THE REBEL

A riot-maker! Can the fruit

Of frenzy be a gracious thing?

His soul has hands; above the bruit

They lift a song-bird quivering.

World-wrecker! Shall he trampling go

Till Beauty's drenched and lonely eyes

Mourn a deserted earth? But no!

Men go not down till men arise.

The game is Life's. She plays to win;

And whirls to dust her overlings;

Her abluent winds shall spare no sin,

Though hidden in the breast of kings;

And Earth is smiling as she takes

To her old lap their fallen bones,

For down the throbbing ways there wakes

The laughter of her greater sons.