,
Whose offspring, supping where they supt,
Consume corruption twice corrupt.

ROAD-SONG OF THE _BANDAR-LOG_

Here we go in a flung festoon,
Half-way up to the jealous moon!
Don't you envy our pranceful bands?
Don't you wish you had extra hands?
Wouldn't you like if your tails were--_so_--
Curved in the shape of a Cupid's bow?
Now you're angry, but--never mind,
_Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_

Here we sit in a branchy row,
Thinking of beautiful things we know;
Dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,
All complete, in a minute or two--
Something noble and grand and good,
Won by merely wishing we could.
Now we're going to--never mind,
_Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_

All the talk we ever have heard
Uttered by bat or beast or bird--
Hide or fin or scale or feather--
Jabber it quickly and all together!
Excellent! Wonderful! Once again!
Now we are talking just like men.
Let's pretend we are ... never mind,
_Brother, thy tail hangs down behind!_
This is the way of the Monkey-kind!

_Then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,
That rocket by where, light and high, the wild-grape swings.
By the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,
Be sure, be sure, we're going to do some splendid things._

'OUR FATHERS ALSO'

Thrones, Powers, Dominions, Peoples, Kings,
Are changing 'neath our hand;
Our fathers also see these things
But they do not understand.

By--they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the works of Desire--
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.

The grapes are pressed, the corn is shocked--
Standeth no more to glean;
For the Gates of Love and Learning locked
When they went out between.

All lore our Lady Venus bares,
Signalled it was or told
By the dear lips long given to theirs
And longer to the mould.

All Profit, all Device, all Truth
Written it was or said
By the mighty men of their mighty youth,
Which is mighty being dead.

The film that floats before their eyes
The Temple's Veil they call;
And the dust that on the Shewbread lies
Is holy over all.

Warn them of seas that slip our yoke
Of slow-conspiring stars--
The ancient Front of Things unbroke
But heavy with new wars?

By--they are by with mirth and tears,
Wit or the waste of Desire--
Cushioned about on the kindly years
Between the wall and the fire.

A BRITISH-ROMAN SONG

(A.D. 406)

My father's father saw it not,