Page:Collected poems Robinson, Edwin Arlington.djvu/131

 And old, and hungry; but the worst of it Was a forlorn familiar consciousness That he had failed again. There was a time When he had fancied, if worst came to worst, And he could do no more, that he might ask Of whom he would. But once had been enough, And soon there would be nothing more to ask. He was himself, and he had lost the speed He started with, and he was left behind. There was no mystery, no tragedy; And if they found him lying on his back Stone dead there some sharp morning, as they might,— Well, once upon a time there was a man— Es war einmal ein König, if it pleased him. And he was right: there were no men to blame: There was just a false note in the Tilbury tune— A note that able-bodied men might sound Hosannas on while Captain Craig lay quiet. They might have made him sing by feeding him Till he should march again, but probably Such yielding would have jeopardized the rhythm; They found it more melodious to shout Eight on, with unmolested adoration, To keep the tune as it had always been, To trust in God, and let the Captain starve. He must have understood that afterwards— When we had laid some fuel to the spark Of him, and oxidized it—for he laughed Out loud and long at us to feel it burn, And then, for gratitude, made game of us: <f You are the resurrection and the life," He said, "and I the hymn the Brahmin sings; O Fuscus! and we'll go no more a-roving."