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Buchanan and the Law

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Harriett Jay

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{The New Rome 1898}







AT Paris, on the Champs Elysées,
     I sat and read Pot-Bouille through,
Then felt like one whose lips are greasy
     After some sorry kitchen-stew;
Then, putting Zola in my pocket,
     I watched Napoleon’s arc of fame—
Its open arch, like Death’s eye-socket,
                         Flush’d with flame.

Beyond, the sun was sinking downward,
     And from the race-course, past the gate,
Thousands were driving swiftly townward—
     Some merry, some disconsolate;
While on the footpath gay crowds lingered
     Watching the bright cortêge flow by,
Lucifer pointed, fiery-fingered,
                         From the sky.

Herodias, by her lord attended,
     Faustine alone, in landau blue,
La Gloria, with trappings splendid,
     And Plutus in her retinue;
In their hired carriage, Mai and Mimi,
     Light-coated lovers at their side;
Camille, consumption-mark’d and dreamy,

Then, all the glorious wedded ladies!                                                  298
     Prudish or bold, I saw them pass:
How like the rest whose busiest trade is
     Done in the night beneath the gas!
Leaders of folly or of fashion,
     With splendour robed, with roses crowned,
With eyes of prurience or of passion
                         Smiling round!

There, oiled and scented, white-waistcoated,
     The jolly bourgeois, coarse and fat,
Lolled by his lady purple-throated
     In velvet robes and feathered hat.
I stay’d, with Zola in my pocket,
     And watched till they had come and gone,
Napoleon’s arc, like Death’s eye-socket,
                         Glaring on!

And all the foulness and obsceneness
     Of dress and form, of face and look,
Answer’d the sadness and uncleanness
     That I had gathered from the book.
My inmost soul was sick with Zola.
     I thought of sins without a name,
I loathed the world, and thought the whole a
                         Sink of shame!



Just as I rose, with sorrow laden,
     Eager to leave the shameless sight,
I saw close by a little Maiden
     Bareheaded in the sunset-light.
In muslin robe of snowy whiteness,                                                     299
     And one white lily in her hair,
She paused, her pale cheek flush’d to brightness,
                         Smiling there!

Her mother, who had brought her thither,
     An ouvrieuse with travail bowed,
Stood waiting to wend homeward with her
     Through the gay groups, the chattering crowd;
Watched by that mother sad and tender,
     On the glad picture gazed the child;
Then, glancing at her own white splendour,
                         Proudly smiled.

Presently, with a sigh of gladness,
     Turning, toward my seat she came,
So feeble and slow, I saw with sadness
     She bore a crutch and she was lame;
She came still nearer with her mother,
     And leaning on her crutch she stood;
One slender limb was sound, the other
                         Made of wood!

And on the sound foot, small and pretty,
     One stocking white, one satin shoe!
My soul grew full of pain and pity,
     My eyes were dim with tenderest dew;
But ah! her face was bright with pleasure,
     Nor pained or peevish, sad or cross;
Her heart too full that day to measure
                         All her loss.

’Twas her first day of Confirmation;                                                   300
     And many a month before that day
The child, with eager expectation,
     Had longed to wear that white array;
Then, that glad morning, in the City
     She had wakened long before the light,
And stolen from bed, to seek her pretty
                         Robe of white.

And she had stood with many others—
     Poor little lambs of the same fold
Watched fondly by their sad-eyed mothers,
     ’Neath the great Church’s dome of gold;
And while the holy light caressed them
     And solemn music went and came,
The Bishop had approved and blessed them
                         In Christ’s name!

While the pale mother sat beside me,
     We talked together of the child,
Who, listening proudly, stood and eyed me
     With soul astir and cheeks that smiled;
Bright as a flower that blooms in Eden
     Fed with sweet dews and heavenly air,
Was that poor lily of a Maiden
                         Pure and fair.

And as I looked in loving wonder
     The whole world brighten’d to my view,
The dark sad sod was cleft asunder
     To let the flowers of light slip through!
And lilies bright and roses blowing                                                      301
     Dazzled my sense, while on mine ear
Came sounds of winds and waters flowing
                         Crystal clear!



Down to the glad green Bois I wandered,
     The sun shone down on sward and tree;
Around me, as I walked and pondered,
     The children shouted merrily;
The lake was sparkling full of gladness,
     The song of birds trilled clear and gay,
I listened, and the cloud of sadness
                         Stole away.

