From the wheel and the drift of Things
Deliver us, Good Lord,
And we will face the wrath of Kings,
The faggot and the sword!

Lay not Thy Works before our eyes,
Nor vex us with Thy Wars,
Lest we should feel the straining skies
O’ertrod by trampling stars.

Hold us secure behind the gates
Of saving flesh and bone,
Lest we should dream what dream awaits
The soul escaped alone.

Thy Path, Thy Purposes conceal
From our beleaguered realm,
Lest any shattering whisper steal
Upon us and o’erwhelm.

A veil ’twixt us and Thee, Good Lord,
A veil ’twixt us and Thee,
Lest we should hear too clear, too clear,
And unto madness see!

THE SONG OF THE LITTLE HUNTER

Ere Mor the Peacock flutters, ere the Monkey People cry,
  Ere Chil the Kite swoops down a furlong sheer,
Through the Jungle very softly flits a shadow and a sigh—­
  He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear! 
Very softly down the glade runs a waiting, watching shade,
  And the whisper spreads and widens far and near. 
And the sweat is on thy brow, for he passes even now—­
  He is Fear, O Little Hunter, he is Fear!

Ere the moon has climbed the mountain, ere the rocks are ribbed with light,
  When the downward-dipping trails are dank and drear,

Comes a breathing hard behind thee—­snuffle-snuffle through the night—­
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear! 
On thy knees and draw the bow; bid the shrilling arrow go;
  In the empty, mocking thicket plunge the spear! 
But thy hands are loosed and weak, and the blood has left thy cheek—­
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear!

When the heat-cloud sucks the tempest, when the slivered pine-trees fall,
  When the blinding, blaring rain-squalls lash and veer,
Through the war-gongs of the thunder rings a voice more loud than all—­
  It is Fear, O Little Hunter, it is Fear! 
Now the spates are banked and deep; now the footless boulders leap—­
  Now the lightning shows each littlest leaf-rib clear—­
But thy throat is shut and dried, and thy heart against thy side
  Hammers:  Fear, O Little Hunter—­this is Fear!

GOW’S WATCH

ACT II.  SCENE 2

The pavilion in the Gardens.  Enter Ferdinand and the King

Ferdinand.  Your tiercel’s too long at hack.  Sir. 
He’s no eyass
But a passage-hawk that footed ere we caught him. 
Dangerously free o’ the air.  Faith, were he mine
(As mine’s the glove he binds to for his tirings)
I’d fly him with a make-hawk.  He’s in yarak
Plumed to the very point.  So manned, so weathered! 
Give him the firmament God made him for. 
And what shall take the air of him?