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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/12658-0.txt b/12658-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7c78060 --- /dev/null +++ b/12658-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9553 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12658 *** + +[Illustration: Ambrose Bierce.] + +SHAPES OF CLAY + +BY + +AMBROSE BIERCE + +AUTHOR OF "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE," "CAN SUCH THINGS BE?" "BLACK BEETLES +IN AMBER," AND "FANTASTIC FABLES" + +1903 + + + + +DEDICATION. + +WITH PRIDE IN THEIR WORK, FAITH IN THEIR FUTURE AND AFFECTION FOR +THEMSELVES, AN OLD WRITER DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS AND +PUPILS, GEORGE STERLING AND HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. A.B. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that +part the names of real persons being used without their assent, it seems +fit that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems +well to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface +of another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its +character. I quote from "Black Beetles in Amber:" + +"Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable +alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in +now republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, +except with reference to those who since my first censure of them have +passed away. To one having only a reader's interest in the matter it may +easily seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been +omitted from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any +considerable part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth +which by this attempt to preserve some of it I have assumed, their +permanent suppression is impossible, and it is only a question of when +and by whom they will be republished. Some one will surely search them +out and put them in circulation. + +"I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work +collected in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one +whose work, necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed +to challenge as unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined +before time has effaced the evidence. For the death of a man of whom +I have written what I may venture to think worthy to live I am no way +responsible; and however sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent +that it shall affect my literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not +accept the remarkable doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should +spare the sinner, were bound to let the life of his work be coterminous +with that of his subject his were a lot of peculiar hardship. + +"Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint +even certain 'epitaphs' which, once of the living, are now of the dead, +as all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms +of applied satire--my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at +least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of +matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown +by abundant instance and example." + +In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless +to classify them according to character, as "Serious," "Comic," +"Sentimental," "Satirical," and so forth. I do the reader the honor to +think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; +and I entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without +disappointment to that of his author. + +AMBROSE BIERCE. + + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + THE PASSING SHOW + + ELIXIR VITAE + + CONVALESCENT + + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS + + NOVUM ORGANUM + + GEOTHEOS + + YORICK + + A VISION OF DOOM + + POLITICS + + POESY + + IN DEFENSE + + AN INVOCATION + + RELIGION + + A MORNING FANCY + + VISIONS OF SIN + + THE TOWN OF DAE + + AN ANARCHIST + + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + + ARMA VIRUMQUE + + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY + + A DEMAND + + THE WEATHER WIGHT + + T.A.H. + + MY MONUMENT + + MAD + + HOSPITALITY + + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC + + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS + + MAGNANIMITY + + TO HER + + TO A SUMMER POET + + ARTHUR MCEWEN + + CHARLES AND PETER + + CONTEMPLATION + + CREATION + + BUSINESS + + A POSSIBILITY + + TO A CENSOR + + THE HESITATING VETERAN + + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES + + INSPIRATION + + TO-DAY + + AN ALIBI + + REBUKE + + J.F.B. + + THE DYING STATESMAN + + THE DEATH OF GRANT + + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED + + LAUS LUCIS + + NANINE + + TECHNOLOGY + + A REPLY TO A LETTER + + TO OSCAR WILDE + + PRAYER + + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN" + + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE + + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS + + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT + + AN EPITAPH + + THE POLITICIAN + + AN INSCRIPTION + + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS + + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON" + + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT + + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES + + IN MEMORIAM + + THE STATESMEN + + THE BROTHERS + + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + + CORRECTED NEWS + + AN EXPLANATION + + JUSTICE + + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY + + TO MY LAUNDRESS + + FAME + + OMNES VANITAS + + ASPIRATION + + DEMOCRACY + + THE NEW "ULALUME" + + CONSOLATION + + FATE + + PHILOSOPHER BIMM + + REMINDED + + SALVINI IN AMERICA + + ANOTHER WAY + + ART + + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER + + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY + + THE DEBTOR ABROAD + + FORESIGHT + + A FAIR DIVISION + + GENESIS + + LIBERTY + + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD + + TO MAUDE + + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE + + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN + + THE SCURRIL PRESS + + STANLEY + + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX + + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN + + A LACKING FACTOR + + THE ROYAL JESTER + + A CAREER IN LETTERS + + THE FOLLOWING PAIR + + POLITICAL ECONOMY + + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW + + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN + + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT + + TEMPORA MUTANTUR + + CONTENTMENT + + THE NEW ENOCH + + DISAVOWAL + + AN AVERAGE + + WOMAN + + INCURABLE + + THE PUN + + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST + + TO NANINE + + VICE VERSA + + A BLACK-LIST + + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC + + AUTHORITY + + THE PSORIAD + + ONEIROMANCY + + PEACE + + THANKSGIVING + + L'AUDACE + + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT + + THE AESTHETES + + JULY FOURTH + + WITH MINE OWN PETARD + + CONSTANCY + + SIRES AND SONS + + A CHALLENGE + + TWO SHOWS + + A POET'S HOPE + + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL + + TWO ROGUES + + BEECHER + + NOT GUILTY + + PRESENTIMENT + + A STUDY IN GRAY + + A PARADOX + + FOR MERIT + + A BIT OF SCIENCE + + THE TABLES TURNED + + TO A DEJECTED POET + + A FOOL + + THE HUMORIST + + MONTEFIORE + + A WARNING + + DISCRETION + + AN EXILE + + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT + + PSYCHOGRAPHS + + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST + + FOR WOUNDS + + ELECTION DAY + + THE MILITIAMAN + + A LITERARY METHOD + + A WELCOME + + A SERENADE + + THE WISE AND GOOD + + THE LOST COLONEL + + FOR TAT + + A DILEMMA + + METEMPSYCHOSIS + + THE SAINT AND THE MONK + + THE OPPOSING SEX + + A WHIPPER-IN + + JUDGMENT + + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN + + IN HIGH LIFE + + A BUBBLE + + A RENDEZVOUS + + FRANCINE + + AN EXAMPLE + + REVENGE + + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT + + IN CONTUMACIAM + + RE-EDIFIED + + A BULLETIN + + FROM THE MINUTES + + WOMAN IN POLITICS + + TO AN ASPIRANT + + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE + + A BUILDER + + AN AUGURY + + LUSUS POLITICUS + + BEREAVEMENT + + AN INSCRIPTION + + A PICKBRAIN + + CONVALESCENT + + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR + + DETECTED + + BIMETALISM + + THE RICH TESTATOR + + TWO METHODS + + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + + IN IMPOSTER + + UNEXPOUNDED + + FRANCE + + THE EASTERN QUESTION + + A GUEST + + A FALSE PROPHECY + + TWO TYPES + + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS + + A HYMN OF THE MANY + + ONE MORNING + + AN ERROR + + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT" + + THE KING OF BORES + + HISTORY + + THE HERMIT + + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON + + THE YEARLY LIE + + CO-OPERATION + + AN APOLOGUE + + DIAGNOSIS + + FALLEN + + DIES IRAE + + THE DAY OF WRATH + + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION + + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS + + IN THE BINNACLE + + HUMILITY + + ONE PRESIDENT + + THE BRIDE + + STRAINED RELATIONS + + THE MAN BORN BLIND + + A NIGHTMARE + + A WET SEASON + + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS + + HAEC FARULA DOCET + + EXONERATION + + AZRAEL + + AGAIN + + HOMO PODUNKENSIS + + A SOCIAL CALL + + + + + + SHAPES OF CLAY + + + + + THE PASSING SHOW. + + I. + + + I know not if it was a dream. I viewed + A city where the restless multitude, + Between the eastern and the western deep + Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude. + + Colossal palaces crowned every height; + Towers from valleys climbed into the light; + O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes + Hung in the blue, barbarically bright. + + But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day + Touched the black masses with a grace of gray, + Dim spires of temples to the nation's God + Studding high spaces of the wide survey. + + Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep + Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, + Yet whispered of an hour-when sleepers wake, + The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep. + + The gardens greened upon the builded hills + Above the tethered thunders of the mills + With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet ++ By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills. + + A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space, + Looked on the builder's blocks about his base + And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: + "Strike! 't is my destiny to lodge your race. + + "'T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed + Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed + Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness, + While on their foeman's offal they caroused." + + Ships from afar afforested the bay. + Within their huge and chambered bodies lay + The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed + The hardy argosies to far Cathay. + + Beside the city of the living spread-- + Strange fellowship!--the city of the dead; + And much I wondered what its humble folk, + To see how bravely they were housed, had said. + + Noting how firm their habitations stood, + Broad-based and free of perishable wood-- + How deep in granite and how high in brass + The names were wrought of eminent and good, + + I said: "When gold or power is their aim, + The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, + Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare + When they would conquer an abiding fame." + + From the red East the sun--a solemn rite-- + Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height + Above the dead; and then with all his strength + Struck the great city all aroar with light! + + + II. + + I know not if it was a dream. I came + Unto a land where something seemed the same + That I had known as 't were but yesterday, + But what it was I could not rightly name. + + It was a strange and melancholy land. + Silent and desolate. On either hand + Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, + And dead above it seemed the hills to stand, + + Grayed all with age, those lonely hills--ah me, + How worn and weary they appeared to be! + Between their feet long dusty fissures clove + The plain in aimless windings to the sea. + + One hill there was which, parted from the rest, + Stood where the eastern water curved a-west. + Silent and passionless it stood. I thought + I saw a scar upon its giant breast. + + The sun with sullen and portentous gleam + Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; + Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars + Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam. + + It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, + That desert in its cold, uncanny light; + No soul but I alone to mark the fear + And imminence of everlasting night! + + All presages and prophecies of doom + Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, + And in the midst of that accursèd scene + A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb. + + + + + ELIXER VITAE. + + + Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep + (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) + Sealed upon my senses with so deep + A stupefaction that men thought me dead. + The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, + Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; + I saw mankind in dim procession sweep + Through life, oblivion at each extreme. + Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, + Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing. + + The generations came with dance and song, + And each observed me curiously there. + Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng + Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." + Some said I was a saint, and some a bear-- + These all were women. So the young and gay, + Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, + Doddered at last on failing limbs away; + Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, + Fell into its abysses and were strangled. + + At last a generation came that walked + More slowly forward to the common tomb, + Then altogether stopped. The women talked + Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom + Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; + And one cried out: "We are immortal now-- + How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, + Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, + And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, + Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!" + + So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped + From its fair shoulders, and but men alone + Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped, + Enough of room remained in every zone, + And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne. + Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks + Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped) + 'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe. + Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking, + And crumbled all to powder in the waking. + + + + + CONVALESCENT. + + + What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame + Or canting Pharisee no more defame? + Will Treachery caress my hand no more, + Nor Hatred He alurk about my door?-- + Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed, + Not close the loaded palm to make a fist? + Will Envy henceforth not retaliate + For virtues it were vain to emulate? + Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout, + Not understanding what 'tis all about, + Yet feeling in its light so mean and small + That all his little soul is turned to gall? + + What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed? + Greed from exaction magically charmed? + Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets, + Like horses fugitive in crowded streets? + The Bigot, with his candle, book and bell, + Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well? + The Critic righteously to justice haled, + His own ear to the post securely nailed-- + What most he dreads unable to inflict, + And powerless to hawk the faults he's picked? + The liar choked upon his choicest lie, + And impotent alike to villify + Or flatter for the gold of thrifty men + Who hate his person but employ his pen-- + Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt + Belonging to his character and shirt? + + What! "Out of danger?"--Nature's minions all, + Like hounds returning to the huntsman's call, + Obedient to the unwelcome note + That stays them from the quarry's bursting throat?-- + Famine and Pestilence and Earthquake dire, + Torrent and Tempest, Lightning, Frost and Fire, + The soulless Tiger and the mindless Snake, + The noxious Insect from the stagnant lake + (Automaton malevolences wrought + Out of the substance of Creative Thought)-- + These from their immemorial prey restrained, + Their fury baffled and their power chained? + + I'm safe? Is that what the physician said? + What! "Out of danger?" Then, by Heaven, I'm dead! + + + + + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. + + + 'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning, + All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect; + And in a jeremaid of objurgatory warning + He lifted up his _jodel_ to the following effect: + + O ye sanguinary statesmen, intermit your verbal tussles + O ye editors and orators, consent to hear my lay! + And a little while the digital and maxillary muscles + And attend to what a Venerable Person has to say. + + Cease your writing, cease your shouting, cease your wild unearthly lying; + Cease to bandy such expressions as are never, never found + In the letter of a lover; cease "exposing" and "replying"-- + Let there be abated fury and a decrement of sound. + + For to-morrow will be Monday and the fifth day of November-- + Only day of opportunity before the final rush. + _Carpe diem!_ go conciliate each person who's a member + Of the other party--do it while you can without a blush. + + "Lo! the time is close upon you when the madness of the season + Having howled itself to silence, like a Minnesota 'clone, + Will at last be superseded by the still, small voice of reason, + When the whelpage of your folly you would willingly disown. + + "Ah, 'tis mournful to consider what remorses will be thronging, + With a consciousness of having been so ghastly indiscreet, + When by accident untoward two ex-gentlemen belonging + To the opposite political denominations meet! + + "Yes, 'tis melancholy, truly, to forecast the fierce, unruly + Supersurging of their blushes, like the flushes upon high + When Aurora Borealis lights her circumpolar palace + And in customary manner sets her banner in the sky. + + "Each will think: 'This falsifier knows that I too am a liar. + Curse him for a son of Satan, all unholily compound! + Curse my leader for another! Curse that pelican, my mother! + Would to God that I when little in my victual had been drowned!'" + + Then that Venerable Person went away without returning + And, the madness of the season having also taken flight, + All the people soon were blushing like the skies to crimson burning + When Aurora Borealis fires her premises by night. + + + + + NOVUM ORGANUM. + + + In Bacon see the culminating prime + Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crime. + He dies and Nature, settling his affairs, + Parts his endowments among us, his heirs: + To every one a pinch of brain for seed, + And, to develop it, a pinch of greed. + Each thrifty heir, to make the gift suffice, + Buries the talent to manure the vice. + + + + + GEOTHEOS. + + + As sweet as the look of a lover + Saluting the eyes of a maid, + That blossom to blue as the maid + Is ablush to the glances above her, + The sunshine is gilding the glade + And lifting the lark out of shade. + + Sing therefore high praises, and therefore + Sing songs that are ancient as gold, + Of Earth in her garments of gold; + Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore + They charm as of yore, for behold! + The Earth is as fair as of old. + + Sing songs of the pride of the mountains, + And songs of the strength of the seas, + And the fountains that fall to the seas + From the hands of the hills, and the fountains + That shine in the temples of trees, + In valleys of roses and bees. + + Sing songs that are dreamy and tender, + Of slender Arabian palms, + And shadows that circle the palms, + Where caravans, veiled from the splendor, + Are kneeling in blossoms and balms, + In islands of infinite calms. + + Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing + When mountains were stained as with wine + By the dawning of Time, and as wine + Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning, + Achant in the gusty pine + And the pulse of the poet's line. + + + + + YORICK. + + + Hard by an excavated street one sat + In solitary session on the sand; + And ever and anon he spake and spat + And spake again--a yellow skull in hand, + To which that retrospective Pioneer + Addressed the few remarks that follow here: + + "Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,' + Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49 + Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross + From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine? + Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way + From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?--say! + + "Was you in Frisco when the water came + Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind + The time when Peters run the faro game-- + Jim Peters from old Mississip--behind + Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust + By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust? + + "I wonder was you here when Casey shot + James King o' William? And did you attend + The neck-tie dance ensuin'? _I_ did not, + But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend + Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved + In sech diversions not to be involved. + + "Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed + Your face afore. I don't forget a face, + But names I disremember--I'm that breed + Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space + An' maybe my remarks is too derned free, + Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me. + + "Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed + Nigh onto every dern galoot in town. + That was as late as '50. Now she's growed + Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown, + Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss + We didn't know, the cause was--he knowed us. + + "Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine + Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you + To which Long Mary took a mighty shine, + An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo? + I guess if she could see ye now she'd take + Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake. + + "You ain't so purty now as you was then: + Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes, + An' women which are hitched to better men + Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls, + As Lengthie did. By G----! I _hope_ it's you, + For" _(kicks the skull)_ "I'm Jake the Kangaroo." + + + + + A VISION OF DOOM. + + + I stood upon a hill. The setting sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom-- + The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled, + And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All + These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear + Had ever heard, some spiritual sense + Interpreted, though brokenly; for I + Was haunted by a consciousness of crime, + Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All + These things malign, by sight and sound revealed, + Were sin-begotten; that I knew--no more-- + And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams + The sleepy senses babble to the brain + Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice, + But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud + Some words to me in a forgotten tongue, + Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn, + Returned from the illimited inane. + Again, but in a language that I knew, + As in reply to something which in me + Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words, + It spake from the dread mystery about: + "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul + That perished with eternity, attend. + What thou beholdest is as void as thou: + The shadow of a poet's dream--himself + As thou, his soul as thine, long dead, + But not like thine outlasted by its shade. + His dreams alone survive eternity + As pictures in the unsubstantial void. + Excepting thee and me (and we because + The poet wove us in his thought) remains + Of nature and the universe no part + Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread, + Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all + Its desolation and its terrors--lo! + 'T is but a phantom world. So long ago + That God and all the angels since have died + That poet lived--yourself long dead--his mind + Filled with the light of a prophetic fire, + And standing by the Western sea, above + The youngest, fairest city in the world, + Named in another tongue than his for one + Ensainted, saw its populous domain + Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there + Red-handed murder rioted; and there + The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose + The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat, + But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed: + 'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law + Look to the matter.' But the Law did not. + And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain + Within its mother's breast and the same grave + Held babe and mother; and the people smiled, + Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,' + Then the great poet, touched upon the lips + With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised + His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom-- + Sang of the time to be, when God should lean + Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand, + And that foul city be no more!--a tale, + A dream, a desolation and a curse! + No vestige of its glory should survive + In fact or memory: its people dead, + Its site forgotten, and its very name + Disputed." + + "Was the prophecy fulfilled?" + The sullen disc of the declining sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom. + But not to me came any voice again; + And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, + I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God! + + + + + POLITICS. + + + That land full surely hastens to its end + Where public sycophants in homage bend + The populace to flatter, and repeat + The doubled echoes of its loud conceit. + Lowly their attitude but high their aim, + They creep to eminence through paths of shame, + Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r, + The dupes they flattered they at last devour. + + + + + POESY. + + + Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire + That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire. + The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, + And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk. + So die ingloriously Fame's _élite_, + But dams of dunces keep the line complete. + + + + + IN DEFENSE. + + + You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls + Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; + But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle + Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile. + + Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, + Are popular here because popular there; + And for them our ladies persistently go + Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know. + + Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess + The effort's attended with easy success; + And--pardon the freedom--'tis thought, over here, + 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer. + + It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade + Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid, + But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose + No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose. + + Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street + (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!) + 'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say + The men from politeness go seldom astray. + + Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot + Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!) + Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure, + And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure. + + "'Tis nothing but money?" "Your nobles are bought?" + As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought + That England's a country not specially free + Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae. + + You've many a widow and many a girl + With money to purchase a duke or an earl. + 'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, + When goods import buyers from over the sea. + + Alas for the woman of Albion's isle! + She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; + She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose-- + But my lord of the future will talk through his nose. + + + + + AN INVOCATION. + + [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San + Francisco, in 1888.] + + + Goddess of Liberty! O thou + Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, + And look unmoved upon the slain, + Eternal peace upon thy brow,-- + + Before thy shrine the races press, + Thy perfect favor to implore-- + The proudest tyrant asks no more, + The ironed anarchist no less. + + Thine altar-coals that touch the lips + Of prophets kindle, too, the brand + By Discord flung with wanton hand + Among the houses and the ships. + + Upon thy tranquil front the star + Burns bleak and passionless and white, + Its cold inclemency of light + More dreadful than the shadows are. + + Thy name we do not here invoke + Our civic rites to sanctify: + Enthroned in thy remoter sky, + Thou heedest not our broken yoke. + + Thou carest not for such as we: + Our millions die to serve the still + And secret purpose of thy will. + They perish--what is that to thee? + + The light that fills the patriot's tomb + Is not of thee. The shining crown + Compassionately offered down + To those who falter in the gloom, + + And fall, and call upon thy name, + And die desiring--'tis the sign + Of a diviner love than thine, + Rewarding with a richer fame. + + To him alone let freemen cry + Who hears alike the victor's shout, + The song of faith, the moan of doubt, + And bends him from his nearer sky. + + God of my country and my race! + So greater than the gods of old-- + So fairer than the prophets told + Who dimly saw and feared thy face,-- + + Who didst but half reveal thy will + And gracious ends to their desire, + Behind the dawn's advancing fire + Thy tender day-beam veiling still,-- + + To whom the unceasing suns belong, + And cause is one with consequence,-- + To whose divine, inclusive sense + The moan is blended with the song,-- + + Whose laws, imperfect and unjust, + Thy just and perfect purpose serve: + The needle, howsoe'er it swerve, + Still warranting the sailor's trust,-- + + God, lift thy hand and make us free + To crown the work thou hast designed. + O, strike away the chains that bind + Our souls to one idolatry! + + The liberty thy love hath given + We thank thee for. We thank thee for + Our great dead fathers' holy war + Wherein our manacles were riven. + + We thank thee for the stronger stroke + Ourselves delivered and incurred + When--thine incitement half unheard-- + The chains we riveted we broke. + + We thank thee that beyond the sea + The people, growing ever wise, + Turn to the west their serious eyes + And dumbly strive to be as we. + + As when the sun's returning flame + Upon the Nileside statue shone, + And struck from the enchanted stone + The music of a mighty fame, + + Let Man salute the rising day + Of Liberty, but not adore. + 'Tis Opportunity--no more-- + A useful, not a sacred, ray. + + It bringeth good, it bringeth ill, + As he possessing shall elect. + He maketh it of none effect + Who walketh not within thy will. + + Give thou or more or less, as we + Shall serve the right or serve the wrong. + Confirm our freedom but so long + As we are worthy to be free. + + But when (O, distant be the time!) + Majorities in passion draw + Insurgent swords to murder Law, + And all the land is red with crime; + + Or--nearer menace!--when the band + Of feeble spirits cringe and plead + To the gigantic strength of Greed, + And fawn upon his iron hand;-- + + Nay, when the steps to state are worn + In hollows by the feet of thieves, + And Mammon sits among the sheaves + And chuckles while the reapers mourn; + + Then stay thy miracle!--replace + The broken throne, repair the chain, + Restore the interrupted reign + And veil again thy patient face. + + Lo! here upon the world's extreme + We stand with lifted arms and dare + By thine eternal name to swear + Our country, which so fair we deem-- + + Upon whose hills, a bannered throng, + The spirits of the sun display + Their flashing lances day by day + And hear the sea's pacific song-- + + Shall be so ruled in right and grace + That men shall say: "O, drive afield + The lawless eagle from the shield, + And call an angel to the place!" + + + + + RELIGION. + + + Hassan Bedreddin, clad in rags, ill-shod, + Sought the great temple of the living God. + The worshippers arose and drove him forth, + And one in power beat him with a rod. + + "Allah," he cried, "thou seest what I got; + Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot." + "Be comforted," the Holy One replied; + "It is the only place where I am not." + + + + + A MORNING FANCY. + + + I drifted (or I seemed to) in a boat + Upon the surface of a shoreless sea + Whereon no ship nor anything did float, + Save only the frail bark supporting me; + And that--it was so shadowy--seemed to be + Almost from out the very vapors wrought + Of the great ocean underneath its keel; + And all that blue profound appeared as naught + But thicker sky, translucent to reveal, + Miles down, whatever through its spaces glided, + Or at the bottom traveled or abided. + + Great cities there I saw--of rich and poor, + The palace and the hovel; mountains, vales, + Forest and field, the desert and the moor, + Tombs of the good and wise who'd lived in jails, + And seas of denser fluid, white with sails + Pushed at by currents moving here and there + And sensible to sight above the flat + Of that opaquer deep. Ah, strange and fair + The nether world that I was gazing at + With beating heart from that exalted level, + And--lest I founder--trembling like the devil! + + The cities all were populous: men swarmed + In public places--chattered, laughed and wept; + And savages their shining bodies warmed + At fires in primal woods. The wild beast leapt + Upon its prey and slew it as it slept. + Armies went forth to battle on the plain + So far, far down in that unfathomed deep + The living seemed as silent as the slain, + Nor even the widows could be heard to weep. + One might have thought their shaking was but laughter; + And, truly, most were married shortly after. + + Above the wreckage of that silent fray + Strange fishes swam in circles, round and round-- + Black, double-finned; and once a little way + A bubble rose and burst without a sound + And a man tumbled out upon the ground. + Lord! 