THE ANSWER

A ROSE, in tatters on the garden path,
Cried out to God and murmured 'gainst His Wrath,
Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush
Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.

And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,
Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,
"Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well—
What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?”
And the Rose answered, "In that evil hour

A voice said, 'Father, wherefore falls the flower?
For lo, the very gossamers are still.'
And a voice answered, 'Son, by Allah's will!'"

Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward, Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord: "Sister, before We smote the dark in twain,

Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,

Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask." Whereat the withered flower, all content,

Died as they die whose days are innocent;

While he who questioned why the flower fell

Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.

THE SONG OF THE BANJO

You couldn't pack a Broadwood half a mile-
You mustn't leave a fiddle in the damp-
You couldn't raft an organ up the Nile,
And play it in an Equatorial swamp.

I travel with the cooking-pots and pails

I'm sandwiched 'tween the coffee and the pork— And when the dusty column checks and tails, You should hear me spur the rear-guard to a walk! With my "Pilly-willy-winky-winky popp!” [Oh, it's any tune that comes into my head!] So I keep 'em moving forward till they drop; So I play 'em up to water and to bed.

In the silence of the camp before the fight,
When it's good to make your will and say your

prayer,

You can hear my strumpty-tumpty overnight

Explaining ten to one was always fair.
I'm the Prophet of the Utterly Absurd,
Of the Patently Impossible and Vain-

And when the Thing that Couldn't has occurred,
Give me time to change my leg and go again.

With my " Tumpa-tumpa-tumpa-tum-pa tump! In the desert where the dung-fed camp-smoke curled

There was never voice before us till I led our

lonely chorus,

I-the war-drum of the White Man round the world!

By the bitter road the Younger Son must tread, Ere he win to hearth and saddle of his own,'Mid the riot of the shearers at the shed,

In the silence of the herder's hut aloneIn the twilight, on a bucket upside down,

Hear me babble what the weakest won't confessI am Memory and Torment-I am Town!

I am all that ever went with evening dress!
With my
"Tunk-a tunka-tunka-tunka-tunk!"
[So the lights-the London Lights-grow
near and plain!]

So I rowel 'em afresh towards the Devil and the
Flesh,

Till I bring my broken rankers home again.

In desire of many marvels over sea,

Where the new-raised tropic city sweats and roars, I have sailed with Young Ulysses from the quay Till the anchor rumbled down on stranger shores. He is blooded to the open and the sky,

He is taken in a snare that shall not fail,

He shall hear me singing strongly, till he die,
Like the shouting of a backstay in a gale.

With my "Hya! Heeya! Heeya! Hullah!

Haul!"

[O the green that thunders aft along the deck!] Are you sick o' towns and men? You must sign and sail again,

For it's "Johnny Bowlegs, pack your kit and trek!"

Through the gorge that gives the stars at noon-day clear

Up the pass that packs the scud beneath our wheel

Round the bluff that sinks her thousand fathom

sheer

Down the valley with our guttering brakes asqueal: Where the trestle groans and quivers in the snow, Where the many-shedded levels loop and twine, So I lead my reckless children from below Till we sing the Song of Roland to the pine. With my "Tinka-tinka-tinka-tinka-tink!" [And the axe has cleared the mountain, croup and crest!]

So we ride the iron stallions down to drink,

Through the cañons to the waters of the West!

And the tunes that mean so much to you aloneCommon tunes that make you choke and blow your

nose,

Vulgar tunes that bring the laugh that brings the

groan

I can rip your very heartstrings out with those;

With the feasting, and the folly, and the fun-
And the lying, and the lusting, and the drink,
And the merry play that drops you, when you're
done,

To the thoughts that burn like irons if you think.
With my "Plunka-lunka-lunka-lunka-lunk!"
Here's a trifle on account of pleasure past,
Ere the wit that made you win gives you eyes
to see your sin

And the heavier repentance at the last!

Let the organ moan her sorrow to the roof-
I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man!
Let the trumpets snare the foeman to the proof—
I have known Defeat, and mocked it as we ran!
My bray ye may not alter nor mistake

When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things,
But the Song of Lost Endeavour that I make,
Is it hidden in the twanging of the strings?
With my "Ta-ra-rara-rara-ra-ra-rrrp!"
[Is it naught to you that hear and pass me
by ?]

But the word—the word is mine, when the order moves the line

And the lean, locked ranks go roaring down to die.

Of the driven dust of speech I make a flame
And a scourge of broken withes that men let fall:
For the words that had no honour till I came-
Lo! I raise them into honour over all!