And this--yes, this, was the song of the Sorrowful True,
Which Father Wicked, the Old, for his child, the New,
He, and that cherub of rowdy fist,
Who'll blithely shake it where erst he kissed--
That covered Holy, the unctuous Wrong--
With his blushing bouncer, St. Meek, the Strong;
Set jointly down (while in crafty doubt
A wilful Muse turned it inside out,
Bared hide and heart of the stalking lore,
Its bluff and cant to their dismal core--)
Set down, I say, to mock-halcyon cheers,
As, with knife at throat of the suckling years,
They bled the weans, lest with peaceful bear,
Or, for other virtues in hiding there,
The gods, who winnow all mortal stock,
Should nurse the goats while they weed the flock--
Let for lack of pasture the true herd pine:
And all for what? For a humping quibble on Mine and Thine!
Nay, lest Rue, the babbler, with saucy dare,
Should sit in judgment twixt Foul and Fair;
Should slaver worse, if she came of age,
With inglorious snivel wise Clio's page:
Lest all of this, with what sousing tact
They niced her the diverse of whim and fact;
How glowed their zeal as they raked the Rue,
Broke font and tablet and put her through
Such drench of penance and convert-course,
Such Christian baptism from Truth, the Source:
Sure text nor ritual made never doubt,
Nor seasoned clerks, as with wary snout,
Each subtle wealsman stood sly at bay:
For leet or laurel--let wise Time say.
* * * * *
Well--this was the Song of the Sorrowful True:
A rip of a Muse--but it gives her view.
Curt and clear tho', did the touches fall,
Such pithy halves as outspeak the Whole:
Are you with me still? Can you check a flout?
Then stretch a will to hear it out?