The Fanatic

Last night in Compton Street, Soho,A man whom many of you knowGave up the ghost at half past nine.That evening he had been to dineAt Gressington’s--an act unwise,But not the cause of his demise.The doctors all agree that heWas touched with cardiac atrophyAccelerated (more or less)By lack of proper food, distress,Uncleanliness, and loss of sleep.He was a man that could not keepHis money (when he had the same)Because of creditors who cameAnd took it from him; and he gaveSo freely that he could not save.But all the while a sort of whimPersistently remained with him,Half admirable, half absurd:To keep his word, to keep his word....By which he did not mean what youAnd I would mean (of payments dueOr punctual rental of the Flat--He was a deal too mad for that)But--as he put it with a fineAbandon, foolish or divine--But “That great word which every manGave God before his life began.”It was a sacred word, he said,Which comforted the pathless deadAnd made God smile when it was shownUnforfeited, before the Throne.And this (he said) he meant to holdIn spite of debt, and hate, and cold;And this (he said) he meant to showAs passport to the Wards below.He boasted of it and gave praiseTo his own self through all his days.He wrote a record to preserveHow steadfastly he did not swerveFrom keeping it; how stiff he stoodIts guardian, and maintained it good.He had two witnesses to swearHe kept it once in Berkeley Square.(Where hardly anything survives)And, through the loneliest of livesHe kept it clean, he kept it still,Down to the last extremes of ill.So when he died, of many friendsWho came in crowds from all the endsOf London, that it might be knownThey knew the man who died alone,Some, who had thought his mood sublimeAnd sent him soup from time to time,Said, “Well, you cannot make them fitThe world, and there’s an end of it!”But others, wondering at him, said:“The man that kept his word is dead!”Then angrily, a certain thirdCried, “Gentlemen, he kept his word.And as a man whom beasts surroundTumultuous, on a little moundStands Archer, for one dreadful hour,Because a Man is born to Power--And still, to daunt the pack below,Twangs the clear purpose of his bow,Till overwhelmed he dares to fall:So stood this bulwark of us all.He kept his word as none but heCould keep it, and as did not we.And round him as he kept his wordTo-day’s diseased and faithless herd,A moment loud, a moment strong,But foul forever, rolled along.”