'twas an eerie thing to drift apace + On that pellucid sea, beneath black skies + And o'er the heads of an undrowning race; + And when I woke I said--to her surprise + Who came with chocolate, for me to drink it: + "The atmosphere is deeper than you think it." + + + + + VISIONS OF SIN. + + KRASLAJORSK, SIBERIA, March 29. + + "My eyes are better, and I shall travel slowly toward home." + DANENHOWER. + + + From the regions of the Night, + Coming with recovered sight-- + From the spell of darkness free, + What will Danenhower see? + + He will see when he arrives, + Doctors taking human lives. + He will see a learned judge + Whose decision will not budge + Till both litigants are fleeced + And his palm is duly greased. + Lawyers he will see who fight + Day by day and night by night; + Never both upon a side, + Though their fees they still divide. + Preachers he will see who teach + That it is divine to preach-- + That they fan a sacred fire + And are worthy of their hire. + He will see a trusted wife + + (Pride of some good husband's life) + Enter at a certain door + And--but he will see no more. + He will see Good Templars reel-- + See a prosecutor steal, + And a father beat his child. + He'll perhaps see Oscar Wilde. + + From the regions of the Night + Coming with recovered sight-- + From the bliss of blindness free, + That's what Danenhower'll see. + + 1882. + + + + + THE TOWN OF DAE. + + + _Swains and maidens, young and old, + You to me this tale have told._ + + Where the squalid town of Dae + Irks the comfortable sea, + Spreading webs to gather fish, + As for wealth we set a wish, + Dwelt a king by right divine, + Sprung from Adam's royal line, + Town of Dae by the sea, + Divers kinds of kings there be. + + Name nor fame had Picklepip: + Ne'er a soldier nor a ship + Bore his banners in the sun; + Naught knew he of kingly sport, + And he held his royal court + Under an inverted tun. + Love and roses, ages through, + Bloom where cot and trellis stand; + Never yet these blossoms grew-- + Never yet was room for two-- + In a cask upon the strand. + + So it happened, as it ought, + That his simple schemes he wrought + Through the lagging summer's day + In a solitary way. + So it happened, as was best, + That he took his nightly rest + With no dreadful incubus + This way eyed and that way tressed, + Featured thus, and thus, and thus, + Lying lead-like on a breast + By cares of State enough oppressed. + Yet in dreams his fancies rude + Claimed a lordly latitude. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Dreamers mate above their state + And waken back to their degree. + + Once to cask himself away + He prepared at close of day. + As he tugged with swelling throat + At a most unkingly coat-- + Not to get it off, but on, + For the serving sun was gone-- + Passed a silk-appareled sprite + Toward her castle on the height, + Seized and set the garment right. + Turned the startled Picklepip-- + Splendid crimson cheek and lip! + Turned again to sneak away, + + But she bade the villain stay, + Bade him thank her, which he did + With a speech that slipped and slid, + Sprawled and stumbled in its gait + As a dancer tries to skate. + Town of Dae by the sea, + In the face of silk and lace + Rags too bold should never be. + + Lady Minnow cocked her head: + "Mister Picklepip," she said, + "Do you ever think to wed?" + Town of Dae by the sea, + No fair lady ever made a + Wicked speech like that to me! + + Wretched little Picklepip + Said he hadn't any ship, + Any flocks at his command, + Nor to feed them any land; + Said he never in his life + Owned a mine to keep a wife. + But the guilty stammer so + That his meaning wouldn't flow; + So he thought his aim to reach + By some figurative speech: + Said his Fate had been unkind + Had pursued him from behind + (How the mischief could it else?) + + Came upon him unaware, + Caught him by the collar--there + Gushed the little lady's glee + Like a gush of golden bells: + "Picklepip, why, that is _me_!" + Town of Dae by the sea, + Grammar's for great scholars--she + Loved the summer and the lea. + + Stupid little Picklepip + Allowed the subtle hint to slip-- + Maundered on about the ship + That he did not chance to own; + Told this grievance o'er and o'er, + Knowing that she knew before; + Told her how he dwelt alone. + Lady Minnow, for reply, + Cut him off with "So do I!" + But she reddened at the fib; + Servitors had she, _ad lib._ + Town of Dae by the sea, + In her youth who speaks no truth + Ne'er shall young and honest be. + + Witless little Picklepip + Manned again his mental ship + And veered her with a sudden shift. + Painted to the lady's thought + How he wrestled and he wrought + + Stoutly with the swimming drift + By the kindly river brought + From the mountain to the sea, + Fuel for the town of Dae. + Tedious tale for lady's ear: + From her castle on the height, + She had watched her water-knight + Through the seasons of a year, + Challenge more than met his view + And conquer better than he knew. + Now she shook her pretty pate + And stamped her foot--'t was growing late: + "Mister Picklepip, when I + Drifting seaward pass you by; + When the waves my forehead kiss + And my tresses float above-- + Dead and drowned for lack of love-- + You'll be sorry, sir, for this!" + And the silly creature cried-- + Feared, perchance, the rising tide. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Madam Adam, when she had 'em, + May have been as bad as she. + + _Fiat lux!_ Love's lumination + Fell in floods of revelation! + Blinded brain by world aglare, + Sense of pulses in the air, + + Sense of swooning and the beating + Of a voice somewhere repeating + Something indistinctly heard! + And the soul of Picklepip + Sprang upon his trembling lip, + But he spake no further word + Of the wealth he did not own; + In that moment had outgrown + Ship and mine and flock and land-- + Even his cask upon the strand. + Dropped a stricken star to earth, + Type of wealth and worldly worth. + Clomb the moon into the sky, + Type of love's immensity! + Shaking silver seemed the sea, + Throne of God the town of Dae! + Town of Dae by the sea, + From above there cometh love, + Blessing all good souls that be. + + + + + AN ANARCHIST. + + + False to his art and to the high command + God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand + Beats all in vain the harp he touched before: + It yields a jingle and it yields no more. + No more the strings beneath his finger-tips + Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips, + Touched with a living coal from sacred fires, + Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires. + The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak; + They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek! + The more the wayward, disobedient song + Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong, + More diligently still the singer strums, + To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs. + Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean + Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene, + And Israfel, "whose heart-strings are a lute," + Though now compassion makes their music mute, + Among the weeping company appears, + Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears. + + + + + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. + + + Once I "dipt into the future far as human eye could see," + And saw--it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she-- + The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran + Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man. + But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set, + And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet. + Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart + All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart. + Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search: + "In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch! + Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes + I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes. + Now without a mate of any kind where am I?--that's to say, + Where shall I be to-morrow?--where exert my rightful sway + And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind? + Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined? + Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance-- + From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance-- + Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return + To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn. + But I fancy I detected--though I pray it wasn't that-- + A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat. + So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year, + Till I'm what you now behold me--or would if you were here-- + A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud + An Independent Entity appropriately loud! + Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!) + Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate-- + To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man + Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van. + O the horrible dilemma!--to be odiously linked + With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!" + + As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air, + Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare-- + Plato's Man!--bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump, + Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump. + First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms + It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms. + Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head, + And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said: + "My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw + Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw + To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth; + And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth. + I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl-- + I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!" + + From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then + Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen. + + + + + ARMA VIRUMQUE. + + + "Ours is a Christian Army"; so he said + A regiment of bangomen who led. + "And ours a Christian Navy," added he + Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea. + Better they know than men unwarlike do + What is an army and a navy, too. + Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by + The knowledge what a Christian is, and why. + For somewhat lamely the conception runs + Of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns. + + + + + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. + + + When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf + Between two cities, some ambitious fool, + Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave + To push his clumsy feet upon the span, + That men in after years may single him, + Saying: "Behold the fool who first went o'er!" + So be it when, as now the promise is, + Next summer sees the edifice complete + Which some do name a crematorium, + Within the vantage of whose greater maw's + Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm + And circumvent the handed mole who loves, + With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, + To mine our mortal parts in all their dips + And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth + To link his name with this fair enterprise, + As first decarcassed by the flame. And if + With rival greedings for the fiery fame + They push in clamoring multitudes, or if + With unaccustomed modesty they all + Hold off, being something loth to qualify, + Let me select the fittest for the rite. + By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise + And excellent censure of their true deserts, + And such a searching canvass of their claims, + That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice + Upon the main and general of those + Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, + Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn + God's gracious images, designed to rot, + And bellowed for the right of way for each + Distempered carrion through the water pipes. + With such a sturdy, boisterous exclaim + They did discharge themselves from their own throats + Against the splintered gates of audience + 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth + Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible + And seasoned substances--trunks, legs and arms, + Blent indistinguishable in a mass, + Like winter-woven serpents in a pit-- + None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point + Of precedence, and all alive--shall serve + As fueling to fervor the retort + For after cineration of true men. + + + + + A DEMAND. + + + You promised to paint me a picture, + Dear Mat, + And I was to pay you in rhyme. + Although I am loth to inflict your + Most easy of consciences, I'm + Of opinion that fibbing is awful, + And breaking a contract unlawful, + Indictable, too, as a crime, + A slight and all that. + + If, Lady Unbountiful, any + Of that + By mortals called pity has part + In your obdurate soul--if a penny + You care for the health of my heart, + By performing your undertaking + You'll succor that organ from breaking-- + And spare it for some new smart, + As puss does a rat. + + Do you think it is very becoming, + Dear Mat, + To deny me my rights evermore + And--bless you! if I begin summing + Your sins they will make a long score! + You never were generous, madam, + If you had been Eve and I Adam + You'd have given me naught but the core, + And little of that. + + Had I been content with a Titian, + A cat + By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, + No doubt I'd have had your permission + To take it--by purchase abroad. + But why should I sail o'er the ocean + For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion + All's bad that the critics belaud. + I wanted a Mat. + + Presumption's a sin, and I suffer + For that: + But still you _did_ say that sometime, + If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher-- + That's more than enough) of rhyme + You'd paint me a picture. I pay you + Hereby in advance; and I pray you + Condone, while you can, your crime, + And send me a Mat. + + But if you don't do it I warn you, + Dear Mat, + I'll raise such a clamor and cry + On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you + As mocker of poets and fly + With bitter complaints to Apollo: + "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, + Her beauty"--they'll hardly deny, + On second thought, _that_! + + + + + THE WEATHER WIGHT. + + + The way was long, the hill was steep, + My footing scarcely I could keep. + + The night enshrouded me in gloom, + I heard the ocean's distant boom-- + + The trampling of the surges vast + Was borne upon the rising blast. + + "God help the mariner," I cried, + "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" + + Then from the impenetrable dark + A solemn voice made this remark: + + "For this locality--warm, bright; + Barometer unchanged; breeze light." + + "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, + "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, + + "Thanks--but my care is somewhat less + For Jack's, than for my own, distress. + + "Could I but find a friendly roof, + Small odds what weather were aloof. + + "For he whose comfort is secure + Another's woes can well endure." + + "The latch-string's out," the voice replied, + "And so's the door--jes' step inside." + + Then through the darkness I discerned + A hovel, into which I turned. + + Groping about beneath its thatch, + I struck my head and then a match. + + A candle by that gleam betrayed + Soon lent paraffinaceous aid. + + A pallid, bald and thin old man + I saw, who this complaint began: + + "Through summer suns and winter snows + I sets observin' of my toes. + + "I rambles with increasin' pain + The path of duty, but in vain. + + "Rewards and honors pass me by-- + No Congress hears this raven cry!" + + Filled with astonishment, I spoke: + "Thou ancient raven, why this croak? + + "With observation of your toes + What Congress has to do, Heaven knows! + + "And swallow me if e'er I knew + That one could sit and ramble too!" + + To answer me that ancient swain + Took up his parable again: + + "Through winter snows and summer suns + A Weather Bureau here I runs. + + "I calls the turn, and can declare + Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair. + + "Three times a day I sings out clear + The probs to all which wants to hear. + + "Some weather stations run with light + Frivolity is seldom right. + + "A scientist from times remote, + In Scienceville my birth is wrote. + + "And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign + Jes' take your clo'es in off the line." + + "Not mine, O marvelous old man, + The methods of your art to scan, + + "Yet here no instruments there be-- + Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see. + + "Did you (if questions you permit) + At the asylum leave your kit?" + + That strange old man with motion rude + Grew to surprising altitude. + + "Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns-- + I tells the weather by my corns. + + "No doors and windows here you see-- + The wind and m'isture enters free. + + "No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur + Here falsifies the tempercher. + + "My corns unleathered I expose + To feel the rain's foretellin' throes. + + "No stockin' from their ears keeps out + The comin' tempest's warnin' shout. + + "Sich delicacy some has got + They know next summer's to be hot. + + "This here one says (for that he's best): + 'Storm center passin' to the west.' + + "This feller's vitals is transfixed + With frost for Janawary sixt'. + + "One chap jes' now is occy'pied + In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide. + + "I've shaved this cuss so thin and true + He'll spot a fog in South Peru. + + "Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell + Observatory can excel. + + "By long a-studyin' their throbs + I catches onto all the probs." + + Much more, no doubt, he would have said, + But suddenly he turned and fled; + + For in mine eye's indignant green + Lay storms that he had not foreseen, + + Till all at once, with silent squeals, + His toes "caught on" and told his heels. + + + + + T.A.H. + + + Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer-- + Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; + Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. + And had whatever's needful for a fall. + As rough inflections on a planet merge + In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, + Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, + So in the survey of his worth the small + Asperities of spirit disappear, + Lost in the grander curves of character. + He lately was hit hard: none knew but I + The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke-- + Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, + But set his teeth and made a revelry; + Drank like a devil--staining sometimes red + The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, + Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke + His welcome in a tongue so long forgot + That even his ancient guest remembered not + What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend + Still conjugating with each failing sense + The verb "to die" in every mood and tense, + Pursued his awful humor to the end. + When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke + From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, + And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. + + + + + MY MONUMENT. + + + It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink + A-drying along my paper, + That a monument fine will surely be mine + When death has extinguished my taper. + + From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe + Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, + A pebble will mark his respect for the stark + Stiff body that's under the barrow. + + By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone + Will make my celebrity deathless. + O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink, + They'd wait till my carcass is breathless. + + + + + MAD. + + + O ye who push and fight + To hear a wanton sing-- + Who utter the delight + That has the bogus ring,-- + + O men mature in years, + In understanding young, + The membranes of whose ears + She tickles with her tongue,-- + + O wives and daughters sweet, + Who call it love of art + To kiss a woman's feet + That crush a woman's heart,-- + + O prudent dams and sires, + Your docile young who bring + To see how man admires + A sinner if she sing,-- + + O husbands who impart + To each assenting spouse + The lesson that shall start + The buds upon your brows,-- + + All whose applauding hands + Assist to rear the fame + That throws o'er all the lands + The shadow of its shame,-- + + Go drag her car!--the mud + Through which its axle rolls + Is partly human blood + And partly human souls. + + Mad, mad!--your senses whirl + Like devils dancing free, + Because a strolling girl + Can hold the note high C. + + For this the avenging rod + Of Heaven ye dare defy, + And tear the law that God + Thundered from Sinai! + + + + + HOSPITALITY. + + + Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine + (Unless to praise your rascal wine) + Yet never ask some luckless sinner + Who needs, as I do not, a dinner? + + + + + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. + + + Let lowly themes engage my humble pen-- + Stupidities of critics, not of men. + Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace + Of the expounders' self-directed race-- + Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, + Of diligent vacuity the sign. + Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse + The moral meaning of the random verse + That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen + To be half-blotted by ambitious men + Who hope with his their meaner names to link + By writing o'er it in another ink + The thoughts unreal which they think they think, + Until the mental eye in vain inspects + The hateful palimpsest to find the text. + + The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long + Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. + The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, + Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: + Explains its principles, design--in brief, + Pronounces it a parable of grief! + + The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh + With pollen from a hollyhock near by, + Declares he never heard in terms so just + The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! + The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle + To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!" + Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing + And innocently asks: "What!--did I sing?" + + O literary parasites! who thrive + Upon the fame of better men, derive + Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, + And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,-- + Who find it half is profit, half delight, + To write about what you could never write,-- + Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes + Of famine and discomfiture in those + You write of if they had been critics, too, + And doomed to write of nothing but of you! + + Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, + To see the lion resolutely bent! + The prosing showman who the beast displays + Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. + But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, + The lion owned the show and showed the showman? + + + + + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. + + + Every religion is important. When men rise above existing + conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better + than the old one.--_Professor Howison_. + + + Professor dear, I think it queer + That all these good religions + ('Twixt you and me, some two or three + Are schemes for plucking pigeons)-- + + I mean 'tis strange that every change + Our poor minds to unfetter + Entails a new religion--true + As t' other one, and better. + + From each in turn the truth we learn, + That wood or flesh or spirit + May justly boast it rules the roast + Until we cease to fear it. + + Nay, once upon a time long gone + Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: + His God he'd find in any kind + Of beast, from a to izzard. + + When risen above his early love + Of dirt and blood and slumber, + He pulled down these vain deities, + And made one out of lumber. + + "Far better that than even a cat," + The Howisons all shouted; + "When God is wood religion's good!" + But one poor cynic doubted. + + "A timber God--that's very odd!" + Said Progress, and invented + The simple plan to worship Man, + Who, kindly soul! consented. + + But soon our eye we lift asky, + Our vows all unregarded, + And find (at least so says the priest) + The Truth--and Man's discarded. + + Along our line of march recline + Dead gods devoid of feeling; + And thick about each sun-cracked lout + Dried Howisons are kneeling. + + + + + MAGNANIMITY. + + + "To the will of the people we loyally bow!" + That's the minority shibboleth now. + O noble antagonists, answer me flat-- + What would you do if you didn't do that? + + + + + TO HER. + + + O, Sinner A, to me unknown + Be such a conscience as your own! + To ease it you to Sinner B + Confess the sins of Sinner C. + + + + + TO A SUMMER POET. + + + Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, + With a him. + And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, + On the limb; + Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking + And the dudelet is a-smoking + Cigarettes; + And the hackman is a-hacking + And the showman is a-cracking + Up his pets; + Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore + And the snapdog--we have heard it o'er and o'er; + Yes, my poet, + Well we know it-- + Know the spooners how they spoon + In the bright + Dollar light + Of the country tavern moon; + Yes, the caterpillars fall + From the trees (we know it all), + And with beetles all the shelves + Are alive. + + Please unbuttonhole us--O, + Have the grace to let us go, + For we know + How you Summer poets thrive, + By the recapitulation + And insistent iteration + Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among + Ourselves! + So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. + For you, poor human linnet, + There's a half a living in it, + But there's not a copper cent in it for us! + + + + + ARTHUR McEWEN. + + + Posterity with all its eyes + Will come and view him where he lies. + Then, turning from the scene away + With a concerted shrug, will say: + "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus-- + What interest has that to us? + We can't admire at all, at all, + A tumble-bug without its ball." + And then a sage will rise and say: + "Good friends, you err--turn back, I pray: + This freak that you unwisely shun + Is bug and ball rolled into one." + + + + + CHARLES AND PETER. + + + Ere Gabriel's note to silence died + All graves of men were gaping wide. + + Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," + Rose slowly from the deepest one. + + "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," + Quoth he--"ick, bick, ban, doe,--I'm It!" + + (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, + Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe": + + Of beating Nick the subtle art + Was part of his immortal part.) + + Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, + Arriving at the Gates of Light. + + There Warden Peter, in the throes + Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. + + "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried-- + "I've an engagement there inside." + + The Saint arose and scratched his head. + "I recollect your face," he said. + + "(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), + But----" Dana handed him a card. + + "Ah, yes, I now remember--bless + My soul, how dull I am I--yes, yes, + + "We've nothing better here than bliss. + Walk in. But I must tell you this: + + "We've rest and comfort, though, and peace." + "H'm--puddles," Dana said, "for geese. + + "Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no," + Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below. + + "'T is not included in our scheme-- + 'T is but a preacher's idle dream." + + The great man slowly moved away. + "I'll call," he said, "another day. + + "On earth I played it, o'er and o'er, + And Heaven without it were a bore." + + "O, stuff!--come in. You'll make," said Pete, + "A hell where'er you set your feet." + + 1885. + + + + + CONTEMPLATION. + + + I muse upon the distant town + In many a dreamy mood. + Above my head the sunbeams crown + The graveyard's giant rood. + The lupin blooms among the tombs. + The quail recalls her brood. + + Ah, good it is to sit and trace + The shadow of the cross; + It moves so still from place to place + O'er marble, bronze and moss; + With graves to mark upon its arc + Our time's eternal loss. + + And sweet it is to watch the bee + That reve's in the rose, + And sense the fragrance floating free + On every breeze that blows + O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, + Mine enemies repose. + + + + + CREATION. + + + God dreamed--the suns sprang flaming into place, + And sailing worlds with many a venturous race! + He woke--His smile alone illumined space. + + + + + BUSINESS. + + + Two villains of the highest rank + Set out one night to rob a bank. + They found the building, looked it o'er, + Each window noted, tried each door, + Scanned carefully the lidded hole + For minstrels to cascade the coal-- + In short, examined five-and-twenty + Good paths from poverty to plenty. + But all were sealed, they saw full soon, + Against the minions of the moon. + "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied." + The other, smiling fair and wide, + Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you: + No burglar ever can get through. + Fate surely prospers our design-- + The booty all is yours and mine." + So, full of hope, the following day + To the exchange they took their way + And bought, with manner free and frank, + Some stock of that devoted bank; + And they became, inside the year, + One President and one Cashier. + + Their crime I can no further trace-- + The means of safety to embrace, + I overdrew and left the place. + + + + + A POSSIBILITY. + + + If the wicked gods were willing + (Pray it never may be true!) + That a universal chilling + Should ensue + Of the sentiment of loving,-- + If they made a great undoing + Of the plan of turtle-doving, + Then farewell all poet-lore, + Evermore. + If there were no more of billing + There would be no more of cooing + And we all should be but owls-- + Lonely fowls + Blinking wonderfully wise, + With our great round eyes-- + Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two, + As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo; + With regard to being mated, + Asking still with aggravated + Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?" + + + + + TO A CENSOR. + + "The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of + our judges is responsible for half the murders."--_Daily Newspaper_. + + + Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend, + Impeach Delay and you will make an end. + Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot + For doing all the things that it should not. + Put not good-natured judges under bond, + But make Delay in damages respond. + Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled + Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold-- + Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled + To "lash the rascals naked through the world." + The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing + Above whose back your knotted scourges sing. + _Your_ satire, truly, like a razor keen, + "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;" + For naught that you assail with falchion free + Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see. + Against abstractions evermore you charge + You hack no helmet and you need no targe. + That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice, + That wrong's not right and foulness never nice, + Fearless affirm. All consequences dare: + Smite the offense and the offender spare. + When Ananias and Sapphira lied + Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died. + When money-changers in the Temple sat, + At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat" + (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen) + And all the brokers would have cried amen! + + Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame + Have you no courage, or has he no name? + Upon his method will you wreak your wrath, + Himself all unmolested in his path? + Fall to! fall to!