WHITEWASH by FRANK WILMOT

THEY trod in sweet, accustomed ways, the men
Our colleges and seminaries nursed;
But down to Hell they strode, and back again,
And lived wild life, who saw the new things first.
After their lives are crowned by triumphs done,
Come royal dames to hug the heroes close
Who spurn the attic where the work begun,
The sordid circumstance whence they arose.

Yet all the World Deliverers rose from where
Pain stirs, and Want bites deeply, and the harsh
Law of a cruel requirement, hunger, fear,
Chain slow-emerging spirits in the marsh.
There the down-trodden groped among the mire,
Found a white jewel for the world to share.
And now you talk of 'evil's purging fire,'
And lie and lie to make the finder fair!

When teh wise ages mark him with a name,
Your mealy tongues declare how pure was he,
Though he passed down the cavern of all shame,
And struggled with Want's black iniquity.
Ye, whom his talent taught the world to spurn,
Praise 'the new art' lounging in chairs of plush!
How the bold, towering genius would turn
Groaning within his grave, to hear you gush!

Often he stole to some remote back room,
Talked bloody revolution till the dawn;
Measured out savagely the angry doom
Of those high madams who come now to fawn!
Cursed with wild words the systems and the times,
And spread calm fields of rosemary with rue;
But now you take his fierce, prophetic rhymes,
And praise a dreamer for a dream come true!

Musicians, painters, poets, worn and white,
Slink down a dismal lane to pawn a shirt;
Fame honours them, and -- whimpering your delight --
You laud them while you call their mothers dirt!
You did not move when, ages past, they played
To some lone, loving woman; they were young
And wild and poor, but when proud tombs are made --
You 'love Millet,' and chatter 'Nibelung.'

Know you Villon's fat Margot? It's too late
To 'rescue' her or heal the cutting wound
Of scowling downward from your coach of state
On Time's lone monarchs, haggard and uncrowned!
They went through life and trouble without aid
Of God or man, making true art their care,
Till at the finish fashion gaped, dismayed,
On the wide prospect and the serene air.

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