Written by
Aleister Crowley |
AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT
[Dedicated to George Cecil Jones]
At last an end of all I hoped and feared!
Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard.
Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred.
I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard.
To all God's questions never a word he said,
But simply shook his venerable head.
God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not,
Till people certified him insane.
But somehow all his fellow-luntaics
Began to imitate his silly ticks.
And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged
That one by one the patients were discharged.
God asked him by what right he interfered;
He only laughed and into his elfin beard.
When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer
He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire.
Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder,
But on the other hand he made no blunder;
He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom
Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom.
But!-all who urged that hermit to confess
Caught the infection of his happiness.
I would it were my fate to dree his weird;
I think that I will grow an elfin beard.
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Written by
Joyce Kilmer |
(For Cecil Chesterton)
At the foot of the Cross on Calvary
Three soldiers sat and diced,
And one of them was the Devil
And he won the Robe of Christ.
When the Devil comes in his proper form
To the chamber where I dwell,
I know him and make the Sign of the Cross
Which drives him back to Hell.
And when he comes like a friendly man
And puts his hand in mine,
The fervour in his voice is not
From love or joy or wine.
And when he comes like a woman,
With lovely, smiling eyes,
Black dreams float over his golden head
Like a swarm of carrion flies.
Now many a million tortured souls
In his red halls there be:
Why does he spend his subtle craft
In hunting after me?
Kings, queens and crested warriors
Whose memory rings through time,
These are his prey, and what to him
Is this poor man of rhyme,
That he, with such laborious skill,
Should change from role to role,
Should daily act so many a part
To get my little soul?
Oh, he can be the forest,
And he can be the sun,
Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest
When the weary day is done.
I saw him through a thousand veils,
And has not this sufficed?
Now, must I look on the Devil robed
In the radiant Robe of Christ?
He comes, and his face is sad and mild,
With thorns his head is crowned;
There are great bleeding wounds in his feet,
And in each hand a wound.
How can I tell, who am a fool,
If this be Christ or no?
Those bleeding hands outstretched to me!
Those eyes that love me so!
I see the Robe -- I look -- I hope --
I fear -- but there is one
Who will direct my troubled mind;
Christ's Mother knows her Son.
O Mother of Good Counsel, lend
Intelligence to me!
Encompass me with wisdom,
Thou Tower of Ivory!
"This is the Man of Lies," she says,
"Disguised with fearful art:
He has the wounded hands and feet,
But not the wounded heart.
"
Beside the Cross on Calvary
She watched them as they diced.
She saw the Devil join the game
And win the Robe of Christ.
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Written by
G K Chesterton |
Are they clinging to their crosses,
F.
E.
Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning "That's the Second Reading!"
Hissing "There is still Committee!"
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna's point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?
Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don't they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard --
With a crib to read it with --
"Welsh Tithes: Dr.
Clifford answered.
"
Really, Smith?
In the lands where Christians were,
F.
E.
Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don't think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.
It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples.
.
.
Chuck it, Smith!
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
LXIII.
— TO ROBERT EARL OF SALISBURY.
Who can consider thy right courses run,
With what thy virtue on the times hath won,
And not thy fortune ? who can clearly see
The judgment of the king so shine in thee ;
And that thou seek'st reward of thy each act,
Not from the public voice, but private fact ?
Who can behold all Envy so declined
By constant suffering of thy equal mind ;
And can to these be silent, SALISBURY,
Without his, thine, and all time's injury ?
Curst be his Muse, that could lie dumb, or hid
To so true worth, though thou thyself forbid.
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
LXIV.
— TO THE SAME, UPON THE ACCESSION OF
THE TREASURERSHIP TO HIM.
[ROBERT CECIL, EARL OF SALISBURY]
Not glad, like those that have new hopes, or suits,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and, what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art ; contemn'd in the age of gold.
Nor glad as those, that old dependents be,
To see thy father's rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion ; nor to shew a fit
Of flattery to thy titles ; nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive ;
Where good men's virtues them to honors bring,
And not to dangers ; when so wise a king
Contends to have worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her own conscience, still, the same reward.
These, noblest CECIL, labor'd in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath wrought ?
That whilst I meant but thine to gratulate,
I have sung the greater fortunes of our state.
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Written by
Ben Jonson |
XLIII.
? TO ROBERT EARL OF SALISBURY.
What need hast thou of me, or of my muse,
Whose actions so themselves do celebrate ?
Which should thy country's love to speak refuse,
Her foes enough would fame thee in their hate.
Tofore, great men were glad of poets ; now,
I, not the worst, am covetous of thee :
Yet dare not to my thought least hope allow
Of adding to thy fame ; thine may to me,
When in my book men read but CECIL'S name,
And what I write thereof find far, and free
From servile flattery, common poets' shame,
As thou stand'st clear of the necessity.
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