--your club no longer draw + To beat the air or flail a man of straw. + Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall + Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall. + Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal-- + Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel! + + We know that judges are corrupt. We know + That crimes are lively and that laws are slow. + We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay; + That priests and preachers are but birds of pray; + That merchants cheat and journalists for gold + Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold. + 'Tis all familiar as the simple lore + That two policemen and two thieves make four. + + But since, while some are wicked, some are good, + (As trees may differ though they all are wood) + Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit, + The bad would sentence and the good acquit. + In sparing everybody none you spare: + Rebukes most personal are least unfair. + To fire at random if you still prefer, + And swear at Dog but never kick a cur, + Permit me yet one ultimate appeal + To something that you understand and feel: + Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade-- + You might be read if you would learn your trade. + + Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed + Not one of you but all are here addressed) + Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart + Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart + Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green, + Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen. + + + + + THE HESITATING VETERAN. + + + + When I was young and full of faith + And other fads that youngsters cherish + A cry rose as of one that saith + With unction: "Help me or I perish!" + 'Twas heard in all the land, and men + The sound were each to each repeating. + It made my heart beat faster then + Than any heart can now be beating. + + For the world is old and the world is gray-- + Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. + She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, + And doesn't now go in for Pity. + Besides, the melancholy cry + Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, + Whose plight no one beneath the sky + Felt half so poignantly as he did. + + Moreover, he was black. And yet + That sentimental generation + With an austere compassion set + Its face and faith to the occasion. + Then there were hate and strife to spare, + And various hard knocks a-plenty; + And I ('twas more than my true share, + I must confess) took five-and-twenty. + + That all is over now--the reign + Of love and trade stills all dissensions, + And the clear heavens arch again + Above a land of peace and pensions. + The black chap--at the last we gave + Him everything that he had cried for, + Though many white chaps in the grave + 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for. + + I hope he's better off--I trust + That his society and his master's + Are worth the price we paid, and must + Continue paying, in disasters; + But sometimes doubts press thronging round + ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) + If war for union was a sound + And profitable undertaking. + + 'Tis said they mean to take away + The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. + 'Tis true he sits in darkness day + And night, as formerly, when fettered; + But pray observe--howe'er he vote + To whatsoever party turning, + He'll be with gentlemen of note + And wealth and consequence and learning. + With Hales and Morgans on each side, + How could a fool through lack of knowledge, + Vote wrong? If learning is no guide + Why ought one to have been in college? + O Son of Day, O Son of Night! + What are your preferences made of? + I know not which of you is right, + Nor which to be the more afraid of. + + The world is old and the world is bad, + And creaks and grinds upon its axis; + And man's an ape and the gods are mad!-- + There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. + No mortal man can Truth restore, + Or say where she is to be sought for. + I know what uniform I wore-- + O, that I knew which side I fought for! + + + + + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. + + + Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, + Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, + Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed + The river to join the loved and lost. + In the space of a year their spirits fled, + Silent and white, to the camp of the dead. + + One after one, they fall asleep + And the pension agents awake to weep, + And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail + As the souls flit by on the evening gale. + O Father of Battles, pray give us release + From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace! + + + + + INSPIRATION. + + + + O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: + I fain would view the lettered stone. + What carvest thou?--perchance some grand + And solemn fancy all thine own. + For oft to know the fitting word + Some humble worker God permits. + "Jain Ann Meginnis, + Agid 3rd. + He givith His beluved fits." + + + + + TO-DAY. + + + I saw a man who knelt in prayer, + And heard him say: + "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare + To-day. + + "Lord, for to-morrow and its need + I do not pray; + Let me upon my neighbor feed + To-day. + + "Let me my duty duly shirk + And run away + From any form or phase of work + To-day. + + "From Thy commands exempted still + Let me obey + The promptings of my private will + To-day. + + "Let me no word profane, no lie + Unthinking say + If anyone is standing by + To-day. + + "My secret sins and vices grave + Let none betray; + The scoffer's jeers I do not crave + To-day. + + "And if to-day my fortune all + Should ebb away, + Help me on other men's to fall + To-day. + + "So, for to-morrow and its mite + I do not pray; + Just give me everything in sight + To-day." + + I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran + Like oil away. + I said: "I've seen an honest man + To-day." + + + + + AN ALIBI. + + + A famous journalist, who long + Had told the great unheaded throng + Whate'er they thought, by day or night. + Was true as Holy Writ, and right, + Was caught in--well, on second thought, + It is enough that he was caught, + And being thrown in jail became + The fuel of a public flame. + + "_Vox populi vox Dei_," said + The jailer. Inxling bent his head + Without remark: that motto good + In bold-faced type had always stood + Above the columns where his pen + Had rioted in praise of men + And all they said--provided he + Was sure they mostly did agree. + Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife + To take, or save, the culprit's life + Or liberty (which, I suppose, + Was much the same to him) arose + Outside. The journal that his pen + Adorned denounced his crime--but then + Its editor in secret tried + To have the indictment set aside. + The opposition papers swore + His father was a rogue before, + And all his wife's relations were + Like him and similar to her. + They begged their readers to subscribe + A dollar each to make a bribe + That any Judge would feel was large + Enough to prove the gravest charge-- + Unless, it might be, the defense + Put up superior evidence. + The law's traditional delay + Was all too short: the trial day + Dawned red and menacing. The Judge + Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, + And all the motions counsel made + Could not move _him_--and there he stayed. + "The case must now proceed," he said, + "While I am just in heart and head, + It happens--as, indeed, it ought-- + Both sides with equal sums have bought + My favor: I can try the cause + Impartially." (Prolonged applause.) + + The prisoner was now arraigned + And said that he was greatly pained + To be suspected--_he_, whose pen + Had charged so many other men + With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," + He said, a tear in either eye, + "If men who live by crying out + 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt + Of their integrity exempt, + Let all forego the vain attempt + To make a reputation! Sir, + I'm innocent, and I demur." + Whereat a thousand voices cried + Amain he manifestly lied-- + _Vox populi_ as loudly roared + As bull by _picadores_ gored, + In his own coin receiving pay + To make a Spanish holiday. + + The jury--twelve good men and true-- + Were then sworn in to see it through, + And each made solemn oath that he + As any babe unborn was free + From prejudice, opinion, thought, + Respectability, brains--aught + That could disqualify; and some + Explained that they were deaf and dumb. + A better twelve, his Honor said, + Was rare, except among the dead. + The witnesses were called and sworn. + The tales they told made angels mourn, + And the Good Book they'd kissed became + Red with the consciousness of shame. + + Whenever one of them approached + The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, + Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. + "Strike out his testimony," quoth + The learned judge: "This Court denies + Its ear to stories which surprise. + I hold that witnesses exempt + From coaching all are in contempt." + Both Prosecution and Defense + Applauded the judicial sense, + And the spectators all averred + Such wisdom they had never heard: + 'Twas plain the prisoner would be + Found guilty in the first degree. + Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed + The nameless terrors in his breast. + He felt remorseful, too, because + He wasn't half they said he was. + "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused + On opportunities unused, + "I might have easily become + As wealthy as Methusalum." + This journalist adorned, alas, + The middle, not the Bible, class. + + With equal skill the lawyers' pleas + Attested their divided fees. + Each gave the other one the lie, + Then helped him frame a sharp reply. + + Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, + And lasted all the day and night. + When once or oftener the roar + Had silenced the judicial snore + The speaker suffered for the sport + By fining for contempt of court. + Twelve jurors' noses good and true + Unceasing sang the trial through, + And even _vox populi_ was spent + In rattles through a nasal vent. + Clerk, bailiff, constables and all + Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call + To arms--his arms--and all fell in + Save counsel for the Man of Sin. + That thaumaturgist stood and swayed + The wand their faculties obeyed-- + That magic wand which, like a flame. + Leapt, wavered, quivered and became + A wonder-worker--known among + The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue. + + How long, O Lord, how long my verse + Runs on for better or for worse + In meter which o'ermasters me, + Octosyllabically free!-- + A meter which, the poets say, + No power of restraint can stay;-- + A hard-mouthed meter, suited well + To him who, having naught to tell, + Must hold attention as a trout + Is held, by paying out and out + The slender line which else would break + Should one attempt the fish to take. + Thus tavern guides who've naught to show + But some adjacent curio + By devious trails their patrons lead + And make them think 't is far indeed. + Where was I? + + While the lawyer talked + The rogue took up his feet and walked: + While all about him, roaring, slept, + Into the street he calmly stepped. + In very truth, the man who thought + The people's voice from heaven had caught + God's inspiration took a change + Of venue--it was passing strange! + Straight to his editor he went + And that ingenious person sent + A Negro to impersonate + The fugitive. In adequate + Disguise he took his vacant place + And buried in his arms his face. + When all was done the lawyer stopped + And silence like a bombshell dropped + Upon the Court: judge, jury, all + Within that venerable hall + (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, + And one or two whom death had freed) + Awoke and tried to look as though + Slumber was all they did not know. + + And now that tireless lawyer-man + Took breath, and then again began: + "Your Honor, if you did attend + To what I've urged (my learned friend + Nodded concurrence) to support + The motion I have made, this court + May soon adjourn. With your assent + I've shown abundant precedent + For introducing now, though late, + New evidence to exculpate + My client. So, if you'll allow, + I'll prove an _alibi_!" "What?--how?" + Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't + Deny your showing, and I grant + The motion. Do I understand + You undertake to prove--good land!-- + That when the crime--you mean to show + Your client wasn't _there_?" "O, no, + I cannot quite do that, I find: + My _alibi's_ another kind + Of _alibi_,--I'll make it clear, + Your Honor, that he isn't _here_." + The Darky here upreared his head, + Tranquillity affrighted fled + And consternation reigned instead! + + + + + REBUKE. + + + When Admonition's hand essays + Our greed to curse, + Its lifted finger oft displays + Our missing purse. + + + + + J.F.B. + + + How well this man unfolded to our view + The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell-- + This man whose own convictions none could tell, + Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. + Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew + The fair philosophies of doubt so well + That while we listened to his words there fell + Some that were strangely comforting, though true. + Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt, + We said: "If so, by groping in the night, + He can proclaim some certain paths of trust, + How great our profit if he saw about + His feet the highways leading to the light." + Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust! + + + + + THE DYING STATESMAN. + + + It is a politician man-- + He draweth near his end, + And friends weep round that partisan, + Of every man the friend. + + Between the Known and the Unknown + He lieth on the strand; + The light upon the sea is thrown + That lay upon the land. + + It shineth in his glazing eye, + It burneth on his face; + God send that when we come to die + We know that sign of grace! + + Upon his lips his blessed sprite + Poiseth her joyous wing. + "How is it with thee, child of light? + Dost hear the angels sing?" + + "The song I hear, the crown I see, + And know that God is love. + Farewell, dark world--I go to be + A postmaster above!" + + For him no monumental arch, + But, O, 'tis good and brave + To see the Grand Old Party march + To office o'er his grave! + + + + + THE DEATH OF GRANT. + + + Father! whose hard and cruel law + Is part of thy compassion's plan, + Thy works presumptuously we scan + For what the prophets say they saw. + + Unbidden still the awful slope + Walling us in we climb to gain + Assurance of the shining plain + That faith has certified to hope. + + In vain!--beyond the circling hill + The shadow and the cloud abide. + Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide + To trust the Record and be still. + + To trust it loyally as he + Who, heedful of his high design, + Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, + But wrought thy will unconsciously, + + Disputing not of chance or fate, + Nor questioning of cause or creed; + For anything but duty's deed + Too simply wise, too humbly great. + + The cannon syllabled his name; + His shadow shifted o'er the land, + Portentous, as at his command + Successive cities sprang to flame! + + He fringed the continent with fire, + The rivers ran in lines of light! + Thy will be done on earth--if right + Or wrong he cared not to inquire. + + His was the heavy hand, and his + The service of the despot blade; + His the soft answer that allayed + War's giant animosities. + + Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, + Fill, Father, with another light, + That we may see with clearer sight + Thy servant's soul in Paradise. + + + + + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. + + + Of Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + The Muse of History records + That he'd get drunk as twenty lords. + + He'd get so truly drunk that men + Stood by to marvel at him when + His slow advance along the street + Was but a vain cycloidal feat. + + And when 'twas fated that he fall + With a wide geographical sprawl, + They signified assent by sounds + Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds. + + And yet this Mr. Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes + When it was red or otherwise. + + All malt, or spirituous, tope + He loathed as cats dissent from soap; + And cider, if it touched his lip, + Evoked a groan at every sip. + + But still, as heretofore explained, + He not infrequently was grained. + (I'm not of those who call it "corned." + Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.) + + Though truth to say, and that's but right, + Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) + Was what had put him in the mud, + The only kind he used was blood! + + Alas, that an immortal soul + Addicted to the flowing bowl, + The emptied flagon should again + Replenish from a neighbor's vein. + + But, Mr. Shanahan was so + Constructed, and his taste that low. + Nor more deplorable was he + In kind of thirst than in degree; + + For sometimes fifty souls would pay + The debt of nature in a day + To free him from the shame and pain + Of dread Sobriety's misreign. + + His native land, proud of its sense + Of his unique inabstinence, + Abated something of its pride + At thought of his unfilled inside. + + And some the boldness had to say + 'Twere well if he were called away + To slake his thirst forevermore + In oceans of celestial gore. + + But Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Knew that his thirst was mortal; so + Remained unsainted here below-- + + Unsainted and unsaintly, for + He neither went to glory nor + To abdicate his power deigned + Where, under Providence, he reigned, + + But kept his Boss's power accurst + To serve his wild uncommon thirst. + Which now had grown so truly great + It was a drain upon the State. + + Soon, soon there came a time, alas! + When he turned down an empty glass-- + All practicable means were vain + His special wassail to obtain. + + In vain poor Decimation tried + To furnish forth the needful tide; + And Civil War as vainly shed + Her niggard offering of red. + + Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased + Until he wished himself deceased, + Invoked the firearm and the knife, + But could not die to save his life! + + He was so dry his own veins made + No answer to the seeking blade; + So parched that when he would have passed + Away he could not breathe his last. + + 'Twas then, when almost in despair, + (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) + He saw as in a dream a way + To wet afresh his mortal clay. + + Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Saw freedom, and with joy and pride + "Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried. + + Straight to the Aldermen went he, + With many a "pull" and many a fee, + And many a most corrupt "combine" + (The Press for twenty cents a line + + Held out and fought him--O, God, bless + Forevermore the holy Press!) + Till he had franchises complete + For trolley lines on every street! + + The cars were builded and, they say, + Were run on rails laid every way-- + Rhomboidal roads, and circular, + And oval--everywhere a car-- + + Square, dodecagonal (in great + Esteem the shape called Figure 8) + And many other kinds of shapes + As various as tails of apes. + + No other group of men's abodes + E'er had such odd electric roads, + That winding in and winding out, + Began and ended all about. + + No city had, unless in Mars, + That city's wealth of trolley cars. + They ran by day, they flew by night, + And O, the sorry, sorry sight! + + And Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Incessantly, the Muse records, + Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords! + + + + + LAUS LUCIS. + + Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the + Mysteries of Antiquity."--_Vide the Newspapers, passim_. + + + Each to his taste: some men prefer to play + At mystery, as others at piquet. + Some sit in mystic meditation; some + Parade the street with tambourine and drum. + One studies to decipher ancient lore + Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; + Another swears that learning is but good + To darken things already understood, + Then writes upon Simplicity so well + That none agree on what he wants to tell, + And future ages will declare his pen + Inspired by gods with messages to men. + To found an ancient order those devote + Their time--with ritual, regalia, goat, + Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease + And all the modern inconveniences; + These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites + And go to church for rational delights. + So all are suited, shallow and profound, + The prophets prosper and the world goes round. + For me--unread in the occult, I'm fain + To damn all mysteries alike as vain, + Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon + The Revelations of the good St. John. + + 1897. + + + + + NANINE. + + + We heard a song-bird trilling-- + 'T was but a night ago. + Such rapture he was rilling + As only we could know. + + This morning he is flinging + His music from the tree, + But something in the singing + Is not the same to me. + + His inspiration fails him, + Or he has lost his skill. + Nanine, Nanine, what ails him + That he should sing so ill? + + Nanine is not replying-- + She hears no earthly song. + The sun and bird are lying + And the night is, O, so long! + + + + + TECHNOLOGY. + + + 'Twas a serious person with locks of gray + And a figure like a crescent; + His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, + But his smile was evanescent. + + He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and + With (likewise) a high falsetto; + And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand + As if it had been a stiletto. + + His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, + Came out of his head unblended, + And the wonderful altitude of some + Was exceptionally splendid. + + While executing a shake of the head, + With the hand, as it were, of a master, + This agonizing old gentleman said: + "'Twas a truly sad disaster! + + "Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, + Went down"--he paused and snuffled. + A single tear was observed to fall, + And the old man's drum was muffled. + + "A very calamitous year," he said. + And again his head-piece hoary + He shook, and another pearl he shed, + As if he wept _con amore._ + + "O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why + Should these failures so affect you? + With speculators in stocks no eye + That's normal would ever connect you." + + He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled + In a sinister sort of manner. + "Young man," he said, "your words are wild: + I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.' + + "For she has went down in a howlin' squall, + And my heart is nigh to breakin'-- + Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all + Will never need undertakin'! + + "I'm in the business myself," said he, + "And you've mistook my expression; + For I uses the technical terms, you see, + Employed in my perfession." + + That old undertaker has joined the throng + On the other side of the River, + But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long," + And a tape-line makes me shiver. + + + + + A REPLY TO A LETTER. + + + O nonsense, parson--tell me not they thrive + And jubilate who follow your dictation. + The good are the unhappiest lot alive-- + I know they are from careful observation. + If freedom from the terrors of damnation + Lengthens the visage like a telescope, + And lacrymation is a sign of hope, + Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, + To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope + Contentedly without your lantern's light; + And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, + Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap. + + You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, + With many a million others of my kidney. + Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed + With sinners--worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney + And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss + To simulate respect for Genesis-- + Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, + But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, + And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss. + + Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, + Must go to--beg your pardon, sir--perdition, + The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, + But count it sin of the sort called omission + The groan to smother or the tear to stay + Or fail to--what is that they live by?--pray. + So down they flop, and the whole serious race is + Put by divine compassion on a praying basis. + + Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet + Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, + You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, + And you look down upon us out of Heaven. + In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades + Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades + Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, + Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound, + Dash downward through the glimmering profound, + Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out! + + Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs + To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs + Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, + With less of ink than incoherence fraught + Befits the folly that it tries to utter. + Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: + You suffer from impediment of thought. + + When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: + Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where! + Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, + Bears witness how my anger I can tame: + I've called you everything except your hateful name! + + + + + TO OSCAR WILDE. + + + Because from Folly's lips you got + Some babbled mandate to subdue + The realm of Common Sense, and you + Made promise and considered not-- + + Because you strike a random blow + At what you do not understand, + And beckon with a friendly hand + To something that you do not know, + + I hold no speech of your desert, + Nor answer with porrected shield + The wooden weapon that you wield, + But meet you with a cast of dirt. + + Dispute with such a thing as you-- + Twin show to the two-headed calf? + Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, + 'T is more than half the world can do. + + 1882. + + + + + PRAYER. + + + Fear not in any tongue to call + Upon the Lord--He's skilled in all. + But if He answereth my plea + He speaketh one unknown to me. + + + + + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." + + + Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh + Is a statesman of world-wide fame, + With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh + To glorify somebody's name-- + Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters + To succor the country from divers disasters + Portentous to Mr. Mahosh. + + Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee + Is in the political swim. + He cares not a button for men, not he: + Great principles captivate him-- + Principles cleverly cut out and fitted + To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, + And fought for by Mr. Cabee. + + Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse + Holds office the most of his life. + For men nor for principles cares he a curse, + But much for his neighbor's wife. + The Ship of State leaks, but _he_ doesn't pump any, + Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company + Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse. + + + + + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. + + + O Liberty, God-gifted-- + Young and immortal maid-- + In your high hand uplifted; + The torch declares your trade. + + Its crimson menace, flaming + Upon the sea and shore, + Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming + That Law shall be no more. + + Austere incendiary, + We're blinking in the light; + Where is your customary + Grenade of dynamite? + + Where are your staves and switches + For men of gentle birth? + Your mask and dirk for riches? + Your chains for wit and worth? + + Perhaps, you've brought the halters + You used in the old days, + When round religion's altars + You stabled Cromwell's bays? + + Behind you, unsuspected, + Have you the axe, fair wench, + Wherewith you once collected + A poll-tax from the French? + + America salutes you-- + Preparing to disgorge. + Take everything that suits you, + And marry Henry George. + + 1894 + + + + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. + + + Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. + One place it never comes, and that is here. + Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, + No well-worn greetings tediously ring-- + For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: + The hollower they are they ring the more. + Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, + Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, + No trinket-laden vegetable come, + No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. + No shrilling children shall their voices rear. + Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer! + + No presents, if you please--I know too well + What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell + (I know not if he did) yet might have told + Of present-giving in the days of old, + When Early Man with gifts propitiated + The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, + Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude + Advantage from the taker's gratitude. + Since thus the Gift its origin derives + (How much of its first character survives + You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, + My pocket buttoned--with my soul inside. + I save my money and I save my pride. + + Dinner? Yes; thank you--just a human body + Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy + To give me appetite; and as for drink, + About a half a jug of blood, I think, + Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, + Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine + Fretting the satin surface of its flood. + O tope of kings--divine Falernian--blood! + + Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, + The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! + Has not a pagan rights to be regarded-- + His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded + With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan + Even in his demonium would ban? + + No, friends--no Christmas here, for I have sworn + To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. + Enough you have of jester, player, priest: + I as the skeleton attend your feast, + In the mad revelry to make a lull + With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. + However you my services may flout, + Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, + I mean to hold in customary state, + My dismal revelry and celebrate + My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, + Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom + And cultivate an oasis of gloom. + + + + + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. + + + Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes + Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; + Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown + Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; + Justice denied, authority abused, + And the one honest person the accused-- + Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, + Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears. + + + + + AN EPITAPH. + + + Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse-- + So small a tenant of so big a house! + He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist + Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) + And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, + His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,-- + What poetry he'd written but for lack + Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! + Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep + To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! + To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs + And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. + No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, + Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" + The genius of his purse no longer draws + The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. + All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, + Though riddances of worms improve his brains. + All his no talents to the earth revert, + And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!" + + + + + THE POLITICIAN. + + + "Let Glory's sons manipulate + The tiller of the Ship of State. + Be mine the humble, useful toil + To work the tiller of the soil." + + + + + AN INSCRIPTION + + For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him who + Made it Beautiful. + + + Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dear + Good folk he lived and moved among in peace-- + Guarded on either hand by the police, + With soldiers in his front and in his rear. + + + + + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. + + + The polecat, sovereign of its native wood, + Dashes damnation upon bad and good; + The health of all the upas trees impairs + By exhalations deadlier than theirs; + Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad-- + The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode! + She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking dale + The horrid aspergillus of her tail! + From every saturated hair, till dry, + The spargent fragrances divergent fly, + Deafen the earth and scream along the sky! + + Removed to alien scenes, amid the strife + Of urban odors to ungladden life-- + Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspire + The flesh to torture and the soul to fire-- + Where all the "well defined and several stinks" + Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks-- + Humbled in spirit, smitten with a sense + Of lost distinction, leveled eminence, + She suddenly resigns her baleful trust, + Nor ever lays again our mortal dust. + Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk, + She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk. + + + + + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." + + + "O, I'm the Unaverage Man, + But you never have heard of me, + For my brother, the Average Man, outran + My fame with rapiditee, + And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea, + But my bully big brother the world can span + With his wide notorietee. + I do everything that I can + To make 'em attend to me, + But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man + With a weird uniformitee." + + So sang with a dolorous note + A voice that I heard from the beach; + On the sable waters it seemed to float + Like a mortal part of speech. + The sea was Oblivion's sea, + And I cried as I plunged to swim: + "The Unaverage Man shall reside with me." + But he didn't--I stayed with him! + + + + + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. + + + Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spice + And shells and corals, brought for my inspection + From the fair tropics--paid a Christian price + And was content in my fool's paradise, + Where never had been heard the word "Protection." + + 'T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone-- + No customs-house, collector nor collection, + But a man came, who, in a pious tone + Condoled with me that I had never known + The manifest advantage of Protection. + + So, when the trading-boat arrived one day, + He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section. + The traders paddled for their lives away, + Nor came again into that haunted bay, + The blessed home thereafter of Protection. + + Then down he sat, that philanthropic man, + And spat upon some mud of his selection, + And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan, + To shapes of shells and coral things, and span + A thread of song in glory of Protection. + + He baked them in the sun. His air devout + Enchanted me. I made a genuflexion: + "God help you, gentle sir," I said. "No doubt," + He answered gravely, "I'll get on without + Assistance now that we have got Protection." + + Thenceforth I bought his wares--at what a price + For shells and corals of such imperfection! + "Ah, now," said he, "your lot is truly nice." + But still in all that isle there was no spice + To season to my taste that dish, Protection. + + + + + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. + + + I died. As meekly in the earth I lay, + With shriveled fingers reverently folded, + The worm--uncivil engineer!--my clay + Tunneled industriously, and the mole did. + My body could not dodge them, but my soul did; + For that had flown from this terrestrial ball + And I was rid of it for good and all. + + So there I lay, debating what to do-- + What measures might most usefully be taken + To circumvent the subterranean crew + Of anthropophagi and save my bacon. + My fortitude was all this while unshaken, + But any gentleman, of course, protests + Against receiving uninvited guests. + + However proud he might be of his meats, + Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus, + Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets; + "_Aut Caesar_," say judicious hosts, "_aut nullus_." + And though when Marcius came unbidden Tullus + Aufidius feasted him because he starved, + Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved. + + We feed the hungry, as the book commands + (For men might question else our orthodoxy) + But do not care to see the outstretched hands, + And so we minister to them by proxy. + When Want, in his improper person, knocks he + Finds we're engaged. The graveworm's very fresh + To think we like his presence in the flesh. + + So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in all + That underworld no judges could determine + My rights. When Death approaches them they fall, + And falling, naturally soil their ermine. + And still below ground, as above, the vermin + That work by dark and silent methods win + The case--the burial case that one is in. + + Cases at law so slowly get ahead, + Even when the right is visibly unclouded, + That if all men are classed as quick and dead, + The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded. + Pray Jove that when they're actually crowded + On Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight, + His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite. + + Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begot + A race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourish + And woman to caress, the muse had not + Lamented the decay of virtues currish, + And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish, + For barking, biting, kissing to employ + Canine repeaters were indeed a joy. + + Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I, + Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping, + By moles and worms and such familiar fry + Run through and through, am singing still and harping + Of mundane matters--flatting, too, and sharping. + I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup: + So I'm for getting--and for shutting--up. + + + + + IN MEMORIAM + + + Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid + Of many things in the world afraid. + She wasn't a maid who turned and fled + At sight of a mouse, alive or dead. + She wasn't a maid a man could "shoo" + By shouting, however abruptly, "Boo!" + She wasn't a maid who'd run and hide + If her face and figure you idly eyed. + She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shake + When asked what part of the fowl she'd take. + (I blush myself to confess she preferred, + And commonly got, the most of the bird.) + She wasn't a maid to simper because + She was asked to sing--if she ever was. + + In short, if the truth must be displayed + _In puris_--Beauty wasn't a maid. + Beauty, furry and fine and fat, + Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that, + Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat! + + I loved her well, and I'm proud that she + Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me; + In fact I have sometimes gone so far + (You know, mesdames, how silly men are) + As to think she preferred--excuse the conceit-- + _My_ legs upon which to sharpen her feet. + Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much, + But I started and thrilled beneath her touch! + + Ah, well, that's ancient history now: + The fingers of Time have touched my brow, + And I hear with never a start to-day + That Beauty has passed from the earth away. + Gone!--her death-song (it killed her) sung. + Gone!--her fiddlestrings all unstrung. + Gone to the bliss of a new _régime_ + Of turkey smothered in seas of cream; + Of roasted mice (a superior breed, + To science unknown and the coarser need + Of the living cat) cooked by the flame + Of the dainty soul of an erring dame + Who gave to purity all her care, + Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,-- + Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice + By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise; + A very digestible sort of mice. + + Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold + That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold, + To eat and eat, forever and aye, + On a velvet rug from a golden tray. + But the human spirit--that is my creed-- + Rots in the ground like a barren seed. + That is my creed, abhorred by Man + But approved by Cat since time began. + Till Death shall kick at me, thundering "Scat!" + I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that. + + + + + THE STATESMEN. + + + How blest the land that counts among + Her sons so many good and wise, + To execute great feats of tongue + When troubles rise. + + Behold them mounting every stump + Our liberty by speech to guard. + Observe their courage:--see them jump + And come down hard! + + "Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud, + "And learn from me what you must do + To turn aside the thunder cloud, + The earthquake too. + + "Beware the wiles of yonder quack + Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. + I--I alone can show that black + Is white as grass." + + They shout through all the day and break + The silence of the night as well. + They'd make--I wish they'd _go_ and make-- + Of Heaven a Hell. + + A advocates free silver, B + Free trade and C free banking laws. + Free board, clothes, lodging would from me + Win warm applause. + + Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see + The single tax on land would fall + On all alike." More evenly + No tax at all. + + "With paper money" bellows E + "We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt-- + And richest of the lot will be + The chap without. + + As many "cures" as addle wits + Who know not what the ailment is! + Meanwhile the patient foams and spits + Like a gin fizz. + + Alas, poor Body Politic, + Your fate is all too clearly read: + To be not altogether quick, + Nor very dead. + + You take your exercise in squirms, + Your rest in fainting fits between. + 'T is plain that your disorder's worms-- + Worms fat and lean. + + Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell + Within your maw and muscle's scope. + Their quarrels make your life a Hell, + Your death a hope. + + God send you find not such an end + To ills however sharp and huge! + God send you convalesce! God send + You vermifuge. + + + + + THE BROTHERS. + + + Scene--_A lawyer's dreadful den. + Enter stall-fed citizen._ + + LAWYER.--'Mornin'. How-de-do? + + CITIZEN.--Sir, same to you. + Called as counsel to retain you + In a case that I'll explain you. + Sad, _so_ sad! Heart almost broke. + Hang it! where's my kerchief? Smoke? + Brother, sir, and I, of late, + Came into a large estate. + Brother's--h'm, ha,--rather queer + Sometimes _(tapping forehead) _here. + What he needs--you know--a "writ"-- + Something, eh? that will permit + Me to manage, sir, in fine, + His estate, as well as mine. + 'Course he'll _kick_; 't will break, I fear, + His loving heart--excuse this tear. + + LAWYER.--Have you nothing more? + All of this you said before-- + When last night I took your case. + + CITIZEN.--Why, sir, your face + Ne'er before has met my view! + + LAWYER.--Eh? The devil! True: + My mistake--it was your brother. + But you're very like each other. + + + + + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + + + In that fair city, Ispahan, + There dwelt a problematic man, + Whose angel never was released, + Who never once let out his beast, + But kept, through all the seasons' round, + Silence unbroken and profound. + No Prophecy, with ear applied + To key-hole of the future, tried + Successfully to catch a hint + Of what he'd do nor when begin 't; + As sternly did his past defy + Mild Retrospection's backward eye. + Though all admired his silent ways, + The women loudest were in praise: + For ladies love those men the most + Who never, never, never boast-- + Who ne'er disclose their aims and ends + To naughty, naughty, naughty friends. + + Yet, sooth to say, the fame outran + The merit of this doubtful man, + For taciturnity in him, + Though not a mere caprice or whim, + Was not a virtue, such as truth, + High birth, or beauty, wealth or youth. + + 'Twas known, indeed, throughout the span + Of Ispahan, of Gulistan-- + These utmost limits of the earth + Knew that the man was dumb from birth. + + Unto the Sun with deep salaams + The Parsee spreads his morning palms + (A beacon blazing on a height + Warms o'er his piety by night.) + The Moslem deprecates the deed, + Cuts off the head that holds the creed, + Then reverently goes to grass, + Muttering thanks to Balaam's Ass + For faith and learning to refute + Idolatry so dissolute! + But should a maniac dash past, + With straws in beard and hands upcast, + To him (through whom, whene'er inclined + To preach a bit to Madmankind, + The Holy Prophet speaks his mind) + Our True Believer lifts his eyes + Devoutly and his prayer applies; + But next to Solyman the Great + Reveres the idiot's sacred state. + Small wonder then, our worthy mute + Was held in popular repute. + Had he been blind as well as mum, + Been lame as well as blind and dumb, + No bard that ever sang or soared + Could say how he had been adored. + More meagerly endowed, he drew + An homage less prodigious. True, + No soul his praises but did utter-- + All plied him with devotion's butter, + But none had out--'t was to their credit-- + The proselyting sword to spread it. + I state these truths, exactly why + The reader knows as well as I; + They've nothing in the world to do + With what I hope we're coming to + If Pegasus be good enough + To move when he has stood enough. + Egad! his ribs I would examine + Had I a sharper spur than famine, + Or even with that if 'twould incline + To examine his instead of mine. + Where was I? Ah, that silent man + Who dwelt one time in Ispahan-- + He had a name--was known to all + As Meerza Solyman Zingall. + + There lived afar in Astrabad, + A man the world agreed was mad, + So wickedly he broke his joke + Upon the heads of duller folk, + So miserly, from day to day, + He gathered up and hid away + In vaults obscure and cellars haunted + What many worthy people wanted, + A stingy man!--the tradesmen's palms + Were spread in vain: "I give no alms + Without inquiry"--so he'd say, + And beat the needy duns away. + The bastinado did, 'tis true, + Persuade him, now and then, a few + Odd tens of thousands to disburse + To glut the taxman's hungry purse, + But still, so rich he grew, his fear + Was constant that the Shah might hear. + (The Shah had heard it long ago, + And asked the taxman if 'twere so, + Who promptly answered, rather airish, + The man had long been on the parish.) + The more he feared, the more he grew + A cynic and a miser, too, + Until his bitterness and pelf + Made him a terror to himself; + Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke, + He tartly cut his final joke. + So perished, not an hour too soon, + The wicked Muley Ben Maroon. + + From Astrabad to Ispahan + At camel speed the rumor ran + That, breaking through tradition hoar, + And throwing all his kinsmen o'er, + The miser'd left his mighty store + Of gold--his palaces and lands-- + To needy and deserving hands + (Except a penny here and there + To pay the dervishes for prayer.) + 'Twas known indeed throughout the span + Of earth, and into Hindostan, + That our beloved mute was the + Residuary legatee. + The people said 'twas very well, + And each man had a tale to tell + Of how he'd had a finger in 't + By dropping many a friendly hint + At Astrabad, you see. But ah, + They feared the news might reach the Shah! + To prove the will the lawyers bore 't + Before the Kadi's awful court, + Who nodded, when he heard it read, + Confirmingly his drowsy head, + Nor thought, his sleepiness so great, + Himself to gobble the estate. + "I give," the dead had writ, "my all + To Meerza Solyman Zingall + Of Ispahan. With this estate + I might quite easily create + Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun + Temptation and create but one, + In whom the whole unthankful crew + The rich man's air that ever drew + To fat their pauper lungs I fire + Vicarious with vain desire! + From foul Ingratitude's base rout + I pick this hapless devil out, + Bestowing on him all my lands, + My treasures, camels, slaves and bands + Of wives--I give him all this loot, + And throw my blessing in to boot. + Behold, O man, in this bequest + Philanthropy's long wrongs redressed: + To speak me ill that man I dower + With fiercest will who lacks the power. + Allah il Allah! now let him bloat + With rancor till his heart's afloat, + Unable to discharge the wave + Upon his benefactor's grave!" + + Forth in their wrath the people came + And swore it was a sin and shame + To trick their blessed mute; and each + Protested, serious of speech, + That though _he'd_ long foreseen the worst + He'd been against it from the first. + By various means they vainly tried + The testament to set aside, + Each ready with his empty purse + To take upon himself the curse; + For _they_ had powers of invective + Enough to make it ineffective. + The ingrates mustered, every man, + And marched in force to Ispahan + (Which had not quite accommodation) + And held a camp of indignation. + + The man, this while, who never spoke-- + On whom had fallen this thunder-stroke + Of fortune, gave no feeling vent + Nor dropped a clue to his intent. + Whereas no power to him came + His benefactor to defame, + Some (such a length had slander gone to) + Even whispered that he didn't want to! + But none his secret could divine; + If suffering he made no sign, + Until one night as winter neared + From all his haunts he disappeared-- + Evanished in a doubtful blank + Like little crayfish in a bank, + Their heads retracting for a spell, + And pulling in their holes as well. + + All through the land of Gul, the stout + Young Spring is kicking Winter out. + The grass sneaks in upon the scene, + Defacing it with bottle-green. + + The stumbling lamb arrives to ply + His restless tail in every eye, + Eats nasty mint to spoil his meat + And make himself unfit to eat. + Madly his throat the bulbul tears-- + In every grove blasphemes and swears + As the immodest rose displays + Her shameless charms a dozen ways. + Lo! now, throughout the utmost span + Of Ispahan--of Gulistan-- + A big new book's displayed in all + The shops and cumbers every stall. + The price is low--the dealers say 'tis-- + And the rich are treated to it gratis. + Engraven on its foremost page + These title-words the eye engage: + "The Life of Muley Ben Maroon, + Of Astrabad--Rogue, Thief, Buffoon + And Miser--Liver by the Sweat + Of Better Men: A Lamponette + Composed in Rhyme and Written all + By Meerza Solyman Zingall!" + + + + + CORRECTED NEWS. + + + 'T was a maiden lady (the newspapers say) + Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray. + She slept like an angel, holy and white, + Till ten o' the clock in the shank o' the night + (When men and other wild animals prey) + And then she cried in the viewless gloom: + "There's a man in the room, a man in the room!" + And this maiden lady (they make it appear) + Leapt out of the window, five fathom sheer! + + Alas, that lying is such a sin + When newspaper men need bread and gin + And none can be had for less than a lie! + For the maiden lady a bit gone-gray + Saw the man in the room from across the way, + And leapt, not out of the window but in-- + _Ten_ fathom sheer, as I hope to die! + + + + + AN EXPLANATION. + + + "I never yet exactly could determine + Just how it is that the judicial ermine + Is kept so safely from predacious vermin." + + "It is not so, my friend: though in a garret + 'Tis kept in camphor, and you often air it, + The vermin will get into it and wear it." + + + + + JUSTICE. + + + Jack Doe met Dick Roe, whose wife he loved, + And said: "I will get the best of him." + So pulling a knife from his boot, he shoved + It up to the hilt in the breast of him. + + Then he moved that weapon forth and back, + Enlarging the hole he had made with it, + Till the smoking liver fell out, and Jack + Merrily, merrily played with it. + + Then he reached within and he seized the slack + Of the lesser bowel, and, traveling + Hither and thither, looked idly back + On that small intestine, raveling. + + The wretched Richard, with many a grin + Laid on with exceeding suavity, + Curled up and died, and they ran John in + And charged him with sins of gravity. + + The case was tried and a verdict found: + The jury, with great humanity, + Acquitted the prisoner on the ground + Of extemporary insanity. + + + + + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. + + + Of a person known as Peters I will humbly crave your leave + An unusual adventure into narrative to weave-- + Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel, + A public educator and an orator as well. + Mr. Peters had a weakness which, 'tis painful to relate, + Was a strong predisposition to the pleasures of debate. + He would foster disputation wheresoever he might be; + In polygonal contention none so happy was as he. + 'Twas observable, however, that the exercises ran + Into monologue by Peters, that rhetorical young man. + And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show, + By involuntary silence testified their overthrow-- + Mr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief, + Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief. + O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold + As to entertain opinions that he didn't care to hold. + + One day--'t was in pursuance of a pedagogic plan + For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man-- + Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained + That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained) + Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate + Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate + On the question, "Which is better, as a serviceable gift, + Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?" + The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met + At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet, + They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove, + And the non-committal "barkeep" on their differences throve. + And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way: + You'll have the more to back your word the less you have to say. + Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink + Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think. + + On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel + Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well-- + All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear. + Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear, + And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn't lift + The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift. + The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled, + The question he proceeded _in extenso_ to unfold: + "_Resolved_--The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach + Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech." + This simple proposition he expounded, word by word, + Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard. + Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain-- + The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain. + Beginning at a period before Creation's morn, + He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn. + As down the early centuries of pre-historic time + He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme, + And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay, + Had risen and like an earthquake, "reeled unheededly away," + And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve, + Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve, + A noise arose outside--the door was opened with a bang + And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating "G'lang!" + Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink + An ancient ass--the property it was of Mr. Fink. + Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread, + Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped! + It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown + Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone. + Then spake old Ebenezer: "Gents, I heern o' this debate + On w'ether v'ice or y'ears is best the mind to elevate. + Now 'yer's a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme: + He has 'em both, I'm free to say, oncommonly extreme. + He wa'n't invited for to speak, but he will not refuse + (If t'other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views." + + Ere merriment or anger o'er amazement could prevail; + He cut the string that held the stone on that canary's tail. + Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight, + Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite. + With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid, + Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then--to put it mildly--brayed! + He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills, + And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills. + 'T is said that awful bugle-blast--to make the story brief-- + Wafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf! + + Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred + 'Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard + That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel, + A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel, + Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well. + + + + + TO MY LAUNDRESS. + + + Saponacea, wert thou not so fair + I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins-- + For sending home my clothes all full of pins-- + A shirt occasionally that's a snare + And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where, + The Lord knows why--a sock whose outs and ins + None know, nor where it ends nor where begins, + And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share. + But when I mark thy lilies how they grow, + And the red roses of thy ripening charms, + I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming. + I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go + Into the magic circle of thine arms, + Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming. + + + + + FAME. + + + One thousand years I slept beneath the sod, + My sleep in 1901 beginning, + Then, by the action of some scurvy god + Who happened then to recollect my sinning, + I was revived and given another inning. + On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd-- + A formless multitude of men and women, + Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud + I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in; + And, pointing at me, one said: "Let's put _him_ in." + Then each turned on me with an evil look, + As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook. + + "Nay, good Posterity," I cried, "forbear! + If that's a jail I fain would be remaining + Outside, for truly I should little care + To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining + The life lost long ago by my disdaining + To take precautions against draughts like those + That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting + Old structure." Then an aged wight arose + From a chair of state in which he had been sitting, + And with preliminary coughing, spitting + And wheezing, said: "'T is not a jail, we're sure, + Whate'er it may have been when it was newer. + + "'T was found two centuries ago, o'ergrown + With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated; + And in restoring it we found a stone + Set here and there in the dilapidated + And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated + Big characters, with certain uncouth names, + Which we conclude were borne of old by awful + Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games-- + Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful, + And orators less sensible than jawful. + So each ten years we add to the long row + A name, the most unworthy that we know." + + "But why," I asked, "put _me_ in?" He replied: + "You look it"--and the judgment pained me greatly; + Right gladly would I then and there have died, + But that I'd risen from the grave so lately. + But on examining that solemn, stately + Old ruin I remarked: "My friend, you err-- + The truth of this is just what I expected. + This building in its time made quite a stir. + I lived (was famous, too) when 't was erected. + The names here first inscribed were much respected. + This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork, + And this goat pasture once was called New York." + + + + + OMNES VANITAS. + + + Alas for ambition's possessor! + Alas for the famous and proud! + The Isle of Manhattan's best dresser + Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud. + + The world has forgotten his glory; + The wagoner sings on his wain, + And Chauncey Depew tells a story, + And jackasses laugh in the lane. + + + + + ASPIRATION. + + No man can truthfully say that he would not like to + be President.--_William C. Whitney._ + + + Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the pride + Of qualities to meaner beasts denied, + Surveys the ass with reverence and fear, + Adoring his superior length of ear, + And says: "No living creature, lean or fat, + But wishes in his heart to be like That!" + + + + + DEMOCRACY. + + + Let slaves and subjects with unvaried psalms + Before their sovereign execute salaams; + The freeman scorns one idol to adore-- + Tom, Dick and Harry and himself are four. + + + + + THE NEW "ULALUME." + + + The skies they were ashen and sober, + The leaves they were crisped and sere,-- + " " " withering " " + It was night in the lonesome October + Of my most immemorial year; + It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,-- + " " down " " dark tarn " " + In the misty mid region of Weir,-- + " " ghoul-haunted woodland " " + + + + + CONSOLATION. + + + Little's the good to sit and grieve + Because the serpent tempted Eve. + Better to wipe your eyes and take + A club and go out and kill a snake. + + What do you gain by cursing Nick + For playing her such a scurvy trick? + Better go out and some villain find + Who serves the devil, and beat him blind. + + But if you prefer, as I suspect, + To philosophize, why, then, reflect: + If the cunning rascal upon the limb + Hadn't tempted her she'd have tempted him. + + + + + FATE. + + + Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide!-- + He turned from the beaten trail aside, + Wandered bewildered, lay down and died. + + O grim is the Irony of Fate: + It switches the man of low estate + And loosens the dogs upon the great. + + It lights the fireman to roast the cook; + The fisherman squirms upon the hook, + And the flirt is slain with a tender look. + + The undertaker it overtakes; + It saddles the cavalier, and makes + The haughtiest butcher into steaks. + + Assist me, gods, to balk the decree! + Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be, + In order that nothing be done to me. + + + + + PHILOSOPHER BIMM. + + + Republicans think Jonas Bimm + A Democrat gone mad, + And Democrats consider him + Republican and bad. + + The Tough reviles him as a Dude + And gives it him right hot; + The Dude condemns his crassitude + And calls him _sans culottes._ + + Derided as an Anglophile + By Anglophobes, forsooth, + As Anglophobe he feels, the while, + The Anglophilic tooth. + + The Churchman calls him Atheist; + The Atheists, rough-shod, + Have ridden o'er him long and hissed + "The wretch believes in God!" + + The Saints whom clergymen we call + Would kill him if they could; + The Sinners (scientists and all) + Complain that he is good. + + All men deplore the difference + Between themselves and him, + And all devise expedients + For paining Jonas Bimm. + + I too, with wild demoniac glee, + Would put out both his eyes; + For Mr. Bimm appears to me + Insufferably wise! + + + + + REMINDED. + + + Beneath my window twilight made + Familiar mysteries of shade. + Faint voices from the darkening down + Were calling vaguely to the town. + Intent upon a low, far gleam + That burned upon the world's extreme, + I sat, with short reprieve from grief, + And turned the volume, leaf by leaf, + Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought + A million miracles of thought. + My fingers carelessly unclung + The lettered pages, and among + Them wandered witless, nor divined + The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. + The soul that should have led their quest + Was dreaming in the level west, + Where a tall tower, stark and still, + Uplifted on a distant hill, + Stood lone and passionless to claim + Its guardian star's returning flame. + + I know not how my dream was broke, + But suddenly my spirit woke + Filled with a foolish fear to look + Upon the hand that clove the book, + Significantly pointing; next + I bent attentive to the text, + And read--and as I read grew old-- + The mindless words: "Poor Tom's a-cold!" + + Ah me! to what a subtle touch + The brimming cup resigns its clutch + Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ + That hearts their overburden bear + Of bitterness though thou permit + The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks, + And striking coward blows from books, + And dead hands reaching everywhere? + + + + + SALVINI IN AMERICA. + + + Come, gentlemen--your gold. + Thanks: welcome to the show. + To hear a story told + In words you do not know. + + Now, great Salvini, rise + And thunder through your tears, + Aha! friends, let your eyes + Interpret to your ears. + + Gods! 't is a goodly game. + Observe his stride--how grand! + When legs like his declaim + Who can misunderstand? + + See how that arm goes round. + It says, as plain as day: + "I love," "The lost is found," + "Well met, sir," or, "Away!" + + And mark the drawing down + Of brows. How accurate + The language of that frown: + Pain, gentlemen--or hate. + + Those of the critic trade + Swear it is all as clear + As if his tongue were made + To fit an English ear. + + Hear that Italian phrase! + Greek to your sense, 't is true; + But shrug, expression, gaze-- + Well, they are Grecian too. + + But it is Art! God wot + Its tongue to all is known. + Faith! he to whom 't were not + Would better hold his own. + + Shakespeare says act and word + Must match together true. + From what you've seen and heard, + How can you doubt they do? + + Enchanting drama! Mark + The crowd "from pit to dome", + One box alone is dark-- + The prompter stays at home. + + Stupendous artist! You + Are lord of joy and woe: + We thrill if you say "Boo," + And thrill if you say "Bo." + + + + + ANOTHER WAY. + + + I lay in silence, dead. A woman came + And laid a rose upon my breast and said: + "May God be merciful." She spoke my name, + And added: "It is strange to think him dead. + + "He loved me well enough, but 't was his way + To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath: + "Besides"--I knew what further she would say, + But then a footfall broke my dream of death. + + To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose + Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem + It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows + I had more pleasure in the other dream. + + + + + ART. + + + For Gladstone's portrait five thousand pounds + Were paid, 't is said, to Sir John Millais. + I cannot help thinking that such fine pay + Transcended reason's uttermost bounds. + + For it seems to me uncommonly queer + That a painted British stateman's price + Exceeds the established value thrice + Of a living statesman over here. + + + + + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. + + + A is defrauded of his land by B, + Who's driven from the premises by C. + D buys the place with coin of plundered E. + "That A's an Anarchist!" says F to G. + + + + + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. + + + When at your window radiant you've stood + I've sometimes thought--forgive me if I've erred-- + That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred + Your heart to beat less gently than it should. + I know you beautiful; that you are good + I hope--or fear--I cannot choose the word, + Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard + Reason at love's dictation never could. + Blindly to this dilemma so I grope, + As one whose every pathway has a snare: + If you are minded in the saintly fashion + Of your pure face my passion's without hope; + If not, alas! I equally despair, + For what to me were hope without the passion? + + + + + THE DEBTOR ABROAD. + + + Grief for an absent lover, husband, friend, + Is barely felt before it comes to end: + A score of early consolations serve + To modify its mouth's dejected curve. + But woes of creditors when debtors flee + Forever swell the separating sea. + When standing on an alien shore you mark + The steady course of some intrepid bark, + How sweet to think a tear for you abides, + Not all unuseful, in the wave she rides!