Part 3 — Scene VII. (On the lawn.)

Baker (To Corbett.) Why did you shoot? You had no orders to? I’ll take you back to Washington in chains! Why did you shoot? Corbett God told me to. Baker It looks it. You hit him just behind the ear. Same place Where Lincoln got the mortal wound. Booth Tell mother I died for country, liberty, as Brutus Did what he did for Rome. I thought it best To do what I have done. God’s will be done As I have tried to do it.

So this is what we bury? How his face Seems like a smear of yellow wax. This beard Grown fine and curly. Something nasty here, Hermaphroditic, feminine. Like a dog That has run loose with rabies, yelps and snaps, And makes a terror for a day, is slain, And lies where passers-by can foot the corpse, So he lies here: this steadfast paranoic! How vanished from these sealed lids dreams of God! Where are they now? For all this outer world Of lunatics, care-takers, wardens, world Of fields and villages, the state and states Smiles at these lids so neatly sealed, the God That had his altar in the spectral light Of his mad eyes! This is the man who slew The slayer of the noble Lincoln. First For the common good was Cæsar slain by Brutus, And Booth slew Lincoln in a dream of Brutus, This Corbett slew the slayer in a faith Of God. Catch up the corner of the sheet. He gets a grave where many hundreds lie, Each with his epitaph of “Rest in Peace”; Who had no peace in living, for the dreams Of God, or Duty, Terror, Visions Vain. Some say he came to Kansas, hither drawn By hope of sympathy, since all are mad In Kansas; otherwise the true God know, And keep His ritual of reform. He found God mocked in Kansas, or he had not tried To shoot the state assembly to a man, When he was keeper of the door. Perhaps ’Twas right enough to slay the actor Booth, Obeying God; we might accept his word God told him to kill Booth. But was it God Commanded him to slay so many honorable Members of the Kansas legislature For legislating, or not legislating As God would have them? Well, I have a doubt. And many doubted his divine appointment For massacre like that. And so we flung The lasso round him, gathered him, and quick We shut him in the pound, dishonored God, As he conceived it, doing so. I’ve heard Brutus at last said, Miserable Virtue, Bawd, Thou wert a world alone, a cheat at last! This Boston Corbett never did recant The faith, or God, the word. So ends it here. Mad unto death! This Corbett is the corneous And upcurved withered calyx of a flower Rich out of time. His madness is the lisping Of that same stricken calyx in the wind Of Infinite Mysteries. Are you ready now? Knot fast your corners of the sheet to hold. All ready, to the field. There in corruption We’ll sow him, to be raised—but why at all Should he be raised?

Everything! Counter and scales— I’ll take whatever you give. I’m through, and off to Athens, Where a man like me can live. And Hipparch, the baker, is going; My chum, who came with me To follow the crowds who follow The prophet of Galilee. We two were there at Damascus Dealing in figs and wine. Nice little business! Some one Said: “Here, I’ll give you a line! “Buy fish, and set up a booth, Get a tent and make your bread. There are thousands who come to listen, They are hungry and must be fed.” And so we went. Believe me, There were crowds, and hungry, too. Five thousand stood in the desert And listened the whole day through. Famished? Well, yes. The disciples Were saying to send them away To buy their bread in the village, But the prophet went on to say: “Feed them yourselves, O you Of little faith.” But they said: “We have just five little fishes And two little loaves of bread.” We heard it, me and Hipparch, And rubbed our hands. You see We were there to make some money In the land of Galilee. We had stock in plenty. We waited. I wiped the scales, and my chum Re-stacked the loaves. We bellowed, But no one seemed to come. “Fresh fish!” I bawled my lungs out: “Nice bread!” poor Hipparch cried, But what did they do? Sat down there In fifties, side by side, In ranks, the whole five thousand. Then—well, the prophet spoke, And broke the five little fishes, And the two little loaves he broke. And fed the whole five thousand. Why, yes! So gorged they slept. And we stood beaten and bankrupt. Poor Hipparch swore and wept. They gathered up twelve baskets Full from the loaves of bread; Five little fishes—twelve baskets Of fragments after they fed. And we—what was there to do But dump our stock on the sand? That’s what we got for our labor And thrift, in such a land. We met a man near Damascus Who had joined the mystagogues. He said: “I was wicked as you men Until I lost my hogs.” Now Hipparch and I are going To Athens, beautiful, free. No more adventures for us two In the land of Galilee.