Part 21

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, Abhorrent, 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, Till God said mocking: “Mock not. These be thine.” Then cried Evarra: “I have sinned!” -- “Not so. If thou hadst written otherwise, thy Gods Had rested in the mountain and the mine, And I were poorer by four wondrous Gods, And thy more wondrous law, Evarra. Thine, Servant of shouting crowds and lowing kine.” Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes, Evarra cast his Gods from Paradise.

This is the story of Evarra -- man -- Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea.

THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS

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 -- and that was a glorious gain When the Devil chuckled “Is it Art?” in the ear of the branded Cain.

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 that 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?”

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.

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 in the mould -- 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!

THE LEGEND OF EVIL

This is the sorrowful story Told when the twilight fails And the monkeys walk together Holding their neighbours' tails: --

“Our fathers lived in the forest, Foolish people were they, They went down to the cornland To teach the farmers to play.

“Our fathers frisked in the millet, Our fathers skipped in the wheat, Our fathers hung from the branches, Our fathers danced in the street.

“Then came the terrible farmers, Nothing of play they knew, Only. . .they caught our fathers And set them to labour too!

“Set them to work in the cornland With ploughs and sickles and flails, Put them in mud-walled prisons And -- cut off their beautiful tails!

“Now, we can watch our fathers, Sullen and bowed and old, Stooping over the millet, Sharing the silly mould,

“Driving a foolish furrow, Mending a muddy yoke, Sleeping in mud-walled prisons, Steeping their food in smoke.

“We may not speak to our fathers, For if the farmers knew They would come up to the forest And set us to labour too.”

This is the horrible story Told as the twilight fails And the monkeys walk together Holding their kinsmen's tails.

'Twas when the rain fell steady an' the Ark was pitched an' ready, That Noah got his orders for to take the bastes below; He dragged them all together by the horn an' hide an' feather, An' all excipt the Donkey was agreeable to go.

Thin Noah spoke him fairly, thin talked to him sevarely, An' thin he cursed him squarely to the glory av the Lord: -- “Divil take the ass that bred you, and the greater ass that fed you -- Divil go wid you, ye spalpeen!” an' the Donkey went aboard.

But the wind was always failin', an' 'twas most onaisy sailin', An' the ladies in the cabin couldn't stand the stable air; An' the bastes betwuxt the hatches, they tuk an' died in batches, Till Noah said: -- “There's wan av us that hasn't paid his fare!”

For he heard a flusteration 'mid the bastes av all creation -- The trumpetin' av elephints an' bellowin' av whales; An' he saw forninst the windy whin he wint to stop the shindy The Divil wid a stable-fork bedivillin' their tails.

The Divil cursed outrageous, but Noah said umbrageous: -- “To what am I indebted for this tenant-right invasion?” An' the Divil gave for answer: -- “Evict me if you can, sir, For I came in wid the Donkey -- on Your Honour's invitation.”

THE ENGLISH FLAG