254 PETER GUTHRIE TAIT 



That small word "Force" is made a barber's block 



Ready to put on 

 Meanings most strange and various, fit to shock 



Pupils of Newton. 



Ancient and foreign ignorance they throw 



Into the bargain ; 

 The Sage of Leipzig mutters from below 



Horrible jargon. 

 The phrases of last century in this 



Linger to play tricks 

 Vis viva and Vis Mortua and Vis 



Accekratrix. 



These long-nebbed words that to our text-books still 



Cling by their titles, 

 And from them creep, as entozoa will, 



Into our vitals. 

 But see ! Tait writes in lucid symbols clear 



One small equation ; 

 And Force becomes of Energy a mere 



Space-Variation. 



Force, then, is force, but mark you ! not a thing, 



Only a Vector; 

 Thy barbed arrows now have lost their sting 



Impotent spectre! 

 Thy reign, O Force ! is over. Now no more 



Heed we thine action ; 

 Repulsion leaves us where we were before, 



So does attraction. 



Both Action and Reaction now are gone. 



Just ere they vanished, 

 Stress joined their hands in peace, and made them one ; 



Then they were banished. 

 The Universe is free from pole to pole 



Free from all forces. 

 Rejoice! ye stars like blessed gods ye roll 



On in your courses. 



No more the arrows of the Wrangler race, 



Piercing, shall wound you. 

 Forces no more, those symbols of disgrace 



Dare to surround you. 

 But those whose statements baffle all attacks, 



Safe by evasion, 

 Whose definitions, like a nose of wax, 



Suit each occasion, 



