Part 4

Thou by thy mistress Death hast given to man Hope, the imperishable courtesan. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou givest to the Guilty their calm mien Which damns the crowd around the guillotine. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou knowest the corners of the jealous Earth Where God has hidden jewels of great worth. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou dost discover by mysterious signs Where sleep the buried people of the mines. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou stretchest forth a saving hand to keep Such men as roam upon the roofs in sleep. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thy power can make the halting Drunkard's feet Avoid the peril of the surging street. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thou, to console our helplessness, didst plot The cunning use of powder and of shot. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Thy awful name is written as with pitch On the unrelenting foreheads of the rich. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

In strange and hidden places thou dost move Where women cry for torture in their love. Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

Father of those whom God's tempestuous ire Has flung from Paradise with sword and fire, Satan, at last take pity on our pain.

PRAYER

Satan, to thee be praise upon the Height Where thou wast king of old, and in the night Of Hell, where thou dost dream on silently. Grant that one day beneath the Knowledge-tree, When it shoots forth to grace thy royal brow, My soul may sit, that cries upon thee now.

THE TRANSLATOR AND THE CHILDREN

While I translated Baudelaire, Children were playing out in the air. Turning to watch, I saw the light That made their clothes and faces bright. I heard the tune they meant to sing As they kept dancing in a ring; But I could not forget my book, And thought of men whose faces shook When babies passed them with a look.

They are as terrible as death, Those children in the road beneath. Their witless chatter is more dread Than voices in a madman's head: Their dance more awful and inspired, Because their feet are never tired, Than silent revel with soft sound Of pipes, on consecrated ground, When all the ghosts go round and round.

OPPORTUNITY (from Machiavelli.)

"But who art thou, with curious beauty graced, O woman, stamped with some bright heavenly seal Why go thy feet on wings, and in such haste?"

"I am that maid whose secret few may steal, Called Opportunity. I hasten by Because my feet are treading on a wheel,

Being more swift to run than birds to fly. And rightly on my feet my wings I wear, To blind the sight of those who track and spy;

Rightly in front I hold my scattered hair To veil my face, and down my breast to fall, Lest men should know my name when I am there;

And leave behind my back no wisp at all For eager folk to clutch, what time I glide So near, and turn, and pass beyond recall."

"Tell me; who is that Figure at thy side?" "Penitence. Mark this well that by decree Who lets me go must keep her for his bride.

And thou hast spent much time in talk with me Busied with thoughts and fancies vainly grand, Nor hast remarked, O fool, neither dost see How lightly I have fled beneath thy hand."

DESTROYER OF SHIPS, MEN, CITIES

Helen of Troy has sprung from Hell To claim her ancient throne, So we have bidden friends farewell To follow her alone.

The Lady of the laurelled brow, The Queen of pride and power, Looks rather like a phantom now, And rather like a flower.

Deep in her eyes the lamp of night Burns with a secret flame, Where shadows pass that have no sight, And ghosts that have no name.

For mute is battle's brazen horn That rang for Priest and King, And she who drank of that brave morn Is pale with evening.