-- + That sighs for you commingle in the gale + Beneficently bellying her sail! + + + + + FORESIGHT. + + + An "actors' cemetery"! Sure + The devil never tires + Of planning places to procure + The sticks to feed his fires. + + + + + A FAIR DIVISION. + + + Another Irish landlord gone to grass, + Slain by the bullets of the tenant class! + Pray, good agrarians, what wrong requires + Such foul redress? Between you and the squires + All Ireland's parted with an even hand-- + For you have all the ire, they all the land. + + + + + GENESIS. + + + God said: "Let there be Man," and from the clay + Adam came forth and, thoughtful, walked away. + The matrix whence his body was obtained, + An empty, man-shaped cavity, remained + All unregarded from that early time + Till in a recent storm it filled with slime. + Now Satan, envying the Master's power + To make the meat himself could but devour, + Strolled to the place and, standing by the pool, + Exerted all his will to make a fool. + A miracle!--from out that ancient hole + Rose Morehouse, lacking nothing but a soul. + "To give him that I've not the power divine," + Said Satan, sadly, "but I'll lend him mine." + He breathed it into him, a vapor black, + And to this day has never got it back. + + + + + LIBERTY. + + + "'Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo! + The red skies all were luminous. The glow + Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks + One hundred and eleven years ago!" + + So sang a patriot whom once I saw + Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe + I noted that he shone with sacred light, + Like Moses with the tables of the Law. + + One hundred and eleven years? O small + And paltry period compared with all + The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed + To etch Yosemite's divided wall! + + Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young + Whose harps are in your adoration strung + (Each swears you are his countrywoman, too, + And speak no language but his mother tongue). + + And truly, lass, although with shout and horn + Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn, + I cannot think you old--I think, indeed, + You are by twenty centuries unborn. + + 1886. + + + + + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. + + + The sullen church-bell's intermittent moan, + The dirge's melancholy monotone, + The measured march, the drooping flags, attest + A great man's progress to his place of rest. + Along broad avenues himself decreed + To serve his fellow men's disputed need-- + Past parks he raped away from robbers' thrift + And gave to poverty, wherein to lift + Its voice to curse the giver and the gift-- + Past noble structures that he reared for men + To meet in and revile him, tongue and pen, + Draws the long retinue of death to show + The fit credentials of a proper woe. + + "Boss" Shepherd, you are dead. Your hand no more + Throws largess to the mobs that ramp and roar + For blood of benefactors who disdain + Their purity of purpose to explain, + Their righteous motive and their scorn of gain. + Your period of dream--'twas but a breath-- + Is closed in the indifference of death. + Sealed in your silences, to you alike + If hands are lifted to applaud or strike. + No more to your dull, inattentive ear + Praise of to-day than curse of yesteryear. + From the same lips the honied phrases fall + That still are bitter from cascades of gall. + We note the shame; you in your depth of dark + The red-writ testimony cannot mark + On every honest cheek; your senses all + Locked, _incommunicado_, in your pall, + Know not who sit and blush, who stand and bawl. + + "Seven Grecian cities claim great Homer dead, + Through which the living Homer begged his + bread." + So sang, as if the thought had been his own, + An unknown bard, improving on a known. + "Neglected genius!"--that is sad indeed, + But malice better would ignore than heed, + And Shepherd's soul, we rightly may suspect, + Prayed often for the mercy of neglect + When hardly did he dare to leave his door + Without a guard behind him and before + To save him from the gentlemen that now + In cheap and easy reparation bow + Their corrigible heads above his corse + To counterfeit a grief that's half remorse. + + The pageant passes and the exile sleeps, + And well his tongue the solemn secret keeps + Of the great peace he found afar, until, + Death's writ of extradition to fulfill, + They brought him, helpless, from that friendly zone + To be a show and pastime in his own-- + A final opportunity to those + Who fling with equal aim the stone and rose; + That at the living till his soul is freed, + This at the body to conceal the deed! + + Lone on his hill he's lying to await + What added honors may befit his state-- + The monument, the statue, or the arch + (Where knaves may come to weep and dupes to march) + Builded by clowns to brutalize the scenes + His genius beautified. To get the means, + His newly good traducers all are dunned + For contributions to the conscience fund. + If each subscribe (and pay) one cent 'twill rear + A structure taller than their tallest ear. + + Washington, May 4, 1903. + + + + + TO MAUDE. + + + Not as two errant spheres together grind + With monstrous ruin in the vast of space, + Destruction born of that malign embrace, + Their hapless peoples all to death consigned-- + Not so when our intangible worlds of mind, + Even mine and yours, each with its spirit race + Of beings shadowy in form and face, + Shall drift together on some blessed wind. + No, in that marriage of gloom and light + All miracles of beauty shall be wrought, + Attesting a diviner faith than man's; + For all my sad-eyed daughters of the night + Shall smile on your sweet seraphim of thought, + Nor any jealous god forbid the banns. + + + + + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. + + + When, long ago, the young world circling flew + Through wider reaches of a richer blue, + New-eyed, the men and maids saw, manifest, + The thoughts untold in one another's breast: + Each wish displayed, and every passion learned-- + A look revealed them as a look discerned. + But sating Time with clouds o'ercast their eyes; + Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies. + A goddess then, emerging from the dust, + Fair Virtue rose, the daughter of Distrust. + + + + + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. + + + The Seraphs came to Christ, and said: "Behold! + The man, presumptuous and overbold, + Who boasted that his mercy could excel + Thine own, is dead and on his way to Hell." + + Gravely the Saviour asked: "What did he do + To make his impious assertion true?" + + "He was a Governor, releasing all + The vilest felons ever held in thrall. + No other mortal, since the dawn of time, + Has ever pardoned such a mass of crime!" + + Christ smiled benignly on the Seraphim: + "Yet I am victor, for I pardon _him_." + + + + + THE SCURRIL PRESS. + + TOM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I've slept right through + The night--a rather clever thing to do. + How soundly women sleep _(looks at his wife.)_ + They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life + Is woman when she lies with folded tongue, + Its toil completed and its day-song sung. + (_Thump_) That's the morning paper. What a bore + That it should be delivered at the door. + There ought to be some expeditious way + To get it _to_ one. By this long delay + The fizz gets off the news _(a rap is heard)_. + That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird; + She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul. + _(Gets up and takes it in.)_ Upon the whole + The system's not so bad a one. What's here? + Gad, if they've not got after--listen dear + _(To sleeping wife)_--young Gastrotheos! Well, + If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell + She'll shriek again--with laughter--seeing how + They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow + 'T is right if he goes dining at The Pup + With Mrs. Thing. + + WIFE _(briskly, waking up)_: + With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right. + + JONESMITH (_continuing to "seek the light"_): + What's this about old Impycu? That's good! + Grip--that's the funny man--says Impy should + Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps. + I knew old Impy when he had the "stamps" + To buy us all out, and he wasn't then + So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen + Is just a tickler!--and the world, no doubt, + Is better with it than it was without. + What? thirteen ladies--Jumping Jove! we know + Them nearly all!--who gamble at a low + And very shocking game of cards called "draw"! + O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw! + Let's see what else (_wife snores_). Well, I'll be blest! + A woman doesn't understand a jest. + Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds + To take a fling at _me_, condemn him! (_reads_): + Tom Jonesmith--my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!--_Of + the new Shavings Bank_--the man's gone mad! + That's libelous; I'll have him up for that--_Has + had his corns cut_. Devil take the rat! + What business is 't of his, I'd like to know? + He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low + And scurril things our papers have become! + You skim their contents and you get but scum. + Here, Mary, (_waking wife_) I've been attacked + In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact! + + WIFE (_reading it_): How wicked! Who do you + Suppose 't was wrote it? + + JONESMITH: Who? why, who + But Grip, the so-called funny man--he wrote + Me up because I'd not discount his note. + (_Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie-- + He'll think of one that's better by and by-- + Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads + A lively measure on it--kicks the shreds + And patches all about the room, and still + Performs his jig with unabated will._) + + WIFE (_warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn_): + Dear, do be careful of that second corn. + + STANLEY. + Noting some great man's composition vile: + A head of wisdom and a heart of guile, + A will to conquer and a soul to dare, + Joined to the manners of a dancing bear, + Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey + Of various Nature's compensating sway, + Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff, + To praise the one and at the other laugh, + Yearn all in vain and impotently seek + Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak + The sycophantic worship of the weak. + Not so the wise, from superstition free, + Who find small pleasure in the bended knee; + Quick to discriminate 'twixt good and bad, + And willing in the king to find the cad-- + No reason seen why genius and conceit, + The power to dazzle and the will to cheat, + The love of daring and the love of gin, + Should not dwell, peaceful, in a single skin. + To such, great Stanley, you're a hero still, + Despite your cradling in a tub for swill. + Your peasant manners can't efface the mark + Of light you drew across the Land of Dark. + + In you the extremes of character are wed, + To serve the quick and villify the dead. + Hero and clown! O, man of many sides, + The Muse of Truth adores you and derides, + And sheds, impartial, the revealing ray + Upon your head of gold and feet of clay. + + + + + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. + + + She stood at the ticket-seller's + Serenely removing her glove, + While hundreds of strugglers and yellers, + And some that were good at a shove, + Were clustered behind her like bats in + a cave and unwilling to speak their love. + + At night she still stood at that window + Endeavoring her money to reach; + The crowds right and left, how they sinned--O, + How dreadfully sinned in their speech! + Ten miles either way they extended + their lines, the historians teach. + + She stands there to-day--legislation + Has failed to remove her. The trains + No longer pull up at that station; + And over the ghastly remains + Of the army that waited and died of + old age fall the snows and the rains. + + + + + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. + + + Upon this quarter-eagle's leveled face, + The Lord's Prayer, legibly inscribed, I trace. + "Our Father which"--the pronoun there is funny, + And shows the scribe to have addressed the money-- + "Which art in Heaven"--an error this, no doubt: + The preposition should be stricken out. + Needless to quote; I only have designed + To praise the frankness of the pious mind + Which thought it natural and right to join, + With rare significancy, prayer and coin. + + + + + A LACKING FACTOR. + + + "You acted unwisely," I cried, "as you see + By the outcome." He calmly eyed me: + "When choosing the course of my action," said he, + "I had not the outcome to guide me." + + + + + THE ROYAL JESTER. + + + Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, + There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. + So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: + He was a hero, even to his queen, + In whose respect he held so high a place + That none was higher,--nay, not even the ace. + He was so just his Parliament declared + Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; + So wise that none of the debating throng + Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; + So good that Crime his anger never feared, + And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; + So brave that if his army got a beating + None dared to face him when he was retreating. + This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, + And loved him tenderly despite his worth. + Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, + He called the Fool before the throne one day + And to that jester seriously said: + "I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, + While I, attired in motley, will make sport + To entertain your Majesty and Court." + + 'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed + The time of harvest and the time of seed; + Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, + And had a famine every second year; + Altered the calendar to suit his freak, + Ordaining six whole holidays a week; + Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; + Made war when angry and made peace when scared. + New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; + Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, + In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not + Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot + Made the whole country with his praises ring, + Declaring he was every inch a king; + And the High Priest averred 't was very odd + If one so competent were not a god. + + Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, + Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, + That some condoled with him as with a brother + Who, having lost a wife, had got another. + Others, mistaking his profession, often + Approached him to be measured for a coffin. + For years this highborn jester never broke + The silence--he was pondering a joke. + At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, + He strode into the Council and displayed + A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom + Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. + Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, + To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, + He brought it down with peremptory stroke + And simultaneously cracked his joke! + + I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school + Myself to quote from any other fool: + A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start + My tears; if better, it would break my heart. + So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state + That royal Jester's melancholy fate. + + The insulted nation, so the story goes, + Rose as one man--the very dead arose, + Springing indignant from the riven tomb, + And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! + All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, + By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. + In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, + The tools of legislation were displayed, + And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, + Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. + Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas + Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, + Royal approval--and the same in stacks + Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; + Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; + With mucilage convenient to extend them; + Scissors for limiting their application, + And acids to repeal all legislation-- + These, flung as missiles till the air was dense, + Were most offensive weapons of offense, + And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. + They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. + Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, + His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, + His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, + His fertile head by scissors made to yield + Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, + In every wrinkle and on every welt, + Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills + And thickly studded with a pride of quills, + The royal Jester in the dreadful strife + Was made (in short) an editor for life! + + An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks + In this as plainly as in greater works. + I shall not give it birth: one moral here + Would die of loneliness within a year. + + + + + A CAREER IN LETTERS. + + + When Liberverm resigned the chair + Of This or That in college, where + For two decades he'd gorged his brain + With more than it could well contain, + In order to relieve the stress + He took to writing for the press. + Then Pondronummus said, "I'll help + This mine of talent to devel'p;" + And straightway bought with coin and credit + The _Thundergust_ for him to edit. + + The great man seized the pen and ink + And wrote so hard he couldn't think; + Ideas grew beneath his fist + And flew like falcons from his wrist. + His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways + Till all the rivers were ablaze, + And where the coruscations fell + Men uttered words I dare not spell. + + Eftsoons with corrugated brow, + Wet towels bound about his pow, + Locked legs and failing appetite, + He thought so hard he couldn't write. + His soaring fancies, chickenwise, + Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. + With dimmer light and milder heat + His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, + Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came-- + He couldn't even write his name. + The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks + Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. + Said Pondronummus, "How unjust! + The storm I raised has laid my dust!" + + When, Moneybagger, you have aught + Invested in a vein of thought, + Be sure you've purchased not, instead, + That salted claim, a bookworm's head. + + + + + THE FOLLOWING PAIR. + + + O very remarkable mortal, + What food is engaging your jaws + And staining with amber their portal? + "It's 'baccy I chaws." + + And why do you sway in your walking, + To right and left many degrees, + And hitch up your trousers when talking? + "I follers the seas." + + Great indolent shark in the rollers, + Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?-- + You, too, display maculate molars. + "I dines upon salts." + + Strange diet!--intestinal pain it + Is commonly given to nip. + And how can you ever obtain it? + "I follers the ship." + + + + + POLITICAL ECONOMY. + + + "I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, + As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, + "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds + As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, + Increase of life's comforts the general sum-- + Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come," + The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, + How that is of any advantage to geese." + "What, what!" said the man--"you are very obtuse! + Consumption no profit to those who produce? + No good to accrue to Supply from a grand + Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand? + Luxurious habits no benefit bring + To those who purvey the luxurious thing? + Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth + Of luxury promises--" "Promises," quoth + The sufferer, "what?--to what course is it pledged + To pay me for being so often defledged?" + "Accustomed"--this notion the plucker expressed + As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast-- + "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn + For others and ever for others in turn; + And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, + His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, + His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage + By dining on goose with a dressing of sage." + + + + + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. + + + "I've found the secret of your charm," I said, + Expounding with complacency my guess. + Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, + For all its secret was unconsciousness. + + + + + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. + + + I reckon that ye never knew, + That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, + He had a touch as light an' free + As that of any honey-bee; + But where it lit there wasn't much + To jestify another touch. + O, what a Sunday-school it was + To watch him puttin' up his paws + An' roominate upon their heft-- + Particular his holy left! + Tom was my style--that's all I say; + Some others may be equal gay. + What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure-- + He's dead--which make his fate obscure. + I only started in to clear + One vital p'int in his career, + Which is to say--afore he died + He soiled his erming mighty snide. + Ye see he took to politics + And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; + Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, + Just like he was the President; + Went to the Legislator; spoke + Right out agin the British yoke-- + But that was right. He let his hair + Grow long to qualify for Mayor, + An' once or twice he poked his snoot + In Congress like a low galoot! + It had to come--no gent can hope + To wrastle God agin the rope. + Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, + I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, + For sech inikities as flow + From politics ain't fit to know; + But, if you think it's actin' white + To tell it--Thomas throwed a fight! + + + + + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. + + + As time rolled on the whole world came to be + A desolation and a darksome curse; + And some one said: "The changes that you see + In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, + Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer + Because the moon assisted with her shimmer. + + "Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, + Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, + He called her 'scab,' and meanly would retard + Her rising: and at last the villain hurled + A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion + Into the nebula of great O'Ryan. + + "The planets all had struck some time before, + Demanding what they said were equal rights: + Some pointing out that others had far more + That a fair dividend of satellites. + So all went out--though those the best provided, + If they had dared, would rather have abided. + + "The stars struck too--I think it was because + The comets had more liberty than they, + And were not bound by any hampering laws, + While _they_ were fixed; and there are those who say + The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, + An aged orb that hasn't any hair. + + "The earth's the only one that isn't in + The movement--I suppose because she's watched + With horror and disgust how her fair skin + Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched + With blood and grease in every labor riot, + When seeing any purse or throat to fly at." + + + + + TEMPORA MUTANTUR. + + + "The world is dull," I cried in my despair: + "Its myths and fables are no longer fair. + + "Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time. + To Greece transport me in her golden prime. + + "Give back the beautiful old Gods again-- + The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad's jocund train, + + "Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades, + The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas. + + "Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I'll dare + To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair + + "(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate, + That stiffen men into a stony state) + + "And die--erecting, as my soul goes hence, + A statue of myself, without expense." + + Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate: + "Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait." + + Raising my eyes, I saw Medusa stand, + Stheno, Euryale, on either hand. + + I gazed unpetrified and unappalled-- + The girls had aged and were entirely bald! + + + + + CONTENTMENT. + + + Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed + Long years had circled since my life had fled. + The world was different, and all things seemed + Remote and strange, like noises to the dead. + And one great Voice there was; and something said: + "Posterity is speaking--rightly deemed + Infallible:" and so I gave attention, + Hoping Posterity my name would mention. + + "Illustrious Spirit," said the Voice, "appear! + While we confirm eternally thy fame, + Before our dread tribunal answer, here, + Why do no statues celebrate thy name, + No monuments thy services proclaim? + Why did not thy contemporaries rear + To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? + It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge." + + Up spake I hotly: "That is where you err!" + But some one thundered in my ear: "You shan't + Be interrupting these proceedings, sir; + The question was addressed to General Grant." + Some other things were spoken which I can't + Distinctly now recall, but I infer, + By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead, + Posterity's environment is torrid. + + Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark) + Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong, + As Grant's great shade, replying from the dark, + Said in a tone that rang the earth along, + And thrilled the senses of the Judges' throng: + "I'd rather you would question why, in park + And street, my monuments were not erected + Than why they were." Then, waking, I reflected. + + + + + THE NEW ENOCH. + + + Enoch Arden was an able + Seaman; hear of his mishap-- + Not in wild mendacious fable, + As 't was told by t' other chap; + + For I hold it is a youthful + Indiscretion to tell lies, + And the writer that is truthful + Has the reader that is wise. + + Enoch Arden, able seaman, + On an isle was cast away, + And before he was a freeman + Time had touched him up with gray. + + Long he searched the fair horizon, + Seated on a mountain top; + Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on + That would undertake to stop. + + Seeing that his sight was growing + Dim and dimmer, day by day, + Enoch said he must be going. + So he rose and went away-- + + Went away and so continued + Till he lost his lonely isle: + Mr. Arden was so sinewed + He could row for many a mile. + + Compass he had not, nor sextant, + To direct him o'er the sea: + Ere 't was known that he was extant, + At his widow's home was he. + + When he saw the hills and hollows + And the streets he could but know, + He gave utterance as follows + To the sentiments below: + + "Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver, + Too, my timbers!) but, I say, + W'at a larruk to diskiver, + I have lost me blessid way! + + "W'at, alas, would be my bloomin' + Fate if Philip now I see, + Which I lammed?--or my old 'oman, + Which has frequent basted _me_?" + + Scenes of childhood swam around him + At the thought of such a lot: + In a swoon his Annie found him + And conveyed him to her cot. + + 'T was the very house, the garden, + Where their honeymoon was passed: + 'T was the place where Mrs. Arden + Would have mourned him to the last. + + Ah, what grief she'd known without him! + Now what tears of joy she shed! + Enoch Arden looked about him: + "Shanghaied!"