The life of man is stronger than good taste.

_The Prince:_

Custom is stronger than the life of man.

_King Cole:_

Custom is but a way that life began.

_The Prince:_

A withering way that makes the leaf.a.ge fall, Custom, like Winter, is the King of all.

_King Cole:_

Winter makes water solid, yet the spring, That is but flowers, is a stronger thing.

Custom, the a.s.s man rides, will plod for years, But laughter kills him and he dies at tears.

One word of love, one spark from beauty's fire, And custom is a memory; listen, sire.

Then at a window looking on the street He played his flute like leaves or snowflakes falling, Till men and women, pa.s.sing, thought: "How sweet; These notes are in our hearts like flowers falling."

And then, they thought, "An unknown voice is calling Like April calling to the seed in earth; Madness is quickening deadness into birth."

And then, as in the spring when first men hear, Beyond the black-twigged hedge, the lambling's cry Coming across the snow, a note of cheer Before the storm-c.o.c.k tells that spring is nigh, Before the first green bramble pushes shy, And all the blood leaps at the lambling's notes, The piping brought men's hearts into their throats.

Till all were stirred, however old and grand; Generals bestarred, old statesmen, courtiers prim (Whose lips kissed nothing but the Monarch's hand), Stirred in their courtly minds recesses dim, The sap of life stirred in the dreary limb.

The old eyes brightened o'er the pouncet-box, Remembering loves, and brawls, and mains of c.o.c.ks.

And through the town the liquid piping's gladness Thrilled on its way, rejoicing all who heard, To thrust aside their dullness or their sadness And follow blithely as the fluting stirred They hurried to the guild like horses spurred.

There in the road they mustered to await, They knew not what, a dream, a joy, a fate.

And man to man in exaltation cried: "Something has come to make us young again.

Wisdom has come, and Beauty, Wisdom's bride, And youth like flowering April after rain."

But still the fluting piped and men were fain To sing and ring the bells, they knew not why Save that their hearts were in an ecstasy.

Then to the balcony above them came King Cole the shining in his robe of flame; Behind him came the Prince, who smiled and bowed.

King Cole made silence: then addressed the crowd.

"Friends, fellow mortals, bearers of the ghost That burns, and breaks its lamp, but is not lost.

This day, for one brief hour, a key is given To all, however poor, to enter heaven.

The Bringers Down of Beauty from the stars, Have reached this city in their golden cars.

They ask, to bring you beauty, if you will.

You do not answer: rightly, you are still.

But you will come, to watch the image move Of all you dreamed or had the strength to love.

Come to the Ring, the image of the path That this our planet through the Heaven hath; Behold man's skill, man's wisdom, man's delight, And woman's beauty, imaged to the height.

Come, for our rulers come; and Death, whose feet Tread at the door, permits a minute's sweet; To each man's soul vouchsafes a glimpse, a gleam, A touch, a breath of his intensest dream.

Now, to that glimpse, that moment, come with me; Our rulers come.

O brother let there be Such welcome to our Prince as never was.

Let there be flowers under foot, not gra.s.s, Flowers and scented rushes and the sprays Of purple bramble reddening into blaze.

Let there be bells rung backward till the tune Be as the joy of all the bees in June.

Let float your flags, and let your lanterns rise Like fruit upon the trees in Paradise, In many-coloured lights as rich as Rome O'er road and tent; and let the children come, It is their world, these Beauty Dwellers bring."

Then, like the song of all the birds of spring He played his flute, and all who heard it cried, "Strew flowers before our rulers to the Ring."

The courtiers hurried for their coats of pride The upturned faces in that market wide Glowed in the sunset to a beauty grave Such as the faces of immortals have.

And work was laid aside on desk and bench, The red-lined ledger summed no penny more, From lamp-blacked fingers the mechanic's wrench Dropped to the kinking wheel chains on the floor, The farmer shut the hen roost: at the store The boys put up the shutters and ran hooting Wild with delight in freedom to the fluting.

And now the fluting led that gathered tide Of men and women forward through the town, And flowers seemed to fall from every side, White starry blossoms such as brooks bow down, White petals clinging in the hair and gown; And those who marched there thought that starry flowers Grew at their sides, as though the streets were bowers.

And all, in marching, thought, "We go to see Life, not the daily coil, but as it is Lived in its beauty in eternity, Above base aim, beyond our miseries; Life that is speed and colour and bright bliss, And beauty seen and strained for, and possest Even as a star forever in the breast."

The fluting led them through the western gate, From many a tossing torch their faces glowed, Bright-eyed and ruddy-featured and elate; They sang and scattered flowers upon the road, Still in their hair the starry blossoms snowed; They saw ahead the green-striped tent, their mark, Lit now and busy in the gathering dark.

There at the vans and in the green-striped tent The circus artists growled their discontent.

Close to the gate a lighted van there was; The showman's wife thrust back its window gla.s.s.

And leaned her head without to see who came To buy a ticket for the evening's game.

A roll of tickets and a plate of pence (For change) lay by her as she leaned from thence.

She heard the crowd afar, but in her thought She said: "That's in the city; it is nought.

They glorify the Queen."

Though sick at heart She wore her spangles for her evening's part, To dance upon the barebacked horse and sing.

Green velvet was her dress, with tinselling.

Her sad, worn face had all the n.o.bleness That lovely spirits gather from distress.

"No one to-night," she thought, "no one to-night."

Within the tent, a flare gave blowing light.

There, in their scarlet cart, the bandsmen tuned Bugles that whinnied, flageolets that crooned And strings that whined and grunted.

Near the band Piebald and magpie horses stood at hand Nosing at gra.s.s beneath the green-striped dome While men caressed them with the curry-comb.

The clowns, with whited, raddled faces, heaped Old horse cloths round them to the chins; they peeped Above the rugs; their cigarette ends' light Showing black eyes, and scarlet smears and white.

They watched the empty benches, and the wry Green curtain door which no one entered by.

Two little children entered and sat still With bright wide-opened eyes that stared their fill, And red lips round in wonder smeared with tints From hands and handkerchiefs and peppermints.

A farm lad entered. That was all the house.

"Strike up the band to give the folk a rouse,"

The showman said, "They must be all outside."

He said it boldly, though he knew he lied.

Sad as a funeral march for pleasure gone The band lamented out, "He's got them on."

Then paused, as usual, for the crowd to come.