I like my labour and the gods,
And rave about them in the fashion
Of those who framed their high abodes,
And fabled them into a passion;
And gave to each the task divine
Of censor over human action;
With power to quell with nod or sign
All hot dispute and knotty faction.
I think them yet as bending still
From their high dwelling-place in kindness,
To give reward for good and ill,
Or punish man for wilful blindness.
This is a strange belief, I know,
And may appear, no doubt, to some as
Unworthy of my years; but go
And lay the blame on 'grand old Thomas.'
What right had he to come and prate
About the gods and such digressions,
When I was in that plastic state
That keeps through lifetime such impressions?
And now, when I have firmer tone,
And less unbending in my nature,
Of gods and faiths I babble on,
And words of German nomenclature.
I also deem this world should leap
From wonder unto glowing wonder;
That in its rolling we should keep
A breast with human feelings under;
That good should be our aim, and life
Have more of work and God-like fearing,
And less of all that paltry strife
That keeps the dirty mud-gods sneering;
That cant should lift his putrid wings,
And fly back to the primal chaos,
And mix no more in human things,
Nor with his solemn saws betray us;
But rot amid the dank abodes,
Where Styx in silent blackness rushes.
All this came to me when the gods,
Through 'grand old Thomas' spoke their wishes.
I've less, too, of that iris light
With which 'us youth' bedaubs our dreaming;
And that which once was angel bright
Is back now to a human seeming.
I own it cost a pang or two—
Such price one pays for groping blindly—
But when I felt my clearer view,
I thank'd the Chelsea Teacher kindly.
I've read your Fènèlon, but he
Is far too polish'd to my liking;
But 'grand old Thomas' speaks to me
In careless periods, rough and striking.
A Thunder-god is he, whose brow
Wears its word-lightning to benumb us;
And so Je crains les dieux and bow,
And love and reverence 'grand old Thomas.'