Then out I took, with fingers shrinking,
     My Zola, poisonous like the snake,
And held him where the light was blinking
     O’er leaves of lilies on the lake.
“Zola, my prophet of obsceneness,”
     I murmured, “this at least is clear:
Who seeks may ever find uncleanness,
                         Even here.

“And yet God made the world, and in it
     Caused buds of love and joy to bloom;
Voices of innocence each minute
     Scatter the ravens of the tomb;
E’en from the dreariest dust of sorrow
     Lilies of light may spring and shine,
And from the Heaven above them borrow
                         Hues divine.

“The glad deep music of Creation,                                                      302
     Abiding still though men depart,
Transcends the song of tribulation
     Raised in your lazar-house of Art.
He who would hear it must, upleaping,
     Face the full suntide of his Time,
Nor, on the muddy bottom creeping,
                         Search the slime!

“One lily, wheresoever blowing,
     Can shame your sunless kitchen-weeds;
One flower of joy, though feebly growing,
     Still justifies diviner creeds.
There may be Hell, with mischief laden,
     There still is Heaven (look up and try!).
So that poor lily of a Maiden
                         Proves—you lie!”

I held him sunward for a minute,
     Then loosening fingers set him free:
The water splashed; he vanished in it.
     Down to the muddy depths went he.
The light flashed out, no longer feeble,
     The waters sparkled where he fell.
“Zola,” I said, “enfant terrible,

PARIS, June 1883.




“ ‘If God would only do something,’ I said.
‘He does nothing,’ answered Carlyle.”
                                                       —Froude’s Life of Carlyle.



“GOD does nothing!” sigh’d the Seer,
     Sick of playing Prophet:
To his eyes the sun-flames clear
     Seem’d the fumes of Tophet;
Off the King he tore his crown,
     Stript the Priest of clothing,
Curst the world—then, with a frown,
     Murmur’d, “God does—nothing!



Bitter creed, and creedless cry
     Of the soul despairing—
He who once on sea and sky
     Saw the Portent flaring,
He who chose the thorny road,
     Paths of pleasure loathing,
Crying loudly, “Great is God,
     Only Man is nothing!”



Many a year the merry world
     Flash’d its lights before him,
Freedom’s flag had been unfurl’d
     To the ether o’er him,
Kings had fallen, empires changed,                                           304
     Suns of science risen,
Innocence had been avenged,
     Truth had burst her prison.



Having slain the serpent creeds,
     Knowledge, swift, Persean,
On their grave had scatter’d seeds
     From the Empyrean;
Godlike shapes had come and gone,
     Naked Nations clothing,
While the Prophet sat alone,
     Sighing “God does—nothing!



Nothing? Whence, then, came the Light,
     Flashed across each Nation,
Working after years of night
     Love’s glad liberation?
Whose the Voice that from the grave
     Cried, “Hell’s fires I smother”?
Whose the Hand that freed the Slave?
     If not His, what other?



Nay, but who was busy too
     In the Seer’s own dwelling,
Planting flowers of heavenly blue
     In a soul rebelling?
Who was whispering, even then,                                               305
     Loving and not loathing,
“Only he who hateth men
     Thinketh God does nothing!”



Strong and stubborn as the rock,
     Blindly sat the Prophet—
Angels round his hearth might flock,
     Yet he reck’d not of it!
Blind,—tho’ one assumed the form
     Of a weary Woman,
Shedding on his heart of stone
     Love divinely human!



Wrapt around with stoic pride
     Blind he sat each morrow—
Whose, then, was the Voice that cried,
     “Smite his soul with sorrow”?
Whose, then, was the shadowy Power
     Which, to overcome him,
Stooping as one plucks a flower,
     Took that other from him?



Not alone on wings of storm,
     Nor in tones of thunder,
Speaks the Voice and stirs the Form,
     While we watch and wonder;
Still as falls the silent dew,                                                         306
     Sweet’ning, sanctifying,
He who stirs the suns can strew
     Lilies on the dying!



Darker grows the cloud, when we,
     Blind and helpless creatures,
Face to face the Lord could see,
     Scrutinise His features!
He who plans our loss or gain
     Works beyond our guessing—
On the loneliest paths of pain
     Grows his sweetest blessing!



