WHEN THE CONUNDRUM OF THE WORKSHOPS 1890 HEN 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 glorious gain and that was a When the Devil chuckled "Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain. 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. 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 the 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 ?" 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 the mould in 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. EVARRA AND HIS GODS 1890 READ here: man This is the story of Evarra So that no man should maim him, none should steal, And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride, He wrote above the shrine: "Thus Gods are made, "And whoso makes them otherwise shall die." And all the city praised him. . . . Then he died. man Read here the story of Evarra And worshipped by the King; but, drunk with pride, He carved upon the plinth: "Thus Gods are made, "And whoso makes them otherwise shall die.” And all the people praised him. . . . Then he died. Read here the story of Evarra Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea. Because his village was between the hills, Because he smeared his cheeks with blood of ewes, Smeared blood upon its cheeks, and wedged a shell Of trailing moss, and plaited straw for crown. Read here the story of Evarra 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 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; What oaf on earth had made his toil God's law, Till God said mocking: "Mock not. These be thine." Thereat, with laughing mouth, but tear-wet eyes, This is the story of Evarra man Maker of Gods in lands beyond the sea. IN THE NEOLITHIC AGE 1895 IN the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt; I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man, Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove; And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg Were about me and beneath me and above. But a rival, of Solutré, told the tribe my style was outré 'Neath a tomahawk, of diorite, he fell. And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle |