborn things that he, Breaks to dust and brings to be.

Some he mightily establishes, some flings down utterly.

There is thunder in his stride, nothing ancient can abide, When he hales the hills together and bridles up the tide.

Quietude and loveliness, Holy sights that heal and bless, They are scattered and abolished where his iron hoof is set; When he splashes through the brae Silver streams are choked with clay, When he snorts the bright cliffs crumble and the woods go down like hay; He lairs in pleasant cities, and the haggard people fret Squalid 'mid their new-got riches, soot-begrimed and desolate.

They who caught and bound him tight Laughed exultant at his might, Saying, "Now behold, the good time comes for the weariest and the least!

We will use this l.u.s.ty knave: No more need for men to slave; We may rise and look about us and have knowledge ere the grave."

But the Brute said in his breast, "Till the mills I grind have ceased, The riches shall be dust of dust, dry ashes be the feast!

"On the strong and cunning few Cynic favors I will strew; I will stuff their maw with overplus until their spirit dies; From the patient and the low I will take the joys they know; They shall hunger after vanities and still an-hungered go.

Madness shall be on the people, ghastly jealousies arise; Brother's blood shall cry on brother up the dead and empty skies.

"I will burn and dig and hack Till the heavens suffer lack; G.o.d shall feel a pleasure fail him, crying to his cherubim, 'Who hath flung yon mud-ball there Where my world went green and fair?'

I shall laugh and hug me, hearing how his sentinels declare, ''T is the Brute they chained to labor! He has made the bright earth dim.

Store of wares and pelf a plenty, but they got no good of him.'"

So he plotted in his rage: So he deals it, age by age.

But even as he roared his curse a still small Voice befell; Lo, a still and pleasant voice bade them none the less rejoice, For the Brute must bring the good time on; he has no other choice.

He may struggle, sweat, and yell, but he knows exceeding well He must work them out salvation ere they send him back to h.e.l.l.

All the desert that he made He must treble bless with shade, In primal wastes set precious seed of rapture and of pain; All the strongholds that he built For the powers of greed and guilt-- He must strew their bastions down the sea and choke their towers with silt; He must make the temples clean for the G.o.ds to come again, And lift the lordly cities under skies without a stain.

In a very cunning tether He must lead the tyrant weather; He must loose the curse of Adam from the worn neck of the race; He must cast out hate and fear, Dry away each fruitless tear, And make the fruitful tears to gush from the deep heart and clear.

He must give each man his portion, each his pride and worthy place; He must batter down the arrogant and lift the weary face, On each vile mouth set purity, on each low forehead grace.

Then, perhaps, at the last day, They will whistle him away, Lay a hand upon his muzzle in the face of G.o.d, and say, "Honor, Lord, the Thing we tamed!

Let him not be scourged or blamed.

Even through his wrath and fierceness was thy fierce wroth world reclaimed!

Honor Thou thy servants' servant; let thy justice now be shown."

Then the Lord will heed their saying, and the Brute come to his own, 'Twixt the Lion and the Eagle, by the armpost of the Throne.

THE MENAGERIE

Thank G.o.d my brain is not inclined to cut Such capers every day! I 'm just about Mellow, but then--There goes the tent-flap shut.

Rain 's in the wind. I thought so: every snout Was twitching when the keeper turned me out.

That screaming parrot makes my blood run cold.

Gabriel's trump! the big bull elephant Squeals "Rain!" to the parched herd. The monkeys scold, And jabber that it 's rain water they want.

(It makes me sick to see a monkey pant.)

I 'll foot it home, to try and make believe I 'm sober. After this I stick to beer, And drop the circus when the sane folks leave.

A man 's a fool to look at things too near: They look back, and begin to cut up queer.

Beasts do, at any rate; especially Wild devils caged. They have the coolest way Of being something else than what you see: You pa.s.s a sleek young zebra nosing hay, A nylghau looking bored and distingue,--

And think you 've seen a donkey and a bird.

Not on your life! Just glance back, if you dare.

The zebra chews, the nylghau has n't stirred; But something 's happened, Heaven knows what or where, To freeze your scalp and pompadour your hair.

I 'm not precisely an aeolian lute Hung in the wandering winds of sentiment, But drown me if the ugliest, meanest brute Grunting and fretting in that sultry tent Did n't just floor me with embarra.s.sment!

'T was like a thunder-clap from out the clear, One minute they were circus beasts, some grand, Some ugly, some amusing, and some queer: Rival attractions to the hobo band, The flying jenny, and the peanut stand.

Next minute they were old hearth-mates of mine!

Lost people, eyeing me with such a stare!

Patient, satiric, devilish, divine; A gaze of hopeless envy, squalid care, Hatred, and thwarted love, and dim despair.

Within my blood my ancient kindred spoke,-- Grotesque and monstrous voices, heard afar Down ocean caves when behemoth awoke, Or through fern forests roared the plesiosaur Locked with the giant-bat in ghastly war.

And suddenly, as in a flash of light, I saw great Nature working out her plan; Through all her shapes from mastodon to mite Forever groping, testing, pa.s.sing on To find at last the shape and soul of Man.

Till in the fullness of accomplished time, Comes brother Forepaugh, upon business bent, Tracks her through frozen and through torrid clime, And shows us, neatly labeled in a tent, The stages of her huge experiment;

Blabbing aloud her shy and reticent hours; Dragging to light her blinking, slothful moods; Publishing fretful seasons when her powers Worked wild and sullen in her solitudes, Or when her mordant laughter shook the woods.

Here, round about me, were her vagrant births; Sick dreams she had, fierce projects she essayed; Her qualms, her fiery prides, her crazy mirths; The troublings of her spirit as she strayed, Cringed, gloated, mocked, was lordly, was afraid,

On that long road she went to seek mankind; Here were the darkling coverts that she beat To find the Hider she was sent to find; Here the distracted footprints of her feet Whereby her soul's Desire she came to greet.

But why should they, her botch-work, turn about And stare disdain at me, her finished job?

Why was the place one vast suspended shout Of laughter? Why did all the daylight throb With soundless guffaw and dumb-stricken sob?

Helpless I stood among those awful cages; The beasts were walking loose, and I was bagged!

I, I, last product of the toiling ages, Goal of heroic feet that never lagged,-- A little man in trousers, slightly jagged.

Deliver me from such another jury!

The Judgment-day will be a picnic to 't.

Their satire was more dreadful than their fury, And worst of all was just a kind of brute Disgust, and giving up, and sinking mute.

Survival of the fittest, adaptation, And all their other evolution terms, Seem to omit one small consideration, To wit, that tumblebugs and angleworms Have souls: there 's soul in everything that squirms.

And souls are restless, plagued, impatient things, All dream and unaccountable desire; Crawling, but pestered with the thought of wings; Spreading through every inch of earth's old mire Mystical hanker after something higher.

Wishes _are_ horses, as I understand.

I guess a wistful polyp that has strokes Of feeling faint to gallivant on land Will come to be a scandal to his folks; Legs he will sprout, in spite of threats and jokes.