Wouldst thou tear the clouds apart,
     Seeking sign or token?
Look for God within thy heart,
     Tho’ that heart be broken!
All without thee—tempest-blown
     Darkness of Creation—
Is a Dream that needs thine own
     Life’s interpretation!



Seekest thou the God of wrath,
     In the Tempest calling?
Or, a Phantom in thy path,
     Slaying and appalling?
Rather, when the light is low,                                                     307
     Crouching silent near it,
Seek Him, in the ebb and flow
     Of thy breathing spirit!



See, the weary Prophet’s grave!
     Calm and sweet it lieth,
Hush’d, tho’ still the human wave,
     Breaking blindly, crieth!
He who works thro’ quick and dead,
     Loving, never loathing,
Blest this grey-hair’d child, who said
     Feebly, “God does—nothing!”




MARK now, how close they are akin,
     The worst man and the best,—
The soul that least is touch’d with sin,
     And he that’s sinfullest.

From Shakespeare to the dullest knave
     That scans the poet’s page,
A step,—and lo, the same black grave
     Yawns both for fool and sage!

A little life, a little sleep,
     A little hunger and thirst,
A little time to laugh and weep,
     Unite the best and worst!

Hush then thy pomp and pride, O Man!
     But humbly breathe and be,—
The Law that was when life began
     Flows on thro’ God and thee!





“Stimulatus ubi furenti rabie, vagus animi.”
AT. DE ATY, 4.


O CATULLUS, still among us strides the thing you celebrated,
     Flying yonder through the shadows where the modern mænads throng,—
Sexless, sad, self-mutilated, that which God as Man created
     Wails in mad despair of manhood, beats the timbrel, shrills the song!

Ah the pity! for the Muses round his cradle sang a pæan,
     Hover’d o’er him and around him where a happy child he ran,
But he join’d the flocks Circean, drank the curséd wine Lethean,
     And now the gods deny to it the birthright of a man!

Ah, the pity!—oft there cometh from its lips that murmur madly
     A tone that still reminds us of the song that might have been!
While the face that once shone gladly looms despitefully and sadly
     From the haunted Phrygian forest of the Goddess Epicene!


The quotation (slightly incorrect) is from Carmen 63 of Catullus:

Super alta vectus Attis celeri rate maria,
Phrygium ut nemus citato cupide pede tetigit,
adiitque opaca siluis redimita loca deae,
stimulatus ibi furenti rabie, vagus animis,
devolsit ili acuto sibi pondera silice,
itaque ut relicta sensit sibi membra sine viro,
etiam recente terrae sola sanguine maculans,
niveis citata cepit manibus leve typanum,
typanum tuum, Cybebe, tua, mater initia,
quatiensque terga tauri teneris cava digitis
canere haec suis adorta est tremebunda comitibus.

The following translation is by Brendan Rau and is taken from Rudy Negenborn's Catullus site:

Attis, having been conveyed over the high sees on a
swift-moving boat, when he eagerly touched the Phrygian
forest with his rapid foot and visited the dark places
encircled by the goddess' forests, having there been goaded
on by a raving frenzy, and restless in mind and body,

he plucked out the weights of his own loin with sharp flint,
and when he perceived his remaining limbs without his
manhood, as he was still spattering the soil of the land
with fresh blood, having been summoned, he took a light tom-tom
with his snow-white hands, your tom-tom, mother Cybele,
your sacred rites, and shaking the hollow tom-tom,
covered with bullhide, he began to sing of this thing to his
comrades as he trembled. ]






CONFOUND your croakers and drug concoctors!
     I’ve sent them packing at last, you see!
I’m in the hands of the best of doctors,
     Dear cheery and chirpy Doctor B.!

None of your moping, methodistic,
     Long-faced ravens who frighten a man!
No, ever with treatment optimistic
     To rouse the sick, is the Doctor’s plan!

In he comes to you, smiling brightly,
     Feels your pulse for the mere form’s sake,
Bustles about the sick-room lightly,
     Gives you no beastly drugs to take,

But blithely clapping you on the shoulder,
     “Better?” he cries, “Why, you’re nearly well!”
And then you hear, with a heart grown bolder,
     The last good story he has to tell!

And, mind you, his learning is prodigious,
     He has Latin and Greek at his finger ends,
And with all his knowledge he’s still religious,
     And counts no sceptic among his friends.