--that was all he said. + + + + + DISAVOWAL. + + + Two bodies are lying in Phoenix Park, + Grim and bloody and stiff and stark, + And a Land League man with averted eye + Crosses himself as he hurries by. + And he says to his conscience under his breath: + "I have had no hand in this deed of death!" + + A Fenian, making a circuit wide + And passing them by on the other side, + Shudders and crosses himself and cries: + "Who says that I did it, he lies, he lies!" + + Gingerly stepping across the gore, + Pat Satan comes after the two before, + Makes, in a solemnly comical way, + The sign of the cross and is heard to say: + "O dear, what a terrible sight to see, + For babes like them and a saint like me!" + + 1882. + + + + + AN AVERAGE. + + + I ne'er could be entirely fond + Of any maiden who's a blonde, + And no brunette that e'er I saw + Had charms my heart's whole + warmth to draw. + + Yet sure no girl was ever made + Just half of light and half of shade. + And so, this happy mean to get, + I love a blonde and a brunette. + + + + + WOMAN. + + + Study good women and ignore the rest, + For he best knows the sex who knows the best. + + + + + INCURABLE. + + + From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy-- + From any kind of vice, or folly, + Bias, propensity or passion + That is in prevalence and fashion, + Save one, the sufferer or lover + May, by the grace of God, recover: + Alone that spiritual tetter, + The zeal to make creation better, + Glows still immedicably warmer. + Who knows of a reformed reformer? + + + + + THE PUN. + + + Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, + Most rare and excellent bequest + Of dying idiot to the wit + He died of, rat-like, in a pit! + + Thyself disguised, in many a way + Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, + Adorning all where'er it turns, + As the revealing bull's-eye burns, + Of the dim thief, and plays its trick + Upon the lock he means to pick. + + Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear + As boldly as a brigadier + Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, + Of rank, brigade, division, corps, + To show by every means he can + An officer is not a man; + Or naked, with a lordly swagger, + Proud as a cur without a wagger, + Who says: "See simple worth prevail-- + All dog, sir--not a bit of tail!" + + 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, + As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. + + O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace + Of skeleton clock without a case-- + With all its boweling displayed, + And all its organs on parade. + + Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, + Where _Punch_ and I can meet and kiss; + Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r-- + No higher his does ever soar. + + + + + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. + + + O statesmen, what would you be at, + With torches, flags and bands? + You make me first throw up my hat, + And then my hands. + + + + + TO NANINE. + + + Dear, if I never saw your face again; + If all the music of your voice were mute + As that of a forlorn and broken lute; + If only in my dreams I might attain + The benediction of your touch, how vain + Were Faith to justify the old pursuit + Of happiness, or Reason to confute + The pessimist philosophy of pain. + Yet Love not altogether is unwise, + For still the wind would murmur in the corn, + And still the sun would splendor all the mere; + And I--I could not, dearest, choose but hear + Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes + Shine in the glory of the summer morn. + + + + + VICE VERSA. + + + Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, + A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, + Married a soldier--though the good Lord knows + That very common act scarce calls for mention. + What makes it worthy to be writ and read-- + The man she married had been nine hours dead! + + Now, marrying a corpse is not an act + Familiar to our daily observation, + And so I crave her pardon if the fact + Suggests this interesting speculation: + Should some mischance restore the man to life + Would she be then a widow, or a wife? + + Let casuists contest the point; I'm not + Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. + 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot + And drive me staring mad as any hatter-- + Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, + Sane, and all other human beings cracked. + + Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; + Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; + In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, + And think it of the Devil's own invention. + Enough of joy to know though when I wed + I _must_ be married, yet I _may_ be dead. + + + + + A BLACK-LIST. + + + "Resolved that we will post," the tradesmen say, + "All names of debtors who do never pay." + "Whose shall be first?" inquires the ready scribe-- + "Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?" + Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain, + Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane! + Within that temple all the names are scrolled + Of village bards upon a slab of gold; + To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire, + And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. + Yet not to total shame those names devote, + But add in mercy this explaining note: + "These cheat because the law makes theft a crime, + And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme." + + + + + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. + + + "Let music flourish!" So he said and died. + Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins: + The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide, + Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide-- + The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins! + + + + + AUTHORITY. + + + "Authority, authority!" they shout + Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt, + Some chance opinion ever entertain, + By dogma billeted upon their brain. + "Ha!" they exclaim with choreatic glee, + "Here's Dabster if you won't give in to me-- + Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look + With reverence!" The fellow wrote a book. + It matters not that many another wight + Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write + On t' other side--that you yourself possess + Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. + God help you if ambitious to persuade + The fools who take opinion ready-made + And "recognize authorities." Be sure + No tittle of their folly they'll abjure + For all that you can say. But write it down, + Publish and die and get a great renown-- + Faith! how they'll snap it up, misread, misquote, + Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote, + And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat! + + + + + THE PSORIAD. + + + The King of Scotland, years and years ago, + Convened his courtiers in a gallant row + And thus addressed them: + + "Gentle sirs, from you + Abundant counsel I have had, and true: + What laws to make to serve the public weal; + What laws of Nature's making to repeal; + What old religion is the only true one, + And what the greater merit of some new one; + What friends of yours my favor have forgot; + Which of your enemies against me plot. + In harvests ample to augment my treasures, + Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! + The punctual planets, to their periods just, + Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. + Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: + The grateful placemen bless their useful king! + But while you quaff the nectar of my favor + I mean somewhat to modify its flavor + By just infusing a peculiar dash + Of tonic bitter in the calabash. + And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, + Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it! + + "You know, you dogs, your master long has felt + A keen distemper in the royal pelt-- + A testy, superficial irritation, + Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. + For this a thousand simples you've prescribed-- + Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. + You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas + You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, + To brew me remedies which, in probation, + Were sovereign only in their application. + In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied + Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: + Physic and hope have been my daily food-- + I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood! + + "Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year + And tame the seasons in their mad career, + When set to higher purposes has failed me + And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. + Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech + His rivals' skill has labored to impeach + By hints equivocal in secret speech. + For years, to conquer our respective broils, + We've plied each other with pacific oils. + In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, + My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; + My life so wretched from your strife to save it + That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. + With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, + My subjects muster in contending ranks. + Those fling their banners to the startled breeze + To champion some royal ointment; these + The standard of some royal purge display + And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! + Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, + Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea! + My people perish in their martial fear, + And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear! + + "Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour + Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! + Behold this lotion, carefully compound + Of all the poisons you for me have found-- + Of biting washes such as tan the skin, + And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. + What aggravates an ailment will produce-- + I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! + Divided counsels you no more shall hatch-- + At last you shall unanimously scratch. + Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts--God bless us! + They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!" + + The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke, + From Arthur's Seat[1] confirming thunders broke. + The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned, + Sank to their knees, all piously inclined. + This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats, + The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes. + Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts + Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts, + Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses, + Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes. + The king advanced--then cursing fled amain + Dashing the phial to the stony plain + (Where't straight became a fountain brimming o'er, + Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store) + For lo! already on each back _sans_ stitch + The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch! + + [Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking Edinburgh.] + + + + + ONEIROMANCY. + + + I fell asleep and dreamed that I + Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky; + Like him was lamed--another part: + His leg was crippled and my heart. + I woke in time to see my love + Conceal a letter in her glove. + + + + + PEACE. + + + When lion and lamb have together lain down + Spectators cry out, all in chorus; + "The lamb doesn't shrink nor the lion frown-- + A miracle's working before us!" + + But 't is patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in, + And Faint-heart her terror and loathing; + For the one's but an ass in a lion's skin, + The other a wolf in sheep's clothing. + + + + + THANKSGIVING. + + + _The Superintendent of an Almshouse. A Pauper._ + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + So _you're_ unthankful--you'll not eat the bird? + You sit about the place all day and gird. + I understand you'll not attend the ball + That's to be given to-night in Pauper Hall. + + PAUPER: + + Why, that is true, precisely as you've heard: + I have no teeth and I will eat no bird. + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + Ah! see how good is Providence. Because + Of teeth He has denuded both your jaws + The fowl's made tender; you can overcome it + By suction; or at least--well, you can gum it, + Attesting thus the dictum of the preachers + That Providence is good to all His creatures-- + Turkeys excepted. Come, ungrateful friend, + If our Thanksgiving dinner you'll attend + You shall say grace--ask God to bless at least + The soft and liquid portions of the feast. + + PAUPER. + + Without those teeth my speech is rather thick-- + He'll hardly understand Gum Arabic. + No, I'll not dine to-day. As to the ball, + 'Tis known to you that I've no legs at all. + I had the gout--hereditary; so, + As it could not be cornered in my toe + They cut my legs off in the fond belief + That shortening me would make my anguish brief. + Lacking my legs I could not prosecute + With any good advantage a pursuit; + And so, because my father chose to court + Heaven's favor with his ortolans and Port + (Thanksgiving every day!) the Lord supplied + Saws for my legs, an almshouse for my pride + And, once a year, a bird for my inside. + No, I'll not dance--my light fantastic toe + Took to its heels some twenty years ago. + Some small repairs would be required for putting + My feelings on a saltatory footing. + + _(Sings)_ + + O the legless man's an unhappy chap-- + _Tum-hi, tum-hi, tum-he o'haddy._ + The favors o' fortune fall not in his lap-- + _Tum-hi, tum-heedle-do hum._ + The plums of office avoid his plate + No matter how much he may stump the State-- + _Tum-hi, ho-heeee._ + The grass grows never beneath his feet, + But he cannot hope to make both ends meet-- + _Tum-hi._ + With a gleeless eye and a somber heart, + He plays the role of his mortal part: + Wholly himself he can never be. + O, a soleless corporation is he! + _Tum_. + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + The chapel bell is calling, thankless friend, + Balls you may not, but church you _shall_, attend. + Some recognition cannot be denied + To the great mercy that has turned aside + The sword of death from us and let it fall + Upon the people's necks in Montreal; + That spared our city, steeple, roof and dome, + And drowned the Texans out of house and home; + Blessed all our continent with peace, to flood + The Balkan with a cataclysm of blood. + Compared with blessings of so high degree, + Your private woes look mighty small--to me. + + + + + L'AUDACE. + + + Daughter of God! Audacity divine-- + Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign-- + Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool, + Not thine of idiots the vocal drool: + Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass, + Presumption, actuates the charging ass. + Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings + Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings; + The notes should mount on pinions true and strong, + For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song, + Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng! + Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails, + They (notes, not angels) drop and the hymn fails; + The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs + Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums. + Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand + For stronger voices and a harder hand: + Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire, + And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire! + + + + + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. + + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Betook him to the place where sat + With folded feet upon a mat + Of precious stones beneath a palm, + In sweet and everlasting calm, + That ancient and immortal gent, + The God of Rational Content. + As tranquil and unmoved as Fate, + The deity reposed in state, + With palm to palm and sole to sole, + And beaded breast and beetling jowl, + And belly spread upon his thighs, + And costly diamonds for eyes. + As Chunder Sen approached and knelt + To show the reverence he felt; + Then beat his head upon the sod + To prove his fealty to the god; + And then by gestures signified + The other sentiments inside; + The god's right eye (as Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Half-fancied) grew by just a thought + More narrow than it truly ought. + Yet still that prince of devotees, + Persistent upon bended knees + And elbows bored into the earth, + Declared the god's exceeding worth, + And begged his favor. Then at last, + Within that cavernous and vast + Thoracic space was heard a sound + Like that of water underground-- + A gurgling note that found a vent + At mouth of that Immortal Gent + In such a chuckle as no ear + Had e'er been privileged to hear! + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest, greatest, best of men, + Heard with a natural surprise + That mighty midriff improvise. + And greater yet the marvel was + When from between those massive jaws + Fell words to make the views more plain + The god was pleased to entertain: + "Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen," + So ran the rede in speech of men-- + "Foremost of mortals in assent + To creed of Rational Content, + Why come you here to impetrate + A blessing on your scurvy pate? + Can you not rationally be + Content without disturbing me? + Can you not take a hint--a wink-- + Of what of all this rot I think? + Is laughter lost upon you quite, + To check you in your pious rite? + What! know you not we gods protest + That all religion is a jest? + You take me seriously?--you + About me make a great ado + (When I but wish to be alone) + With attitudes supine and prone, + With genuflexions and with prayers, + And putting on of solemn airs, + To draw my mind from the survey + Of Rational Content away! + Learn once for all, if learn you can, + This truth, significant to man: + A pious person is by odds + The one most hateful to the gods." + Then stretching forth his great right hand, + Which shadowed all that sunny land, + That deity bestowed a touch + Which Chunder Sen not overmuch + Enjoyed--a touch divine that made + The sufferer hear stars! They played + And sang as on Creation's morn + When spheric harmony was born. + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The most astonished man of men, + Fell straight asleep, and when he woke + The deity nor moved nor spoke, + But sat beneath that ancient palm + In sweet and everlasting calm. + + + + + THE AESTHETES. + + + The lily cranks, the lily cranks, + The loppy, loony lasses! + They multiply in rising ranks + To execute their solemn pranks, + They moon along in masses. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + The maiden ass, the maiden ass, + The tall and tailless jenny! + In limp attire as green as grass, + She stands, a monumental brass, + The one of one too many. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + + + + JULY FOURTH. + + + God said: "Let there be noise." The dawning fire + Of Independence gilded every spire. + + + + + WITH MINE OWN PETARD. + + + Time was the local poets sang their songs + Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs + I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke + Bards, like the conies, are "a feeble folk," + Fearing all noises but the one they make + Themselves--at which all other mortals quake. + Now from their cracked and disobedient throats, + Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes + Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves, + If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves; + As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all + The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall. + A year's exemption from the critic's curse + Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse. + Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night, + Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight, + Or by the sudden plashing of a stone + From some adjacent cottage garden thrown, + But straight renew the song with double din + Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in. + Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched, + My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached) + Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass, + Accomplishing my body all in brass, + And arm in battle royal to oppose + A village poet singing through the nose, + Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums + With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs? + No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before + And stilled their songs--but, Satan! how they swore!-- + Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats + They cleared for action with their sweetest notes; + Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine) + And damned them roundly all along the line; + Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes, + A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes! + What gained I so? I feathered every curse + Launched at the village bards with lilting verse. + The town approved and christened me (to show its + High admiration) Chief of Local Poets! + + + + + CONSTANCY. + + + Dull were the days and sober, + The mountains were brown and bare, + For the season was sad October + And a dirge was in the air. + + The mated starlings flew over + To the isles of the southern sea. + She wept for her warrior lover-- + Wept and exclaimed: "Ah, me! + + "Long years have I mourned my darling + In his battle-bed at rest; + And it's O, to be a starling, + With a mate to share my nest!" + + The angels pitied her sorrow, + Restoring her warrior's life; + And he came to her arms on the morrow + To claim her and take her to wife. + + An aged lover--a portly, + Bald lover, a trifle too stiff, + With manners that would have been courtly, + And would have been graceful, if-- + + If the angels had only restored him + Without the additional years + That had passed since the enemy bored him + To death with their long, sharp spears. + + As it was, he bored her, and she rambled + Away with her father's young groom, + And the old lover smiled as he ambled + Contentedly back to the tomb. + + + + + SIRES AND SONS. + + + Wild wanton Luxury lays waste the land + With difficulty tilled by Thrift's hard hand! + Then dies the State!--and, in its carcass found, + The millionaires, all maggot-like, abound. + Alas! was it for this that Warren died, + And Arnold sold himself to t' other side, + Stark piled at Bennington his British dead, + And Gates at Camden, Lee at Monmouth, fled?-- + For this that Perry did the foeman fleece, + And Hull surrender to preserve the peace? + Degenerate countrymen, renounce, I pray, + The slothful ease, the luxury, the gay + And gallant trappings of this idle life, + And be more fit for one another's wife. + + + + + A CHALLENGE. + + + A bull imprisoned in a stall + Broke boldly the confining wall, + And found himself, when out of bounds, + Within a washerwoman's grounds. + Where, hanging on a line to dry, + A crimson skirt inflamed his eye. + With bellowings that woke the dead, + He bent his formidable head, + With pointed horns and gnarly forehead; + Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, + Began, with rage made half insane, + To paw the arid earth amain, + Flinging the dust upon his flanks + In desolating clouds and banks, + The while his eyes' uneasy white + Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright + Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight. + The garment, which, all undismayed, + Had never paled a single shade, + Now found a tongue--a dangling sock, + Left carelessly inside the smock: + "I must insist, my gracious liege, + That you'll be pleased to raise the siege: + My colors I will never strike. + I know your sex--you're all alike. + Some small experience I've had-- + You're not the first I've driven mad." + + + + + TWO SHOWS. + + + The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!) + Parades a "School of Educated Apes!" + Small education's needed, I opine, + Or native wit, to make a monkey shine; + The brute exhibited has naught to do + But ape the larger apes who come to view-- + The hoodlum with his horrible grimace, + Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace, + Significant reminders of the time + When hunters, not policemen, made him climb; + The lady loafer with her draggling "trail," + That free translation of an ancient tail; + The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit, + Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot; + The painted actress throwing down the gage + To elder artists of the sylvan stage, + Proving that in the time of Noah's flood + Two ape-skins held her whole profession's blood; + The critic waiting, like a hungry pup, + To write the school--perhaps to eat it--up, + As chance or luck occasion may reveal + To earn a dollar or maraud a meal. + To view the school of apes these creatures go, + Unconscious that themselves are half the show. + These, if the simian his course but trim + To copy them as they have copied him, + Will call him "educated." Of a verity + There's much to learn by study of posterity. + + + + + A POET'S HOPE. + + + 'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal + Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead. + He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding, + As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said. + + "Sacred stranger"--I addressed him with a reverence befitting + The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore; + 'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing + One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"-- + + "Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection, + But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread. + How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander + By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?" + + Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making, + Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye + On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy, + Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply: + + "O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit-- + I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head. + I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal + To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed. + + "Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me + And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more. + For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me, + Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'" + + Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection, + For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog. + So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman + Can appreciate the fashion of your merit--buy a dog." + + + + + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. + + + When Man and Woman had been made, + All but the disposition, + The Devil to the workshop strayed, + And somehow gained admission. + + The Master rested from his work, + For this was on a Sunday, + The man was snoring like a Turk, + Content to wait till Monday. + + "Too bad!" the Woman cried; "Oh, why, + Does slumber not benumb me? + A disposition! Oh, I die + To know if 'twill become me!" + + The Adversary said: "No doubt + 'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am, + Though sure 'tis long to be without-- + I beg to lend you mine, ma'am." + + The Devil's disposition when + She'd got, of course she wore it, + For she'd no disposition then, + Nor now has, to restore it. + + + + + TWO ROGUES. + + + Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost, + The sentry occupied his post, + To all the stirrings of the night + Alert of ear and sharp of sight. + A sudden something--sight or sound, + About, above, or underground, + He knew not what, nor where--ensued, + Thrilling the sleeping solitude. + The soldier cried: "Halt! Who goes there?" + The answer came: "Death--in the air." + "Advance, Death--give the countersign, + Or perish if you cross that line!" + To change his tone Death thought it wise-- + Reminded him they 'd been allies + Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk, + In many a bloody bit of work. + "In short," said he, "in every weather + We've soldiered, you and I, together." + The sentry would not let him pass. + "Go back," he growled, "you tiresome ass-- + Go back and rest till the next war, + Nor kill by methods all abhor: + Miasma, famine, filth and vice, + With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice, + Foul food, foul water, and foul gases, + Rank exhalations from morasses. + If you employ such low allies + This business you will vulgarize. + Renouncing then the field of fame + To wallow in a waste of shame, + I'll prostitute my strength and lurk + About the country doing work-- + These hands to labor I'll devote, + Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!" + + + + + BEECHER. + + + So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too-- + Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds + Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds + That man has ever taught and never knew. + + When on this mighty instrument He laid + His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan + Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone + Grew more vivacious when the Devil played. + + No more those luring harmonies we hear, + And lo! already men forget the sound. + They turn, retracing all the dubious ground + O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear. + + + + + NOT GUILTY. + + + "I saw your charms in another's arms," + Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil; + "And he kissed you fair as he held you there, + A willing bird in a serpent's coil!" + + The maid looked up from the cinctured cup + Wherein she was crushing the berries red, + Pain and surprise in her honest eyes-- + "It was only one o' those gods," she said. + + + + + PRESENTIMENT. + + + With saintly grace and reverent tread, + She walked among the graves with me; + Her every foot-fall seemed to be + A benediction on the dead. + + The guardian spirit of the place + She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn + Surprised in the untimely morn + She made with her resplendent face. + + Moved by some waywardness of will, + Three paces from the path apart + She stepped and stood--my prescient heart + Was stricken with a passing chill. + + The folk-lore of the years agone + Remembering, I smiled and thought: + "Who shudders suddenly at naught, + His grave is being trod upon." + + But now I know that it was more + Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, + I did not think such little feet + Could make a buried heart so sore! + + + + + A STUDY IN GRAY. + + + I step from the door with a shiver + (This fog is uncommonly cold) + And ask myself: What did I give her?-- + The maiden a trifle gone-old, + With the head of gray hair that was gold. + + Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, + And doubtless the change is correct, + Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller + Than what I'd a right to expect. + But you pay when you dine, I reflect. + + So I walk up the street--'twas a saunter + A score of years back, when I strolled + From this door; and our talk was all banter + Those days when her hair was of gold, + And the sea-fog less searching and cold. + + I button my coat (for I'm shaken, + And fevered a trifle, and flushed + With the wine that I ought to have taken,) + Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, + Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed. + + A score? Why, that isn't so very + Much time to have lost from a life. + There's reason enough to be merry: + I've not fallen down in the strife, + But marched with the drum and the fife. + + If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, + Had pushed at my shoulders instead, + And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, + Had laureled the worthiest head, + I could garland the years that are dead. + + Believe me, I've held my own, mostly + Through all of this wild masquerade; + But somehow the fog is more ghostly + To-night, and the skies are more grayed, + Like the locks of the restaurant maid. + + If ever I'd fainted and faltered + I'd fancy this did but appear; + But the climate, I'm certain, has altered-- + Grown colder and more austere + Than it was in that earlier year. + + The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, + That lead from the street to the quay. + I think they'll go out--and I'm ready + To follow. Out there in the sea + The fog-bell is calling to me. + + + + + A PARADOX. + + + "If life were not worth having," said the preacher, + "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature." + "An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: + What's not worth having cannot be worth taking." + + + + + FOR MERIT. + + + To Parmentier Parisians raise + A statue fine and large: + He cooked potatoes fifty ways, + Nor ever led a charge. + + "_Palmam qui meruit"_--the rest + You knew as well as I; + And best of all to him that best + Of sayings will apply. + + Let meaner men the poet's bays + Or warrior's medal wear; + Who cooks potatoes fifty ways + Shall bear the palm--de terre. + + + + + A BIT OF SCIENCE. + + + What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream + And he who dreams it is not overwise, + If colors are vibration they but seem, + And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, + Why, come, then--photograph my lady's eyes. + Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, + As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, + To naught but vibratory motion's due, + As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest. + How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making + In me so uncontrollable a shaking? + + + + THE TABLES TURNED. + + + Over the man the street car ran, + And the driver did never grin. + "O killer of men, pray tell me when + Your laughter means to begin. + + "Ten years to a day I've observed you slay, + And I never have missed before + Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels + Were spattered with human gore. + + "Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy, + And why do you make no sign + Of the merry mind that is dancing behind + A solemner face than mine?" + + The driver replied: "I would laugh till I cried + If I had bisected you; + But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain, + 'T is myself that I've cut in two." + + + + + TO A DEJECTED POET. + + + Thy gift, if that it be of God, + Thou hast no warrant to appraise, + Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways, + The road too stony to be trod." + + Not thine to call the labor hard + And the reward inadequate. + Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate + Is better bargainer than bard. + + What! count the effort labor lost + When thy good angel holds the reed? + It were a sorry thing indeed + To stay him till thy palm be crossed. + + "The laborer is worthy"--nay, + The sacred ministry of song + Is rapture!--'t were a grievous wrong + To fix a wages-rate for play. + + + + + A FOOL. + + + Says Anderson, Theosophist: + "Among the many that exist + In modern halls, + Some lived in ancient Egypt's clime + And in their childhood saw the prime + Of Karnak's walls." + + Ah, Anderson, if that is true + 'T is my conviction, sir, that you + Are one of those + That once resided by the Nile, + Peer to the sacred Crocodile, + Heir to his woes. + + My judgment is, the holy Cat + Mews through your larynx (and your hat) + These many years. + Through you the godlike Onion brings + Its melancholy sense of things, + And moves to tears. + + In you the Bull divine again + Bellows and paws the dusty plain, + To nature true. + I challenge not his ancient hate + But, lowering my knurly pate, + Lock horns with you. + + And though Reincarnation prove + A creed too stubborn to remove, + And all your school + Of Theosophs I cannot scare-- + All the more earnestly I swear + That you're a fool. + + You'll say that this is mere abuse + Without, in fraying you, a use. + That's plain to see + With only half an eye. Come, now, + Be fair, be fair,--consider how + It eases _me_! + + + + + THE HUMORIST. + + + "What is that, mother?" + "The funny man, child. + His hands are black, but his heart is mild." + + "May I touch him, mother?" + "'T were foolishly done: + He is slightly touched already, my son." + + "O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?" + "That's the outward sign of a joke within." + + "Will he crack it, mother?" + "Not so, my saint; + 'T is meant for the _Saturday Livercomplaint."_ + + "Does he suffer, mother?" + "God help him, yes!-- + A thousand and fifty kinds of distress." + + "What makes him sweat so?" + "The demons that lurk + In the fear of having to go to work." + + "Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?" + "Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope." + + + + + MONTEFIORE. + + + I saw--'twas in a dream, the other night-- + A man whose hair with age was thin and white: + One hundred years had bettered by his birth, + And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. + + Before him and about him pressed a crowd. + Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, + And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues + Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud. + + I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, + "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied + In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er + To want and worth had charity denied. + + So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan + He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan + A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, + And in a moment was a lonely man! + + + + + A WARNING. + + + Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!