The Portent

by Rudyard Kipling

　　

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0h, late withdrawn from human-kind And following dreams we never knew! Varus, what dream has Fate assigned To trouble you? Such virtue as commends of law Of Virtue to the vulgar horde Suffices not. You needs must draw A righteous sword; And, flagrant in well-doing, smite The priests of Bacchus at their fane, Lest any worshipper invite The God again. Whence public strife and naked crime And-deadlier than the cup you shun, A people schooled to mock, in time, All law--not one. Cease, then, to fashion State-made sin, Nor give thy children cause to doubt That Virtue springs from Iron within, Not lead without.

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