God’s in his Heaven, and willy nilly                                                     311
     All things come right in the end, he shows—
The rouge on the ladies of Piccadilly
     Is God’s, as much as the blush of the rose!

And as for the wail of the whole world’s sorrow,
     Well, men may weep, but the thrushes sing!
If you’re sick to-day, there’ll be jinks to-morrow,
     And life, on the whole, is a pleasant thing!

When out of spirits you’re sadly lying,
     All dismal talk he puts bravely by:
“God’s in his Heaven,” you hear him crying,—
     “All’s right with Creation, from star to stye!”

Full of world’s wisdom and life’s variety,
     Always alive and alert is he,
His patients move in the best society,
     And Duchesses swear by Doctor B.!

A bit too chirpy, to some folk’s thinking?
     Well, there are moods that he hardly suits!—
Once, last summer, when I felt sinking,
     I fear’d his voice and the creak of his boots!

If he has a fault which there’s no denying,
     ’Tis proneness to argue and prove his case,—
When under the Shadow a man is lying,
     Such boisterous comfort seems out of place;

’Tis little solace, when one is going                                                      312
     Into the long eternal Night,
To hear a voice, like a bugle blowing,
     Cry, “Glory to God, for the world’s all right!”

I long’d, I own, for a voice less cheery,
     A style less strident, a tone less free,—
For one who’d bend by my bedside dreary
     And hush his wisdom, and weep with me!

But bless your heart, when my health grew better,
     I gladden’d the old boy’s face to see;
And still I consider myself the debtor
     Of dear old chirpy Doctor B.!





(Written after first meeting the American poet,
Walt Whitman, at Camden, New Jersey.)


A PILGRIM from beyond the seas,
     Seeking some shrine where shrines are few,
I found the latter Socrates,
     Greek to the core, yet Yankee too;
Feeble, for he was growing old,
Yet fearless, self-contained, and bold,
Rough as a seaman who has driven
Long years before the winds of Heaven,
I found him, with the blue skies o’er him,
And figuratively, knelt before him!
Then gript the hand that long had lain
     Tenderly in the palm of Death,
Saw the sweet eyes that still maintain
     Calm star-like watch o’er things of breath,
And as the dear voice gave its greeting
     My heart was troubled unaware
With love and awe that hush’d its beating
     And pride that darken’d into prayer.

This man affirmed his disbelief
     In all the gods, but Belial mainly:
Nature he loved, but Man in chief,
     And what Man is, he uttered plainly!
Like Socrates, he mixed with men                                                       314
     At the street corner, rough and ready,
Christ-like he sought the Magdalen,
     Lifting his hat, as to a lady;
No thing that breathes, however small,
     Found him unloving or rebelling;
The shamble and the hospital
     Familiar were as his own dwelling;
Then trumpet-like his voice proclaimed
The naked Adam unashamed,
The triumph of the Body, through
The sun-like Soul that keeps it true,
The triumph of the Soul, whereby
The Body lives, and cannot die.
The world was shocked, and Boston, screaming
     Cover’d her face, and cried “For shame!”
Gross, hankering, mystically dreaming,
     The good grey Poet went and came;
But when the dark hour loomed at last,
     And, lighted by the fiery levin,
Man grappled man in conflict vast,
While Christendom gazed on aghast,
Through the great battlefield he past                                                    [2:27]
     With finger pointing up to Heaven.
Socrates? Nay, more like that Other
     Who walked upon the stormy Sea,
He brought, while brother wounded brother,
     The anointing nard of charity!

But when the cruel strife was ended
Uprose the Elders, mob-attended,
Saying, “This Socrates, it seems,
Denies Olympus and blasphemes;                                                       315
Offends, moreover, ’gainst the Schools
Who teach great Belial’s moral rules,
Sins against Boston and the Law
That keeps the coteries in awe,
And altogether for his swagger
Deserves the hemlock cup or dagger!”
So said, so done! The Pharisees
     Called up the guard and gave directions—
The prison opened—Socrates
     Was left therein to his reflections!

A full score years have passed, and still
     The good grey Bard still loafs and lingers;
The social poison could not kill,
     Though stirred by literary fingers—
He sipped it, smiled, and put it by,
Despite the scandal and the cry;
But when, the Pharisees commanding,
     They rushed to end him with the sword,
They saw, beside the poet standing,
     A radiant Angel of the Lord.

