When the flush of a new-born
sun fell first on Eden's green and gold,
Our father Adam sat under the
Tree and scratched with a stick in the mould;
And the first rude sketch
that the world had seen was joy to his mighty heart,
Till the Devil whispered
behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"
Wherefore he called to his
wife, and fled to fashion his work anew -
The first of his race who
cared a fig for the first, most dread review;
And he left his lore to the
use of his sons -- and that was a glorious gain
When the Devil chuckled
"Is it Art ?" in the ear of the branded Cain.
They fought and they talked
in the North and the South, they talked and
they fought in the West,
Till the waters rose on the
pitiful land, and the poor Red Clay had rest -
Had rest till that dank
blank-canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start,
And the Devil bubbled below
the keel: "It's human, but is it Art ?"
They builded a tower to
shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart,
Till the Devil grunted behind
the bricks: "It's striking, but is it Art ?"
The stone was dropped at the
quarry-side and the idle derrick swung,
While each man talked of the
aims of Art, and each in an alien tongue.
The tale is as old as the
Eden Tree - and new as the new-cut tooth -
For each man knows ere his
lip-thatch grows he is master of Art and Truth;
And each man hears as the
twilight nears, to the beat of his dying heart,
The Devil drum on the
darkened pane: "You did it, but was it Art ?"
We have learned to whittle
the Eden Tree to the shape of a surplice-peg,
We have learned to bottle our
parents twain in the yolk of an addled egg,
We know that the tail must
wag the dog, for the horse is drawn by the cart;
But the Devil whoops, as he
whooped of old: "It's clever, but is it Art ?"
When the flicker of London
sun falls faint on the Club-room's green and gold,
The sons of Adam sit them
down and scratch with their pens in the mould -
They scratch with their pens
in the mould of their graves, and the ink and the anguish start,
For the Devil mutters behind
the leaves: "It's pretty, but is it Art ?"
Now, if we could win to the
Eden Tree where the Four Great Rivers flow,
And the Wreath of Eve is red
on the turf as she left it long ago,
And if we could come when the
sentry slept and softly scurry through,
By the favour of God we might
know as much - as our father Adam knew!
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