Arthur Conan Doyle (Артур Конан Дойль)
«The Guards Came Through» (1919). 12. The Bigot
The foolish Roman fondly thought That gods must be the same to all, Each alien idol might be brought Within their broad Pantheon Hall. The vision of a jealous Jove Was far above their feeble ken; They had no Lord who gave them love, But scowled upon all other men. But in our dispensation bright, What noble progress have we made! We know that we are in the light, And outer races in the shade. Our kindly creed ensures us this— That Turk and infidel and Jew Are safely banished from the bliss That's guaranteed to me and you. The Roman mother understood That, if the babe upon her breast Untimely died, the gods were good, And the child's welfare manifest. With tender guides the soul would go And there, in some Elysian bower, The tiny bud plucked here below Would ripen to the perfect flower. Poor simpleton! Our faith makes plain That, if no blest baptismal word Has cleared the babe, it bears the stain Which faithless Adam had incurred. How philosophical an aim! How wise and well-conceived a plan Which holds the new-born babe to blame For all the sins of early man! Nay, speak not of its tender grace, But hearken to our dogma wise: Guilt lies behind that dimpled face, And sin looks out from gentle eyes. Quick, quick, the water and the bowl! Quick with the words that lift the load! Oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul Shall pay the debt old Adam owed! The Roman thought the souls that erred Would linger in some nether gloom, But somewhere, sometime, would be spared To find some peace beyond the tomb. In those dark halls, enshadowed, vast, They flitted ever, sad and thin, Mourning the unforgotten past Until they shed the taint of sin. And Pluto brooded over all Within that land of night and fear, Enthroned in some dark Judgment Hall, A god himself, reserved, austere. How thin and colourless and tame! Compare our nobler scheme with it, The howling souls, the leaping flame, And all the tortures of the pit! Foolish half-hearted Roman hell! To us is left the higher thought Of that eternal torture cell Whereto the sinner shall be brought. Out with the thought that God could share Our weak relenting pity sense, Or ever condescend to spare The wretch who gave Him just offence! 'Tis just ten thousand years ago Since the vile sinner left his clay, And yet no pity can he know, For as he lies in hell to-day So when ten thousand years have run Still shall he lie in endless night. O God of Love! O Holy One! Have we not read Thy ways aright? The godly man in heaven shall dwell, And live in joy before the throne, Though somewhere down in nether hell His wife or children writhe and groan. From his bright Empyrean height He sees the reek from that abyss— What Pagan ever dreamed a sight So holy and sublime as this! Poor foolish folk! Had they begun To weigh the myths that they professed, One hour of reason and each one Would surely stand a fraud confessed. Pretending to believe each deed Of Theseus or of Hercules, With fairy tales of Ganymede, And gods of rocks and gods of trees! No, no, had they our purer light They would have learned some saner tale Of Balaam's ass, or Samson's might, Or prophet Jonah and his whale, Of talking serpents and their ways, Through which our foolish parents strayed, And how there passed three nights and days Before the sun or moon was made! O Bigotry, you crowning sin! All evil that a man can do Has earthly bounds, nor can begin To match the mischief done by you— You, who would force the source of love To play your small sectarian part, And mould the mercy from above To fit your own contracted heart.
Arthur Conan Doyle’s other poems:
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 1. A Hymn of Empire
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 26. The Orphanage
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 13. Compensation
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 8. The Outcasts
- «Songs of the Road» (1911). 4. A Post-Impressionist
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