A hemlock cup? Yes, there it lies,
     Close to thy hand, old friend, this minute!
With gentle twinkle of the eyes
     You mark the muddy liquid in it:
For the grave rulers of the City,
Who sent it, you have only pity;
For those who mixed it, made it green
With misconception, spite, and spleen,
You feel no thrill of scornful fret,
But only kindness and regret.                                                              316
’Twas Emerson, some folk affirm,
     Who passed it round with shrug of shoulder—
Good soul, he worshipped Time and Term,
     Instead of Pan, as he grew older!
And Boston snubbed thee? Walt, true heart,
     Time ever brings about revenges—
Just glance that way before we part
     And note the memorable changes.

There, in the “hub” of all creation,
     Where Margaret Fuller, ere she mated,
Flirted with seers of reputation
     And all the “isms” cultivated,
Where still brisk Holmes cuts learnëd capers
     With buckles on knee-breeches fine,
The sweet man-milliners and drapers,
     Howells and James, put up their sign.
And there the modern Misses find
The wares most suited to their mind—
French fashions, farthingales delightful,
     Frills white as snow for ladies’ wear;
Nothing old-fashioned, fast, or frightful,
     Is dealt in by this dainty pair!
The stuff they sell to man or woman
May in itself be poor or common,
Coarsest of serge or veriest sacking,
     But they can trick it in a trice,
So that no element is lacking
     To render it extremely nice.
“Ladies!” they murmur, with a smile,
“We pride ourselves upon our style!
Our cutter is a paragon                                                                      317
Match’d only by our fitter-on;
Bring what material you like,
We’ll treat it in a way to strike,
Turn your old satins, and embellish
Last season’s hats with feathers swellish;
In short, weave miracles of clothing
By genius out of next to nothing,
And charge the very lowest prices
For all our daintiest devices.
We know,” they add, with smirk and bow,
     “Some of you like old-fashioned clothes—
The Emersonian homespun (now
     Absurd as Whitman’s or Thoreau’s),
Or even, still absurder, seek
Poor Shakespeare’s fashion quite antique,
Fit only, with its stiff brocades,
For vulgar frumps and country maids.
Could Shakespeare, poor old fellow, please
With such a cut as this—chemise?
The woof he used was strongly woven,
     But surely, now, his taste was shocking?
Compare our silk hose, much approven,
     With Dickens’ clumsy worsted stocking!
We please the dames and gain the daughters
     With neat inventions of our own,
Replace George Eliot’s learnëd garters
     With our suspenders silken-sewn;
While, in an annex to the shop,
     Our customers will find, quite handy,
The toothsome bun and lollipop
     And superfine molasses candy!”
The busy pair! How well they patter,                                                   318
Disposing of their slender matter!
The girls adore, instead of loathing,
These laureates of underclothing,
Delight their soul’s attire to model
On the last style of mollycoddle,
Eked out with sickly importations
From France, that naughtiest of nations!
Dapper they are, and neatly dressed,
     Insidious, tempting folks to buy goods,
But mere man-milliners at best
     Vending the flimsiest of dry goods;
Trash in their flimsy window setting,
     And tricking up to catch the eye
Such clothes as spoil with the first wetting
     From the free rains of yonder sky!

Daintily passing by their shop,
     Sometimes, when it is cloudless weather,
Aldrich, a literary fop,
     In trim tight boots of patent leather,
Strolls to the quiet street, where he saw
Sun-freckled Marjorie play at see-saw,
And bending o’er her hammock, kisses
That sweetest, shadowiest of misses!
His languid gait, his dudish drawl,
His fopdom, we forgive them all,
For her dear sake of his creating.
     Fairer than girls of flesh and blood,
Who, never loving, never mating,
     Swings in eternal Maidenhood!

