Him we o'erset with the butts of our spears—
Him and his vast designs—
To be the scorn of our muleteers
And the jest of our halted lines.
By the picket-pins that the dogs defile,
In the dung and the dust He lay,
Till the priests ran and chattered awhile
And wiped Him and took Him away.
Hushing the matter before it was known,
They returned to our fathers afar,
And hastily set Him afresh on His throne
Because he had won us the war.
Wherefore with knees that feign to quake—
Bent head and shaded brow—
To this dead dog, for my father's sake,
In Rimmon's House I bow!
"THE CITY OF BRASS"
1909
Here was a people whom after their works thou shalt see wept over for their lost dominion: and in this palace is the last information respecting lords collected in the dust.
IN A land that the sand overlays the ways to her gates are untrod—
A multitude ended their days whose fates were made splendid by God,