-- + The distance hither's brief indeed." + But Youth pressed on without delay-- + The shout had reached but half the way. + + + + + DISCRETION. + + + SHE: + + I'm told that men have sometimes got + Too confidential, and + Have said to one another what + They--well, you understand. + I hope I don't offend you, sweet, + But are you sure that _you're_ discreet? + + HE: + + 'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine + Their conquests _do_ recall, + But none can truly say that mine + Are known to him at all. + I never, never talk you o'er-- + In truth, I never get the floor. + + + + + AN EXILE. + + + 'Tis the census enumerator + A-singing all forlorn: + It's ho! for the tall potater, + And ho! for the clustered corn. + The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine + Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine. + + "Some there must be to till the soil + And the widow's weeds keep down. + I wasn't cut out for rural toil + But they _won't_ let me live in town! + They 're not so many by two or three, + As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me." + + Thus the census man, bowed down with care, + Warbled his wood-note high. + There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair, + But he had no blood in his eye. + + + + + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. + + + Baffled he stands upon the track-- + The automatic switches clack. + + Where'er he turns his solemn eyes + The interlocking signals rise. + + The trains, before his visage pale, + Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail. + + No splinter-spitted victim he + Hears uttering the note high C. + + In sorrow deep he hangs his head, + A-weary--would that he were dead. + + Now suddenly his spirits rise-- + A great thought kindles in his eyes. + + Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare, + Splendors the path of his despair. + + His genius shines, the clouds roll back-- + "I'll place obstructions on the track!" + + + + + PSYCHOGRAPHS. + + + Says Gerald Massey: "When I write, a band + Of souls of the departed guides my hand." + How strange that poems cumbering our shelves, + Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves! + + + + + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. + + + Newman, in you two parasites combine: + As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine. + When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt, + The pride of residence was all you felt + (What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knew + To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?) + And when the praises of the dead you've sung, + 'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue; + As ill-bred men when warming to their wine + Boast of its merit though it be but brine. + Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should-- + Even charity would shun you if she could. + You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole, + But what you get you take by way of toll. + Vain to resist you--vermifuge alone + Has power to push you from your robber throne. + When to escape you he's compelled to die + Hey! presto!--in the twinkling of an eye + You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear + As graveworm and resume your curst career. + As host no more, to satisfy your need + He serves as dinner your unaltered greed. + O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame, + Son of servility and priest of shame, + While naught your mad ambition can abate + To lick the spittle of the rich and great; + While still like smoke your eulogies arise + To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes; + While still with holy oil, like that which ran + Down Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man, + I cannot choose but think it very odd + It ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God. + + + + + FOR WOUNDS. + + + O bear me, gods, to some enchanted isle + Where woman's tears can antidote her smile. + + + + + ELECTION DAY. + + + Despots effete upon tottering thrones + Unsteadily poised upon dead men's bones, + Walk up! walk up! the circus is free, + And this wonderful spectacle you shall see: + Millions of voters who mostly are fools-- + Demagogues' dupes and candidates' tools, + Armies of uniformed mountebanks, + And braying disciples of brainless cranks. + Many a week they've bellowed like beeves, + Bitterly blackguarding, lying like thieves, + Libeling freely the quick and the dead + And painting the New Jerusalem red. + Tyrants monarchical--emperors, kings, + Princes and nobles and all such things-- + Noblemen, gentlemen, step this way: + There's nothing, the Devil excepted, to pay, + And the freaks and curios here to be seen + Are very uncommonly grand and serene. + + No more with vivacity they debate, + Nor cheerfully crack the illogical pate; + No longer, the dull understanding to aid, + The stomach accepts the instructive blade, + Nor the stubborn heart learns what is what + From a revelation of rabbit-shot; + And vilification's flames--behold! + Burn with a bickering faint and cold. + + Magnificent spectacle!--every tongue + Suddenly civil that yesterday rung + (Like a clapper beating a brazen bell) + Each fair reputation's eternal knell; + Hands no longer delivering blows, + And noses, for counting, arrayed in rows. + + Walk up, gentlemen--nothing to pay-- + The Devil goes back to Hell to-day. + + + + + THE MILITIAMAN. + + + "O warrior with the burnished arms-- + With bullion cord and tassel-- + Pray tell me of the lurid charms + Of service and the fierce alarms: + The storming of the castle, + The charge across the smoking field, + The rifles' busy rattle-- + What thoughts inspire the men who wield + The blade--their gallant souls how steeled + And fortified in battle." + + "Nay, man of peace, seek not to know + War's baleful fascination-- + The soldier's hunger for the foe, + His dread of safety, joy to go + To court annihilation. + Though calling bugles blow not now, + Nor drums begin to beat yet, + One fear unmans me, I'll allow, + And poisons all my pleasure: How + If I should get my feet wet!" + + + + + "A LITERARY METHOD." + + + His poems Riley says that he indites + Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers, + Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writes + Upon his empty stomach empties ours! + + + + + A WELCOME. + + + Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and + There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,-- + Because you thus by vain pretense degrade + To paltry purposes traditions grand,-- + + Because to cheat the ignorant you say + The thing that's not, elated still to sway + The crass credulity of gaping fools + And women by fantastical display,-- + + Because no sacred fires did ever warm + Your hearts, high knightly service to perform-- + A woman's breast or coffer of a man + The only citadel you dare to storm,-- + + Because while railing still at lord and peer, + At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer, + Each member of your order tries to graft + A peacock's tail upon his barren rear,-- + + Because that all these things are thus and so, + I bid you welcome to our city. Lo! + You're free to come, and free to stay, and free + As soon as it shall please you, sirs--to go. + + + + + A SERENADE. + + + "Sas agapo sas agapo," + He sang beneath her lattice. + "'Sas agapo'?" she murmured--"O, + I wonder, now, what _that_ is!" + + Was she less fair that she did bear + So light a load of knowledge? + Are loving looks got out of books, + Or kisses taught in college? + + Of woman's lore give me no more + Than how to love,--in many + A tongue men brawl: she speaks them all + Who says "I love," in any. + + + + + THE WISE AND GOOD. + + + "O father, I saw at the church as I passed + The populace gathered in numbers so vast + That they couldn't get in; and their voices were low, + And they looked as if suffering terrible woe." + + "'Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead + For whom the great heart of humanity bled." + + "What made it bleed, father, for every day + Somebody passes forever away? + Do the newspaper men print a column or more + Of every person whose troubles are o'er?" + + "O, no; they could never do that--and indeed, + Though printers might print it, no reader would read. + To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne, + But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn." + + "That's right, father dear, but how can our eyes + Distinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?" + + "That's easy enough to the stupidest mind: + They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind." + + "Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green? + And takest thy son for a gaping marine? + Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the Good + Who are poor and lamented to babes in the wood." + + And that horrible youth as I hastened away + Was building a wink that affronted the day. + + + + + THE LOST COLONEL. + + + "'Tis a woeful yarn," said the sailor man bold + Who had sailed the northern-lakes-- + "No woefuler one has ever been told + Exceptin' them called 'fakes.'" + + "Go on, thou son of the wind and fog, + For I burn to know the worst!" + But his silent lip in a glass of grog + Was dreamily immersed. + + Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said: + "It's never like that I drinks + But what of the gallant gent that's dead + I truly mournful thinks. + + "He was a soldier chap--leastways + As 'Colonel' he was knew; + An' he hailed from some'rs where they raise + A grass that's heavenly blue. + + "He sailed as a passenger aboard + The schooner 'Henery Jo.' + O wild the waves and galeses roared, + Like taggers in a show! + + "But he sat at table that calm an' mild + As if he never had let + His sperit know that the waves was wild + An' everlastin' wet!-- + + "Jest set with a bottle afore his nose, + As was labeled 'Total Eclipse' + (The bottle was) an' he frequent rose + A glass o' the same to his lips. + + "An' he says to me (for the steward slick + Of the 'Henery Jo' was I): + 'This sailor life's the very old Nick-- + On the lakes it's powerful dry!' + + "I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch. + I hopes you'll outlast the trip.' + But if I'd been him--an' I said as much-- + I'd 'a' took a faster ship. + + "His laughture, loud an' long an' free, + Rang out o'er the tempest's roar. + 'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he, + 'But it's powerful dry ashore!'" + + "O mariner man, why pause and don + A look of so deep concern? + Have another glass--go on, go on, + For to know the worst I burn." + + "One day he was leanin' over the rail, + When his footing some way slipped, + An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale), + He was accidental unshipped! + + "The empty boats was overboard hove, + As he swum in the 'Henery's wake'; + But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had drove + From sight on the ragin' lake!" + + "And so the poor gentleman was drowned-- + And now I'm apprised of the worst." + "What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found-- + In the yawl--stone dead o' thirst!" + + + + + FOR TAT. + + + O, heavenly powers! will wonders never cease?-- + Hair upon dogs and feathers upon geese! + The boys in mischief and the pigs in mire! + The drinking water wet! the coal on fire! + In meadows, rivulets surpassing fair, + Forever running, yet forever there! + A tail appended to the gray baboon! + A person coming out of a saloon! + Last, and of all most marvelous to see, + A female Yahoo flinging filth at me! + If 'twould but stick I'd bear upon my coat + May Little's proof that she is fit to vote. + + + + + A DILEMMA. + + + Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, + For years I criticised their prose and verges: + Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, + Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then + Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! + + They said: "That's all that he can do--just sneer, + And pull to pieces and be analytic. + Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear, + Publish a book or two, and so appear + As one who has the right to be a critic? + + "Let him who knows it all forbear to tell + How little others know, but show his learning." + The public added: "Who has written well + May censure freely"--quoting Pope. I fell + Into the trap and books began out-turning,-- + + Books by the score--fine prose and poems fair, + And not a book of them but was a terror, + They were so great and perfect; though I swear + I tried right hard to work in, here and there, + (My nature still forbade) a fault or error. + + 'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, + Professed to find--but that's a trifling matter. + Now, when the flood of noble books was out + I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout, + Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! + + (Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. + 'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em, + But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad + We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, + They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!) + + "Consistency, thou art a"--well, you're _paste_! + When next I felt my demon in possession, + And made the field of authorship a waste, + All said of me: "What execrable taste, + To rail at others of his own profession!" + + Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin + Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, + And hears a voice from Heaven say: "Pitch in"? + He finds himself--alas, poor son of sin-- + Between the devil and the deep blue ocean! + + + + + METEMPSYCHOSIS. + + + Once with Christ he entered Salem, + Once in Moab bullied Balaam, + Once by Apuleius staged + He the pious much enraged. + And, again, his head, as beaver, + Topped the neck of Nick the Weaver. + Omar saw him (minus tether-- + Free and wanton as the weather: + Knowing naught of bit or spur) + Stamping over Bahram-Gur. + Now, as Altgeld, see him joy + As Governor of Illinois! + + + + + THE SAINT AND THE MONK. + + + Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed + The tools and terrors of his awful trade; + The key, the frown as pitiless as night, + That slays intending trespassers at sight, + And, at his side in easy reach, the curled + Interrogation points all ready to be hurled. + + Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced + No others were about) a soul advanced-- + A fat, orbicular and jolly soul + With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl-- + A monk so prepossessing that the saint + Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint, + Forgot his frown and all his questions too, + Forgoing even the customary "Who?"-- + Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin, + Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in." + + The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please-- + Who's in there?" By insensible degrees + The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem, + As growing snores annihilate a dream. + The frown began to blacken on his brow, + His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?" + "O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained; + "I'm rather--well, particular. I've strained + A point in coming here at all; 'tis said + That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead + At last) and all her followers are here. + As company, they'd be--confess it--rather queer." + + The saint replied, his rising anger past: + "What can I do?--the law is hard-and-fast, + Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown-- + An oral order issued from the Throne. + By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred + God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd." + + That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile, + Said, slowly turning on his heel the while: + "Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar-- + I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are." + + 1895. + + + + + THE OPPOSING SEX. + + + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing: + "No longer the 'masher' + Sees Widows of Ashur!" + So each is a lasher + Of Man's smallest failing. + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing. + + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling-- + No wooing can gull 'em + In Cave of Adullam. + No angel can lull 'em + To cease their defiling + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling. + + At men they are cursing-- + The Widows of Ashur; + Themselves, too, for nursing + The men they are cursing. + The praise they're rehearsing + Of every slasher + At men. _They_ are cursing + The Widows of Ashur. + + + + +A WHIPPER-IN. + +[Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and +declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not +regularly attend.--_N.Y. World.]_ + + + Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note, + Worthy of honor from a feeble pen + Blunted in service of all true, good men, + You serve the Lord--in courses, _table d'hôte: + Au, naturel,_ as well as _à la Nick_-- + "Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick." + + O, truly pious caterer, forbear + To push the Saviour and Him crucified + _(Brochette_ you'd call it) into their inside + Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare. + The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion + Of aught that it has taken on compulsion. + + I search the Scriptures, but I do not find + That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings + For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings + To charm away the scruples of the mind. + It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"-- + Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell! + + Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true: + We cower timidly beneath the rod + Lifted in menace by an angry God, + But won't endure it from an ape like you. + Detested simian with thumb prehensile, + Switch _me_ and I would brain you with my pencil! + + Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back + On its transplendency to flog some wight + Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night + Your ugly shadow lays along his track. + O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin, + Behold what rascals try to scourge it in! + + + + + JUDGMENT. + + + I drew aside the Future's veil + And saw upon his bier + The poet Whitman. Loud the wail + And damp the falling tear. + + "He's dead--he is no more!" one cried, + With sobs of sorrow crammed; + "No more? He's this much more," replied + Another: "he is damned!" + + 1885. + + + + + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. + + + Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand, + Played accordions as well as any lady in the land; + And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was such + That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch; + And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang + That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang. + This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine, + Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine. + She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet + When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet-- + Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung + As to overtax the strength of any single human lung. + That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell, + Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell. + + One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smart + A chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part. + Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrude + It was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude. + Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to see + That he _was_ a real Gent of an uncommon high degree. + That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regards + On this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards; + But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blind + To her many charms of person and the merits of her mind, + And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad, + And acted in a manner that in general was bad. + + One evening--'twas in summer--she was holding in her lap + Her accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap, + Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued, + Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude. + + Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to hum + And elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb. + Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled, + And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed. + "In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impassioned strain, + And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain, + Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round, + And going into session strove to magnify the sound. + He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rang + With the song that to _his_ darling he impetuously sang! + Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes, + Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines, + From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog, + Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog." + + + + + IN HIGH LIFE. + + + Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea, + Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee. + The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare; + The fashion, the rank and the wealth were all there-- + No person was absent of all whom one meets. + Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, + While good Sir John Satan attended the door + And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor, + Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, + Preserving the peace between poodle and pug. + Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle + To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; + Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom + To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom. + The rites were performed by the hand and the lip + Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, + Assisted by three able-bodied divines. + He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs. + Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such grace + Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place! + That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, + Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride. + + + + + A BUBBLE. + + + Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore + Was a dame of superior mind, + With a gown which, modestly fitting before, + Was greatly puffed up behind. + + The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned + With an inspiration bright: + It magnified seven diameters and + Was remarkably nice and light. + + It was made of rubber and edged with lace + And riveted all with brass, + And the whole immense interior space + Inflated with hydrogen gas. + + The ladies all said when she hove in view + Like the round and rising moon: + "She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true, + And men called her the Captive Balloon. + + To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day + She went and she said: "O dear! + If I leave off _this_ what will people say? + I shall look so uncommonly queer!" + + So a costume she had accordingly made + To take it all nicely in, + And when she appeared in that suit arrayed, + She was greeted with many a grin. + + Proudly and happily looking around, + She waded out into the wet, + But the water was very, very profound, + And her feet and her forehead met! + + As her bubble drifted away from the shore, + On the glassy billows borne, + All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore? + I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!" + + Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot, + Till it burst with a sullen roar, + And the sea like oil closed over the spot-- + Farewell, O Mehitable Moore! + + + + + A RENDEZVOUS. + + + Nightly I put up this humble petition: + "Forgive me, O Father of Glories, + My sins of commission, my sins of omission, + My sins of the Mission Dolores." + + + + + FRANCINE. + + + Did I believe the angels soon would call + You, my beloved, to the other shore, + And I should never see you any more, + I love you so I know that I should fall + Into dejection utterly, and all + Love's pretty pageantry, wherein we bore + Twin banners bravely in the tumult's fore, + Would seem as shadows idling on a wall. + So daintily I love you that my love + Endures no rumor of the winter's breath, + And only blossoms for it thinks the sky + Forever gracious, and the stars above + Forever friendly. Even the fear of death + Were frost wherein its roses all would die. + + + + + AN EXAMPLE. + + + They were two deaf mutes, and they loved and they + Resolved to be groom and bride; + And they listened to nothing that any could say, + Nor ever a word replied. + + From wedlock when warned by the married men, + Maintain an invincible mind: + Be deaf and dumb until wedded--and then + Be deaf and dumb and blind. + + + + + REVENGE. + + + A spitcat sate on a garden gate + And a snapdog fared beneath; + Careless and free was his mien, and he + Held a fiddle-string in his teeth. + + She marked his march, she wrought an arch + Of her back and blew up her tail; + And her eyes were green as ever were seen, + And she uttered a woful wail. + + The spitcat's plaint was as follows: "It ain't + That I am to music a foe; + For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside, + And I twang them soft and low. + + "But that dog has trifled with art and rifled + A kitten of mine, ah me! + That catgut slim was marauded from him: + 'Tis the string that men call E." + + + Then she sounded high, in the key of Y, + A note that cracked the tombs; + And the missiles through the firmament flew + From adjacent sleeping-rooms. + + As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell + She followed it down to earth; + And that snapdog wears a placard that bears + The inscription: "Blind from birth." + + + + + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. + + + When Adam first saw Eve he said: + "O lovely creature, share my bed." + Before consenting, she her gaze + Fixed on the greensward to appraise, + As well as vision could avouch, + The value of the proffered couch. + And seeing that the grass was green + And neatly clipped with a machine-- + Observing that the flow'rs were rare + Varieties, and some were fair, + The posts of precious woods, besprent + With fragrant balsams, diffluent, + And all things suited to her worth, + She raised her angel eyes from earth + To his and, blushing to confess, + Murmured: "I love you, Adam--yes." + Since then her daughters, it is said, + Look always down when asked to wed. + + + + + IN CONTUMACIAM. + + + Och! Father McGlynn, + Ye appear to be in + Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; + An' there's divil a doubt + But he's knockin' ye out + While ye're hangin' onto the rope. + + An' soon ye'll lave home + To thravel to Rome, + For its bound to Canossa ye are. + Persistin' to shtay + When ye're ordered away-- + Bedad! that is goin' too far! + + + + + RE-EDIFIED. + + + Lord of the tempest, pray refrain + From leveling this church again. + Now in its doom, as so you've willed it, + We acquiesce. But _you'll_ rebuild it. + + + + + A BULLETIN. + + + "Lothario is very low," + So all the doctors tell. + Nay, nay, not _so_--he will be, though, + If ever he get well. + + + + + FROM THE MINUTES. + + + When, with the force of a ram that discharges its ponderous body + Straight at the rear elevation of the luckless culler of simples, + The foot of Herculean Kilgore--statesman of surname suggestive + Or carnage unspeakable!--lit like a missile prodigious + Upon the Congressional door with a monstrous and mighty momentum, + Causing that vain ineffective bar to political freedom + To fly from its hinges, effacing the nasal excrescence of Dingley, + That luckless one, decently veiling the ruin with ready bandanna, + Lamented the loss of his eminence, sadly with sobs as follows: + "Ah, why was I ever elected to the halls of legislation, + So soon to be shown the door with pitiless emphasis? Truly, + I've leaned on a broken Reed, and the same has gone back on me meanly. + Where now is my prominence, erstwhile in council conspicuous, patent? + Alas, I did never before understand what I now see clearly, + To wit, that Democracy tends to level all human distinctions!" + His fate so untoward and sad the Pine-tree statesman, bewailing, + Stood in the corridor there while Democrats freed from confinement + Came trooping forth from the chamber, dissembling all, as they passed him, + Hilarious sentiments painful indeed to observe, and remarking: + "O friend and colleague of the Speaker, what ails the unjoyous proboscis?" + + + + + WOMAN IN POLITICS. + + + What, madam, run for School Director? You? + And want my vote and influence? Well, well, + That beats me! Gad! where _are_ we drifting to? + In all my life I never have heard tell + Of such sublime presumption, and I smell + A nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam; + We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam. + + But now you mention it--well, well, who knows? + We might, that's certain, give the sex a show. + I have a cousin--teacher. I suppose + If I stand in and you 're elected--no? + You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go! + But understand that school administration + Belongs to Politics, not Education. + + We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wise + To understand each other at the start. + You know my business--books and school supplies; + You'd hardly, if elected, have the heart + Some small advantage to deny me--part + Of all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing? + Please don't express yourself with so much feeling. + + You pain me, truly. Now one question more. + Suppose a fair young man should ask a place + As teacher--would you (pardon) shut the door + Of the Department in his handsome face + Until--I know not how to put the case-- + Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor? + Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver. + + Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect: + A woman has no head for useful tricks. + My profitable offers you reject + And will not promise anything to fix + The opposition. That's not politics. + Good morning. Stay--I'm chaffing you, conceitedly. + Madam, I mean to vote for you--repeatedly. + + + + + TO AN ASPIRANT. + + + What! you a Senator--you, Mike de Young? + Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung? + Sir, if all Senators were such as you, + Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,-- + (Shaped to the pocket for commercial work, + For literary, fitted to the dirk)-- + So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers, + The toga's touch would give a man the shivers. + + + + + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. + + + Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives, + And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives, + Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame-- + The assassinating wassail that has given him his name; + Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen + To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green, + While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread + With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head; + Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun, + And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run, + Lived a colony of settlers--old Missouri was the State + Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date. + + Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme + Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream. + + The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free, + And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea. + So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce, + And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use-- + Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day, + Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way. + Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God create + Such a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state? + + Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he; + With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree; + So he knelt upon the _mesa_ and he prayed with all his chin + That the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin. + + Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land, + And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand! + Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birth + Fitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth. + Astounded by the miracle, the people met that night + To celebrate it properly by some religious rite; + And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunk + Every man and every woman was devotionally drunk. + A half a standard gallon (says history) per head + Of the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed. + O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk. + By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke! + Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye, + And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky! + Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass, + Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass. + Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way, + To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say, + Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop, + To the head of population--and consumes it, every drop! + + + + + A BUILDER. + + + I saw the devil--he was working free: + A customs-house he builded by the sea. + "Why do you this?" The devil raised his head; + "Churches and courts I've built enough," he said. + + + + + AN AUGURY. + + + Upon my desk a single spray, + With starry blossoms fraught. + I write in many an idle way, + Thinking one serious thought. + + "O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear, + And with a fine Greek grace." + Be still, O heart, that turns to share + The sunshine of a face. + + "Have ye no messages--no brief, + Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?" + A sudden stir of stem and leaf-- + A breath of heliotrope! + + + + + LUSUS POLITICUS. + + + Come in, old gentleman. How do you do? + Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called. + I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you + Are a pleasant-appearing person, too, + With a head agreeably bald. + That's right--sit down in the scuttle of coal + And put up your feet in a chair. + It is better to have them there: + And I've always said that a hat of lead, + Such as I see you wear, + Was a better hat than a hat of glass. + And your boots of brass + Are a natural kind of boots, I swear. + "May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?" + Why, certainly, man, why not? + I rather expected you'd do it before, + When I saw you poking it in at the door. + It's dev'lish hot-- + The weather, I mean. "You are twins"? + Why, that was evident at the start, + From the way that you paint your head + In stripes of purple and red, + With dots of yellow. + That proves you a fellow + With a love of legitimate art. + "You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"? + That's very sad, + But Longfellow's words I beg to recall: + Your lot is the common lot of all. + "Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"? + That, I fancy, is just as you please. + Some think that way and others hold + The opposite view; + I never quite knew, + For the matter o' that, + When everything's been said-- + May I offer this mat + If you _will_ stand on your head? + I suppose I look to be upside down + From your present point of view. + It's a giddy old world, from king to clown, + And a topsy-turvy, too. + But, worthy and now uninverted old man, + _You're_ built, at least, on a normal plan + If ever a truth I spoke. + Smoke? + Your air and conversation + Are a liberal education, + And your clothes, including the metal hat + And the brazen boots--what's that? + + "You never could stomach a Democrat + Since General Jackson ran? + You're another sort, but you predict + That your party'll get consummately licked?" + Good God! what a queer old man! + + + + + BEREAVEMENT. + + + A Countess (so they tell the tale) + Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale, + Where ladies, even of high degree, + Know more of love than of A.B.C, + Came once with a prodigious bribe + Unto the learned village scribe, + That most discreet and honest man + Who wrote for all the lover clan, + Nor e'er a secret had betrayed-- + Save when inadequately paid. + "Write me," she sobbed--"I pray thee do-- + A book about the Prince di Giu-- + A book of poetry in praise + Of all his works and all his ways; + The godlike grace of his address, + His more than woman's tenderness, + His courage stern and lack of guile, + The loves that wantoned in his smile. + So great he was, so rich and kind, + I'll not within a fortnight find + His equal as a lover. O, + My God! I shall be drowned in woe!" + + "What! Prince di Giu has died!" exclaimed + The honest man for letters famed, + The while he pocketed her gold; + "Of what'?