Whose Strange withal to lighten, 'less all hope were dumb, And, ere the Riddle wearied that no answer grew, What still some sad twinge told him must abide its sum, Yet, on some wild prospect that chance Glory knew,
In this crude fashion sought to draw the Seraph out: "Why dost thou moan? Will Man ne'er know thee as thou really art? Mark how I am followed, how his bawdy rout, His brutish hordes, have throve and fatted at my feeling heart!
"How I have led him from 'way down the Scale, While something better,--yes, I've dreamt 'twas you,-- Devised those touches, made his red hand quail, Reproved the bully when most fierce he slew."
"Yet, look you, even when his best is told, Some bias granted where awards divide; Under the glass now--is he other than the beast of old, Have your pricks struck deeper than his spotty hide?"
Is your varnish more than the rogue's, whose saint For a fast or vigil wipes him, then gross-daubs him new? Ah! that I chance fouled him, helped flush the paint? Tut, tut, that still outfathoms, yea, or me, or you.
Come, be wise! Subscribe me proper! Sleek my Spoiler's hand, So its foul grip hallow, thought a blight before,-- Avouch it mine that grace that haunts me while the Heavens stand, Since first my gray dawn dimmed it 'mong white lights of yore.
Why should'st thou sorrow? Why those bleeding feet? Thy humble garment? Yon rapt, far-off gaze? The voice that falters thro' its dim entreat? Thy brow, sore pondering of this thankless maze,--
Thy brow, where lo!--ah, 'tis the riddle which I blind pursue-- Yon fond star frets it and divides thy gloom: Hark! Wilt thou not lend it me? In guise of True, Let its rose be grafted on my baser bloom?
Since, how then still goodlier might my outward show; My pose, my policy, each brood of shame, Which my wily statists at their game of draw-- My foxy henchmen--give a smoother name;
How still more potent were my toils than now,-- When "Nay" spoke gently Glory, "that out-goes my leave: How might I stand me where the high Fates bow Before the Will, that crowns no issue not thine own achieve."
"What! Thou wilt not?" Came the fierce respond, As on deep Night there rose a mocking and a damned wail, "Mark how I justify my bitter bond, How where fools refuse me there I grim assail!"