Page:A Wine of Wizardry and Other Poems (1909).djvu/145



Mammon, hold not in scorn my followers, For they shall see thee die. Nor deem thou they Abide mine only servants all glad things Acknowledge me, all sprites and Bacchic fauns, That now, unheeded by thy grosser sight, Do throng this wood, and wait to join my train.

All such are less than we. The combat waits.

O justice latent at the heart of things, Decide! Send forth thy vengeful minister In whatso shape thou wilt. Thou, God, decide!

(The immense owl that heralded the coming of the Spirit of Bohemia now sweeps down the hillside. Mammon, hearing the rush of its wings, turns and dies at its touch, the owl simultaneously disappearing.)