So, at his advent, such discomfiture
Taking its true shape of beneficence, Hohenstiel-Schwangau, half-sad and part-wise, Sat: if with wistful eye reverting oft To each pet weapon rusty on its peg, Yet, with a sigh of satisfaction too That, peacefulness become the law, herself Got the due share of godsends in its train, Cried shame and took advantage quietly. Still, so the dry-rot had been nursed into Blood, bones and marrow, that, from worst to best, All, — clearest brains and soundest hearts, save here, — All had this lie acceptable for law Plain as the sun at noonday — "War is best, Peace is worst; peace we only tolerate As needful preparation for new war: War may be for whatever end we will — Peace only as the proper help thereto. Such is the law of right and wrong for us Hohenstiel-Schwangau: for the other world, As naturally, quite another law. Are we content? The world is satisfied. Discontent? Then the world must give us leave Strike right and left to exercise our arm Torpid of late through overmuch repose, And show its strength is still superlative At somebody's expense in life or limb: Which done, — let peace succeed and last a year!" Such devil's-doctrine was so judged God's law, We say, when this man stepped upon the stage, That it had seemed a venial fault at most Had he once more obeyed Sagacity. "You come i' the happy interval of peace, The favourable weariness from war: Prolong it! — artfully, as if intent On ending peace as soon as possible. Quietly so increase the sweets of ease And safety, so employ the multitude. Put hod and trowel so in idle hands. So stuff and stop the wagging jaws with bread. That selfishness shall surreptitiously Do wisdom's office, whisper in the ear Of Hohenstiel-Schwangau, there's a pleasant feel In being gently forced down, pinioned fast To the easy arm-chair by the pleading arms O' the world beseeching her to there abide Content with all the harm done hitherto, And let herself be petted in return, Free to re-wage, in speech and prose and verse, The old unjust wars, nay — in verse and prose And speech, — to vaunt new victories, as vile A plague o' the future, — so that words suffice For present comfort, and no deeds denote That, — tired of illimitable line on line Of boulevard-building, tired o' the theatre With the tuneful thousand in their thrones above. For glory of the male intelligence. And Nakedness in her due niche below, For illustration of the female use — She, 'twixt a yawn and sigh, prepares to slip Out of the arm-chair, wants some blood again From over the boundary, to colour-up The sheeny sameness, keep the world aware Hohenstiel-Schwangau must have exercise Despite the petting of the universe! Come, you're a city-builder: what's the way Wisdom takes when time needs that she entice Some fierce tribe, castled on the mountain-peak, Into the quiet and amenity O' the meadow-land below? By crying 'Done With fight now, down with fortress?' Rather — 'Dare On, dare ever, not a stone displaced!' Cries Wisdom, 'Cradle of our ancestors. Be bulwark, give our children safety still! Who of our children please, may stoop and taste O' the valley-fatness, unafraid, — for why? At first alarm, they have thy mother-ribs To run upon for refuge; foes forget Scarcely what Terror on her vantage-coigne, Couchant supreme among the powers of air, Watches — prepared to pounce — the country wide! Meanwhile the encouraged valley holds its own, From the first hut's adventure in descent. Half home, half hiding place, — to dome and spire Befitting the assured metropolis: Nor means offence to the fort which caps the crag, All undismantled of a turret-stone, And bears the banner-pole that creaks at times Embarrassed by the old emblazonment, When festal days are to commemorate. Otherwise left untenanted, no doubt, Since, never fear, our myriads from below Would rush, if needs were, man the walls once more. Renew the exploits of the earlier time At moment's notice! But till notice sound, Inhabit we in ease and opulence!' And so, till one day thus a notice sounds, Not trumpeted, but in a whisper-gust Fitfully playing through mute city streets At midnight weary of day's feast and game — 'Friends, your famed fort's a ruin past repair! Its use is — to proclaim it had a use Stolen away long since. Climb to study there How to paint barbican and battlement I' the scenes of our new theatre! We fight Now — by forbidding neighbours to sell steel Or buy wine, not by blowing out their brains! Moreover, while we let time sap the strength O' the walls omnipotent in menace once, Neighbours would seem to have prepared surprise — Run up defences in a mushroom-growth, For all the world like what we boasted: brief — Hohenstiel-Schwangau's policy is peace!' "