"They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm."

The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad,

The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord.

Masthead masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft:

The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed:

"It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all-we 'll out to the seas

again

"Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain.

"It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, and the swing of the unbought brine

"We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line:

"Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer,

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"Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer; Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty, Heaving his head for our dipsy-lead in sign that we keep

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the sea.

"Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam

the outward tack,

"We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade the bezant is hard, ay, and black.

"The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-Laut

"How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port;

"How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains there

"Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag—to show that his trade is fair!"

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE

WORKSHOPS

1890

WHEN the flush of a new-born sun fell first on Eden's

green and gold,

Our father Adam sat under the Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;

And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,

Till the Devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"

Wherefore he called to his wife, and fled to fashion his work

anew

The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread

review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons

glorious gain

When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art?" in the ear of the branded

Cain.

They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars

apart,

Till the Devil grunted behind the bricks: "It's striking, but is

it Art?"

The stone was dropped at the quarry-side and the idle derrick

swung,

While each man talked of the aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.

They fought and they talked in the North and the South; they talked and they fought in the West,

Till the waters rose on the pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest

Had rest till the dank blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,

And the Devil bubbled below the keel: "It's human, but is it Art?"

The tale is as old as the Eden Tree and new as the new-cut

tooth

For each man knows ere his lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;

And each man hears as the twilight nears, to the beat of his dying

heart,

The Devil drum on the darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?"

We have learned to whittle the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,

We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yelk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;

But the Devil whoops, as he whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art ?"

When the flicker of London sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,

The sons of Adam sit them down and scratch with their pens

the mould

in

They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,

For the Devil mutters behind the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it

Art ?"

Now, if we could win to the Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,

And the Wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago, And if we could come when the sentry slept and softly scurry

through,

By the favour of God we might know as much

as our father

Adam knew.

EVARRA AND HIS GODS

1890

READ here:

This is the story of Evarra

Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
Because the city gave him of her gold,
Because the caravans brought turquoises,
Because his life was sheltered by the King,

So that no man should maim him, none should steal,
Or break his rest with babble in the streets
When he was weary after toil, he made
An image of his God in gold and pearl,
With turquoise diadem and human eyes,
A wonder in the sunshine, known afar,

And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,
Because the city bowed to him for God,

He wrote above the shrine: "Thus Gods are made,

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And whoso makes them otherwise shall die."

And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died.

man

Read here the story of Evarra
Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
Because the city had no wealth to give,
Because the caravans were spoiled afar,
Because his life was threatened by the King,
So that all men despised him in the streets,
He hewed the living rock, with sweat and tears,
And reared a God against the morning-gold,
A terror in the sunshine, seen afar,

And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride,
Because the city fawned to bring him back,

He carved upon the plinth: "Thus Gods are made, "And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”

And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.

Read here the story of Evarra

Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.
Because he lived among a simple folk,
Because his village was between the hills,
Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes,
He cut an idol from a fallen pine,

Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell
Above its brows for eyes, and gave it hair

Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown.
And all the village praised him for this craft,
And brought him butter, honey, milk, and curds.
Wherefore, because the shoutings drove him mad,
He scratched upon that log: "Thus Gods are made,
“And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.”
And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died.

Read here the story of Evarra man

Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

Because his God decreed one clot of blood

Should swerve one hair's-breadth from the pulse's path,
And chafe his brain, Evarra mowed alone,
Rag-wrapped, among the cattle in the fields,
Counting his fingers, jesting with the trees,
And mocking at the mist, until his God
Drove him to labour. Out of dung and horns
Dropped in the mire he made a monstrous God,
Uncleanly, shapeless, crowned with plantain tufts,
And when the cattle lowed at twilight-time,
He dreamed it was the clamour of lost crowds,
And howled among the beasts: "Thus Gods are made,
"And whoso makes them otherwise shall die."
Thereat the cattle bellowed. . . . Then he died.

Yet at the last he came to Paradise,

And found his own four Gods, and that he wrote;
And marvelled, being very near to God,

What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law,