Now I conjure thee, best of Bards,                                                     319
Scatter thy wisdom Bostonwards!
Tell Howells, who with fingers taper
     Measures the matron and the maid,
God never meant him for a draper—
     Strip off his coat, give him a spade!
His muscles and his style may harden
If he digs hard in Adam’s garden,
Or follows Dudley Warner flying
     Where Adirondack eagles soar,
Or chums with some brown savage, lying
     With Stoddard on a South-sea shore.
Tell James to burn his continental
Library of the Detrimental,
And climb a hill, or take a header
     Into the briny, billowy seas,
Or find some strapping Muse and wed her,
     Instead of simpering at teas!
How should the Titaness of nations,
     Whose flag o’er half a world unfurls,
Sit listening to the sibilations
     Of shopmen twittering to girls?
She sees the blue skies bend above her,
She feels the throb of hearts that love her,
She hears the torrent and the thunder,
The clouds above, the waters under,
She knows her destiny is shaping
Beyond the dreams of Linendraping!
She craves a band of Bards with voices
To echo her when she rejoices,
To sing her sorrows and to capture
The Homeric music of her rapture!
She hears the good grey Poet only                                                      320
     Sing, priestly-vestured, prophet-eyed,
And on his spirit falls the lonely
     Light of her splendour and her pride. . . .

Poet divine, strong soul of fire,
Alive with love and love’s desire,
Whose strength is as the Clouds, whose song
Is as the Waters deep and strong,
Whose spirit, like a flag unfurled,
Proclaims the freedom of the World,
What gifts of grace and joy have come
Out of thy gentle martyrdom!
A pilgrim from afar, I bring
     Homage from some who love thee well—
Ah, may the feeble song I sing
     Make summer music in thy cell!
The noblest head ’neath western skies,
The tenderest heart, the clearest eyes,
Are thine, my Socrates, whose fate
Is beautifully desolate!
As deep as Hell, as high as Heaven,
Thy wisdom hath this lesson given:
When all the gods that reign’d and reign
     Have fallen like leaves and left no sign,
The god-like Man shall still remain
     To prove Humanity divine!

March 1885.


Alterations in the 1901 edition of The Complete Poetical Works of Robert Buchanan:
v. 2, l. 27: Through the great battlefield he pass'd

The original version of ‘Socrates in Camden’ was published in The Academy (15 August, 1885) and included another verse, following verse 7:

Meantime my sun-like music-maker,
Shines solitary and apart;
Meantime the brave sword-carrying Quaker
Broods in the peace of his great heart,—
While Melville,* sea-compelling man,
Before whose wand Leviathan
Rose hoary white upon the Deep,
With awful sounds that stirred its sleep,
Melville, whose magic drew Typee,
Radiant as Venus, from the sea,
Sits all forgotten or ignored,
While haberdashers are adored!
He, ignorant of the drapers’ trade,
Indifferent to the art of dress,
Pictures the glorious South-sea maid
Almost in mother nakedness—
Without a hat, or boot, or stocking,
A want of dress to most so shocking,
With just one chemisette to dress her
She lives,—and still shall live, God bless her!
Long as the sea rolls deep and blue,
While heaven repeats the thunder of it,
Long as the White Whale ploughs it through,
The shape my sea-magician drew
Shall still endure, or I’m no prophet!

* Hermann Melville, author of Typee, The White Whale, &c. I sought everywhere for this Triton, who is still living somewhere in New York. No one seemed to know anything of the one great imaginative writer fit to stand shoulder to shoulder with Whitman on that continent.


The pages from The Academy with the original version are available below.]

socacademythmb1 socacademythmb2




ONE handshake, Walt! while we, thy little band
     Of lovers, take our last long look at thee—
One handshake, and one kiss upon the hand
     Thou did’st outreach to bless Humanity!

The dear, kind hand is cold, the grave sweet eyes
     Are closed in slumber, as thou liest there.
We shed no tears, but watch in sad surmise
     The face still smiling thro’ the good grey hair!

No tears for thee! Tears rather, tears of shame,
     For those who saw that face yet turn’d away;
Yet even these, too, didst thou love and claim
     As brethren, tho’ they frown’d and would not stay.

And so, dear Walt, thine Elder Brother passed,
     Unknown, unblest, with open hand like thine—
Till lo! the open Sepulchre at last,
     The watching angels, and the Voice Divine!

God bless thee, Walt! Even Death may never seize
     Thy gifts of goodness in no market priced—
The wisdom and the charm of Socrates,
     Touch’d with some gentle glory of the Christ!

So long!—We seem to hear thy voice again,
     Tender and low, and yet so deep and strong!
Yes, we will wait, in gladness not in pain,
     The coming of thy Prophecy. (“So long!”)



The New Rome continued

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The Fleshly School Controversy
Buchanan and the Press
Buchanan and the Law


The Critical Response
Harriett Jay


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