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THE CONUNDRUM OF THE

WORKSHOPS

When 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 to care a fig for the first, most dread review;

And he left his lore to the use of his sons and that

was a glorious gain

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 by 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 jabbering 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 ? "

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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 yolk of an addled egg,

We know that the tail must wag the dog, as 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 in the mould

The Conundrum of the Workshops

They scratch with their pens in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start

When 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 favor of God we might know as much as our father Adam knew.

THE ENGLISH FLAG

[Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack, remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately when it fell, the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.- Daily Papers. NOTE IN ENGLISH EDITION.]

Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro

And what should they know of England who only England know?

The poor little street-bred people that vapor and fume and brag,

They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag!

Must we borrow a clout from the Boer

anew with dirt

-to plaster

An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or

share.

What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World,

declare !

The North Wind blew: "From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go;

I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe;

Alfred, Lord Tennyson, wrote to Mr. Kipling praising these verses, and was pleased at the answer, which contained the sentence: "When the private in the ranks is praised by the general, he can not presume to thank him, but he fights the better next day.”— Tennyson Memoirs, Vol. II, p. 292.

The English Flag

By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God,

That the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod.

"I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame,

Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies

came;

I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast,

And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed.

"The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night,

The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light:

What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare.

Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is

there!"

The South Wind sighed : "From the Virgins my midsea course was ta'en

Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main,

Where the sea egg flames on the coral and the longbacked breakers croon

Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon.

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