Rhymes And Rhythms - XVII

CARMEN PATIBULARE     (To H. S.)     Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Crook      And the rope of the Black Election,     'Tis the faith of the Fool that a race you rule      Can never achieve perfection:     And 'It's O for the time of the New Sublime      And the better than human way     When the Wolf (poor beast) shall come to his own      And the Rat shall have his day!'     For Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Beam      And the power of provocation,     You have cockered the Brute with your dreadful fruit      Till your thought is mere stupration:     And 'It's how should we rise to be pure and wise,      And how can we choose but fall,     So long as the Hangman makes us dread      And the Noose floats free for all?'     So Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Coign      And the trick there's no recalling,     They will haggle and hew till they hack you through      And at last they lay you sprawling:     When 'Hey! for the hour of the race in flower      And the long good-bye to sin!'     And 'Ho! for the fires of Hell gone out      For the want of keeping in!'     But Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Bough      And the ghastly Dreams that tend you,     Your growth began with the life of Man      And only his death can end you:     They may tug in line at your hempen twine,      They may flourish with axe and saw,     But your taproot drinks of the Sacred Springs      In the living rock of Law.     And Tree, Old Tree of the Triple Fork,      When the spent sun reels and blunders     Down a welkin lit with the flare of the Pit      As it seethes in spate and thunders,     Stern on the glare of the tortured air      Your lines august shall gloom,     And your master-beam be the last thing whelmed      In the ruining roar of Doom.