--if I may be so bold." + Fresh storms of tears the lady shed: + "I stabbed him fifty times," she said. + + + + + AN INSCRIPTION + + FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT. + + + A famous conqueror, in battle brave, + Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave. + His reign laid quantities of human dust: + He fell upon the just and the unjust. + + + + + A PICKBRAIN. + + + What! imitate me, friend? Suppose that you + With agony and difficulty do + What I do easily--what then? You've got + A style I heartily wish _I_ had not. + If I from lack of sense and you from choice + Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice, + No equal censure our deserts will suit-- + We both are fools, but you're an ape to boot! + + + + + CONVALESCENT. + + + "By good men's prayers see Grant restored!" + Shouts Talmage, pious creature! + Yes, God, by supplication bored + From every droning preacher, + Exclaimed: "So be it, tiresome crew-- + But I've a crow to pick with _you_." + + + + + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. + + + He looked upon the ships as they + All idly lay at anchor, + Their sides with gorgeous workmen gay-- + The riveter and planker-- + + Republicans and Democrats, + Statesmen and politicians. + He saw the swarm of prudent rats + Swimming for land positions. + + He marked each "belted cruiser" fine, + Her poddy life-belts floating + In tether where the hungry brine + Impinged upon her coating. + + He noted with a proud regard, + As any of his class would, + The poplar mast and poplar yard + Above the hull of bass-wood. + + He saw the Eastlake frigate tall, + With quaintly carven gable, + Hip-roof and dormer-window--all + With ivy formidable. + + In short, he saw our country's hope + In best of all conditions-- + Equipped, to the last spar and rope, + By working politicians. + + He boarded then the noblest ship + And from the harbor glided. + "Adieu, adieu!" fell from his lip. + Verdict: "He suicided." + + 1881. + + + + + DETECTED. + + + In Congress once great Mowther shone, + Debating weighty matters; + Now into an asylum thrown, + He vacuously chatters. + + If in that legislative hall + His wisdom still he 'd vented, + It never had been known at all + That Mowther was demented. + + + + + BIMETALISM. + + + Ben Bulger was a silver man, + Though not a mine had he: + He thought it were a noble plan + To make the coinage free. + + "There hain't for years been sech a time," + Said Ben to his bull pup, + "For biz--the country's broke and I'm + The hardest kind of up. + + "The paper says that that's because + The silver coins is sea'ce, + And that the chaps which makes the laws + Puts gold ones in their place. + + "They says them nations always be + Most prosperatin' where + The wolume of the currency + Ain't so disgustin' rare." + + His dog, which hadn't breakfasted, + Dissented from his view, + And wished that he could swell, instead, + The volume of cold stew. + + "Nobody'd put me up," said Ben, + "With patriot galoots + Which benefits their feller men + By playin' warious roots; + + "But havin' all the tools about, + I'm goin' to commence + A-turnin' silver dollars out + Wuth eighty-seven cents. + + "The feller takin' 'em can't whine: + (No more, likewise, can I): + They're better than the genooine, + Which mostly satisfy. + + "It's only makin' coinage free, + And mebby might augment + The wolume of the currency + A noomerous per cent." + + I don't quite see his error nor + Malevolence prepense, + But fifteen years they gave him for + That technical offense. + + + + + THE RICH TESTATOR. + + + He lay on his bed and solemnly "signed," + Gasping--perhaps 'twas a jest he meant: + "This of a sound and disposing mind + Is the last ill-will and contestament." + + + + + TWO METHODS. + + + To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fed + The Priest delivers masses for the dead, + And even from estrays outside the fold + Death for the masses he would not withhold. + The Parson, loth alike to free or kill, + Forsakes the souls already on the grill, + And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming, + Spares living sinners for a harder damning. + + + + + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + + + Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranks + Are played by sentimental cranks! + First this one mounts his hinder hoofs + And brays the chimneys off the roofs; + Then that one, with exalted voice, + Expounds the thesis of his choice, + Our understandings to bombard, + Till all the window panes are starred! + A third augments the vocal shock + Till steeples to their bases rock, + Confessing, as they humbly nod, + They hear and mark the will of God. + A fourth in oral thunder vents + His awful penury of sense + Till dogs with sympathetic howls, + And lowing cows, and cackling fowls, + Hens, geese, and all domestic birds, + Attest the wisdom of his words. + Cranks thus their intellects deflate + Of theories about the State. + This one avers 'tis built on Truth, + And that on Temperance. This youth + Declares that Science bears the pile; + That graybeard, with a holy smile, + Says Faith is the supporting stone; + While women swear that Love alone + Could so unflinchingly endure + The heavy load. And some are sure + The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock + Is the indubitable bedrock. + + Physicians once about the bed + Of one whose life was nearly sped + Blew up a disputatious breeze + About the cause of his disease: + This, that and t' other thing they blamed. + "Tut, tut!" the dying man exclaimed, + "What made me ill I do not care; + You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear. + And if you had the skill to make it + I'd see you hanged before I'd take it!" + + + + + AN IMPOSTER. + + + Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain + Your worth, and all the reasons give again + Why black and red are similarly white, + And you and God identically right? + Still must our ears without redress submit + To hear you play the solemn hypocrite + Walking in spirit some high moral level, + Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil? + Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made + Your mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayed + To have an earless head. Since she did not, + Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot-- + Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air + So delicately, mercifully rare + That when the fellow climbs that giddy hill, + As, for my sins, I know at last he will, + To utter twaddle in that void inane + His soundless organ he will play in vain. + + + + + UNEXPOUNDED. + + + On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills, + On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills, + Lawyers great books indite; + The creaking of their busy quills + I've never heard on Right. + + + + + FRANCE. + + + Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive: + Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive; + A Prince who'd govern where he dares not dwell, + And who for power would his birthright sell-- + Who, anxious o'er his enemies to reign, + Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain; + While pugnant factions mutually strive + By cutting throats to keep the land alive. + Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse-- + To all a mistress, to thyself a curse; + Sweetheart of Europe! every sun's embrace + Matures the charm and poison of thy grace. + Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings: + In blood of citizens and blood of kings + The stones of thy stability are set, + And the fair fabric trembles at a threat. + + + + + THE EASTERN QUESTION. + + + Looking across the line, the Grecian said: + "This border I will stain a Turkey red." + The Moslem smiled securely and replied: + "No Greek has ever for his country dyed." + While thus each patriot guarded his frontier, + The Powers stole all the country in his rear. + + + + + A GUEST. + + + Death, are you well? I trust you have no cough + That's painful or in any way annoying-- + No kidney trouble that may carry you off, + Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying + Your meals--and ours. 'T were very sad indeed + To have to quit the busy life you lead. + + You've been quite active lately for so old + A person, and not very strong-appearing. + I'm apprehensive, somehow, that my bold, + Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing. + And my two friends--I fear, sir, that you ran + Quite hard for them, especially the man. + + I crave your pardon: 'twas no fault of mine; + If you are overworked I'm sorry, very. + Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine. + What shall it be--Marsala, Port or Sherry? + What! just a mug of blood? That's funny grog + To ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog! + + + + + A FALSE PROPHECY. + + + Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil + (Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut), + They say that you're imperially ill, + And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut! + Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but + A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill + A man predestined to depart this life + By the assassin's bullet, bomb or knife. + + Sir, once there was a President who freed + Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar + Who freed five times as many serfs. Sins breed + The means of punishment, and tyrants are + Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car + If faster than the law allows they speed. + Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut; + _You_ freed slaves too. Paralysis--tut-tut! + + 1885. + + + + + TWO TYPES. + + + Courageous fool!--the peril's strength unknown. + Courageous man!--so conscious of your own. + + + + + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. + + + STEPHEN DORSEY. + + Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst, + Where rests in Satan an offender first + In point of greatness, as in point of time, + Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime. + Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab + The dark arcana of each mighty grab, + And famed for lying from his early youth, + He sinned secure behind a veil of truth. + Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write + A damning record and conceal from sight; + Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it. + His way to keep a secret was to tell it. + + + STEPHEN J. FIELD. + + Here sleeps one of the greatest students + Of jurisprudence. + Nature endowed him with the gift + Of the juristhrift. + All points of law alike he threw + The dice to settle. + Those honest cubes were loaded true + With railway metal. + + + GENERAL B.F. BUTLER. + + Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God, + We gave, O gallant brother; + And o'er thy grave the awkward squad + Fired into one another! + + + Beneath this monument which rears its head. + A giant note of admiration--dead, + His life extinguished like a taper's flame. + John Ericsson is lying in his fame. + Behold how massive is the lofty shaft; + How fine the product of the sculptor's craft; + The gold how lavishly applied; the great + Man's statue how impressive and sedate! + Think what the cost-was! It would ill become + Our modesty to specify the sum; + Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're giving + Of what we robbed him of when he was living. + + + Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk + Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk. + His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear, + But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here. + + + Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead + He looked so natural that round his bed + + The people stood, in silence all, to weep. + They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep. + + + Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid + The tools of his infernal trade-- + His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude + They grew--so slack in gratitude, + His hand was wounded as he wrote, + And when he spoke he cut his throat. + + + Within this humble mausoleum + Poor Guiteau's flesh you'll find. + His bones are kept in a museum, + And Tillman has his mind. + + + Stranger, uncover; here you have in view + The monument of Chauncey M. Depew. + Eater and orator, the whole world round + For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned. + Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech, + Nothing he knew excepting how to teach. + But in default of something to impart + He multiplied his words with all his heart: + When least he had to say, instructive most-- + A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost. + + Dining his way to eminence, he rowed + With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed + From lakes of favor--pulled with all his force + And found each river sweeter than the source. + Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor, + Gnawing and rising till obscure no more, + He ate his way to eminence, and Fame + Inscribes in gravy his immortal name. + A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly, + So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly. + Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him, + And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him. + + + Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie; + Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why. + In '71 he filled the public eye, + In '72 he bade the world good-bye, + In God's good time, with a protesting sigh, + He came to life just long enough to die. + + + Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay, + Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray. + He joined the great Order and studied with zeal + The awful arcana he meant to reveal. + At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell-- + There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell. + + + + + A HYMN OF THE MANY. + + + God's people sorely were oppressed, + I heard their lamentations long;-- + I hear their singing, clear and strong, + I see their banners in the West! + + The captains shout the battle-cry, + The legions muster in their might; + They turn their faces to the light, + They lift their arms, they testify: + + "We sank beneath the Master's thong, + Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;-- + Now clash your lances in the sun + And bless your banners with a song! + + "God bides his time with patient eyes + While tyrants build upon the land;-- + He lifts his face, he lifts his hand, + And from the stones his temples rise. + + "Now Freedom waves her joyous wing + Beyond the foemen's shields of gold. + March forward, singing, for, behold, + The right shall rule while God is king!" + + + + + ONE MORNING. + + + Because that I am weak, my love, and ill, + I cannot follow the impatient feet + Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat + Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill + The hour appointed for the air to thrill + And brighten at your coming. O my sweet, + The tale of moments is at last complete-- + The tryst is broken on the gusty hill! + O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed, + The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not; + Think rather that the clock and sun have lied + And all too early, you have sought the spot. + For lo! despair has darkened all the light, + And till I see your face it still is night. + + + + + AN ERROR. + + Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream + How sweet the roses in the autumn seem! + + + + + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." + + + You 're grayer than one would have thought you: + The climate you have over there + In the East has apparently brought you + Disorders affecting the hair, + Which--pardon me--seems a thought spare. + + You'll not take offence at my giving + Expression to notions like these. + You might have been stronger if living + Out here in our sanative breeze. + It's unhealthy here for disease. + + No, I'm not as plump as a pullet. + But that's the old wound, you see. + Remember my paunching a bullet?-- + And how that it didn't agree + With--well, honest hardtack for me. + + Just pass me the wine--I've a helly + And horrible kind of drouth! + When a fellow has that in his belly + Which didn't go in at his mouth + He's hotter than all Down South! + + Great Scott! what a nasty day _that_ was-- + When every galoot in our crack + Division who didn't lie flat was + Dissuaded from further attack + By the bullet's felicitous whack. + + 'Twas there that our major slept under + Some cannon of ours on the crest, + Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, + And he cursed them for breaking his rest, + And died in the midst of his jest. + + That night--it was late in November-- + The dead seemed uncommonly chill + To the touch; and one chap I remember + Who took it exceedingly ill + When I dragged myself over his bill. + + Well, comrades, I'm off now--good morning. + Your talk is as pleasant as pie, + But, pardon me, one word of warning: + Speak little of self, say I. + That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye. + + + + + THE KING OF BORES. + + + Abundant bores afflict this world, and some + Are bores of magnitude that-come and--no, + They're always coming, but they never go-- + Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum + Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum, + Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow. + But one superb tormentor I can show-- + Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum. + He the johndonkey is who, when I pen + Amorous verses in an idle mood + To nobody, or of her, reads them through + And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then + Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood + This tender sonnet's application too. + + + + + HISTORY. + + + What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice, + Another indolence, another dice. + Emascle says polygamy. "Not so," + Says Impycu--"'twas luxury and show." + The parson, lifting up a brow of brass, + Swears superstition gave the _coup de grâce_, + Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms + 'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: "'T was worms") + And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars, + Averring the no coins were silver dollars. + Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack + Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back, + Holds a new "autopsy" and finds that death + Resulted partly from the want of breath, + But chiefly from some visitation sad + That points his argument or serves his fad. + They're all in error--never human mind + The cause of the disaster has divined. + What slew the Roman power? Well, provided + You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did. + + + + + THE HERMIT. + + + To a hunter from the city, + Overtaken by the night, + Spake, in tones of tender pity + For himself, an aged wight: + + "I have found the world a fountain + Of deceit and Life a sham. + I have taken to the mountain + And a Holy Hermit am. + + "Sternly bent on Contemplation, + Far apart from human kind---- + In the hill my habitation, + In the Infinite my mind. + + "Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing, + Growing bald and bent with dole. + Vainly seeking for a Something + To engage my gloomy soul. + + "Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you + Eat, and quaff my simple drink, + Please suggest whatever suits you + As a Theme for me to Think." + + Then the hunter answered gravely: + "From distraction free, and strife, + You could ponder very bravely + On the Vanity of Life." + + "O, thou wise and learned Teacher, + You have solved the Problem well-- + You have saved a grateful creature + From the agonies of hell. + + "Take another root, another + Cup of water: eat and drink. + Now I have a Subject, brother, + Tell me What, and How, to think." + + + + + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. + + + Affronting fool, subdue your transient light; + When Wisdom's dull dares Folly to be bright: + If Genius stumble in the path to fame, + 'Tis decency in dunces to go lame. + + + + + THE YEARLY LIE. + + + A merry Christmas? Prudent, as I live!-- + You wish me something that you need not give. + + Merry or sad, what does it signify? + To you 't is equal if I laugh, or die. + + Your hollow greeting, like a parrot's jest, + Finds all its meaning in the ear addressed. + + Why "merry" Christmas? Faith, I'd rather frown + Than grin and caper like a tickled clown. + + When fools are merry the judicious weep; + The wise are happy only when asleep. + + A present? Pray you give it to disarm + A man more powerful to do you harm. + + 'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot let + You pay for favors that you'll never get. + + Perish the savage custom of the gift, + Founded in terror and maintained in thrift! + + What men of honor need to aid their weal + They purchase, or, occasion serving, steal. + + Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies, + Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies. + + Let Santa Claus descend again the flue; + If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true. + + "A lie well stuck to is as good as truth," + And God's too old to legislate for youth. + + Hail Christmas! On my knees and fowl I fall: + For greater grace and better gravy call. + _Vive l'Humbug!_--that's to say, God bless us all! + + + + + COOPERATION. + + + No more the swindler singly seeks his prey; + To hunt in couples is the modern way-- + A rascal, from the public to purloin, + An honest man to hide away the coin. + + + + + AN APOLOGUE. + + + A traveler observed one day + A loaded fruit-tree by the way. + And reining in his horse exclaimed: + "The man is greatly to be blamed + Who, careless of good morals, leaves + Temptation in the way of thieves. + Now lest some villain pass this way + And by this fruit be led astray + To bag it, I will kindly pack + It snugly in my saddle-sack." + He did so; then that Salt o' the Earth + Rode on, rejoicing in his worth. + + + + + DIAGNOSIS. + + + Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, pray + Compose my spirits' strife: + O what may be my chances, say, + Of living all my life? + + "For lately I have dreamed of high + And hempen dissolution! + O doctor, doctor, how can I + Amend my constitution?" + + The learned leech replied: "You're young + And beautiful and strong-- + Permit me to inspect your tongue: + H'm, ah, ahem!--'tis long." + + + + + FALLEN. + + + O, hadst thou died when thou wert great, + When at thy feet a nation knelt + To sob the gratitude it felt + And thank the Saviour of the State, + Gods might have envied thee thy fate! + + Then was the laurel round thy brow, + And friend and foe spoke praise of thee, + While all our hearts sang victory. + Alas! thou art too base to bow + To hide the shame that brands it now. + + + + +DIES IRAE. + +A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing +translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches +into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me +to undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to +attempt that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have +attempted before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me +to hope that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The +fault of previous translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. +Dix, has been, I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the +delicate irony and subtle humor of the immortal poem--though doubtless +these admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators--have +been utterly sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions +that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of +insincerity pervading the whole prayer,--the cool effrontery of the +suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of +salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission +to the punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing +characteristics of this amusing work, being most imperfectly conveyed. +By permitting myself a reasonable freedom of rendering--in many cases +boldly supplying that "missing link" between the sublime and the +ridiculous which the author, writing for the acute monkish apprehension +of the 13th century, did not deem it necessary to insert--I have hoped +at least partially to liberate the lurking devil of humor from his +fetters, letting him caper, not, certainly, as he does in the Latin, but +as he probably would have done had his creator written in English. In +preserving the metre and double rhymes of the original, I have acted +from the same reverent regard for the music with which, in the liturgy +of the Church, the verses have become inseparably wedded that inspired +Gen. Dix; seeking rather to surmount the obstacles to success by honest +effort, than to avoid them by the adoption of an easier versification +which would have deprived my version of all utility in religious +service. + +I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the +first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been +purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the +very boundary of the alluring domain. I have got over the +inhibition--somehow--but David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me +if they find themselves represented merely by the names of those +conspicuous personal qualities to which they probably owed, +respectively, their powers of prophecy, as Samson's strength lay in his +hair. + + + DIES IRAE. + + Dies irae! dies ilia! + Solvet saeclum in favilla + Teste David cum Sibylla. + + Quantus tremor est futurus, + Quando Judex est venturus. + Cuncta stricte discussurus. + + Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchra regionem, + Coget omnes ante thronum. + + Mors stupebit, et Natura, + Quum resurget creatura + Judicanti responsura. + + Liber scriptus proferetur, + In quo totum continetur, + Unde mundus judicetur. + + Judex ergo quum sedebit, + Quicquid latet apparebit, + Nil inultum remanebit. + + Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, + Quem patronem rogaturus, + Quum vix justus sit securus? + + Rex tremendae majestatis, + Qui salvandos salvas gratis; + Salva me, Fons pietatis + + Recordare, Jesu pie + Quod sum causa tuae viae; + Ne me perdas illa die. + + Quarens me sedisti lassus + Redimisti crucem passus, + Tantus labor non sit cassus. + + Juste Judex ultionis, + Donum fac remissionis + Ante diem rationis. + + Ingemisco tanquam reus, + Culpa rubet vultus meus; + Supplicanti parce, Deus. + + Qui Mariam absolvisti + Et latronem exaudisti, + Mihi quoque spem dedisti. + + Preces meae non sunt dignae, + Sed tu bonus fac benigne + Ne perenni cremer igne. + + Inter oves locum praesta. + Et ab haedis me sequestra, + Statuens in parte dextra. + + Confutatis maledictis, + Flammis acribus addictis, + Voca me cum benedictis. + + Oro supplex et acclinis, + Cor contritum quasi cinis; + Gere curam mei finis. + + Lacrymosa dies illa + Qua resurgent et favilla, + Judicandus homo reus + Huic ergo parce, Deus! + + + THE DAY OF WRATH. + + Day of Satan's painful duty! + Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; + So says Virtue, so says Beauty. + + Ah! what terror shall be shaping + When the Judge the truth's undraping! + Cats from every bag escaping! + + Now the trumpet's invocation + Calls the dead to condemnation; + All receive an invitation. + + Death and Nature now are quaking, + And the late lamented, waking, + In their breezy shrouds are shaking. + + Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, + And the Clerk, to them referring, + Makes it awkward for the erring. + + When the Judge appears in session, + We shall all attend confession, + Loudly preaching non-suppression. + + How shall I then make romances + Mitigating circumstances? + Even the just must take their chances. + + King whose majesty amazes. + Save thou him who sings thy praises; + Fountain, quench my private blazes. + + Pray remember, sacred Savior, + Mine the playful hand that gave your + Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. + + Seeking me fatigue assailed thee, + Calvary's outlook naught availed thee: + Now 't were cruel if I failed thee. + + Righteous judge and learned brother, + Pray thy prejudices smother + Ere we meet to try each other. + + Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, + And my face vermilion flushes; + Spare me for my pretty blushes. + + Thief and harlot, when repenting, + Thou forgav'st--be complimenting + Me with sign of like relenting. + + If too bold is my petition + I'll receive with due submission + My dismissal--from perdition. + + When thy sheep thou hast selected + From the goats, may I, respected, + Stand amongst them undetected. + + When offenders are indicted, + And with trial-flames ignited, + Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. + + Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful, + When of death I see the air full, + Lest I perish, too, be careful. + + On that day of lamentation, + When, to enjoy the conflagration. + Men come forth, O, be not cruel. + Spare me, Lord--make them thy fuel. + + + + + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. + + + See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed + For revolution! + To foil their villainous crusade + Unsheathe again the sacred blade + Of persecution. + + What though through long disuse 't is grown + A trifle rusty? + 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone + Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, + It still is trusty. + + Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, + Unapprehensive, + Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; + Our zealots chiefly to the nose + Assume the offensive. + + Then wield the blade their necks to hack, + Nor ever spare one. + Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, + But see that every martyr lack + The head to wear one. + + + + + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. + + + "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull: + There's nothing happening at all--a lull + After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife + Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. + A fire on Blank Street and some babies--one, + Two, three or four, I don't remember, done + To quite a delicate and lovely brown. + A husband shot by woman of the town-- + The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. + The crew, all saved--or lost. Uncommon drouth + Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud-- + Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. + 'T is feared some bank will burst--or else it won't + They always burst, I fancy--or they don't; + Who cares a cent?--the banker pays his coin + And takes his chances: bullet in the groin-- + But that's another item--suicide-- + Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. + Heigh-ho! there's noth--Jerusalem! what's this: + Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss + Of ruin!--owes me seven hundred clear! + Was ever such a damned disastrous year! + + + + + IN THE BINNACLE. + + +[The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly +and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.--_Religious +Weekly._] + + + The Church's compass, if you please, + Has two or three (or more) degrees + Of variation; + And many a soul has gone to grief + On this or that or t'other reef + Through faith unreckoning or brief + Miscalculation. + Misguidance is of perils chief + To navigation. + + The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark, + Obeisance through a little arc + Of declination; + For Satan, fearing witches, drew + From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe, + And nailed it to his door to undo + Their machination. + Since then the needle dips to woo + His habitation. + + + + + HUMILITY. + + + Great poets fire the world with fagots big + That make a crackling racket, + But I'm content with but a whispering twig + To warm some single jacket. + + + + + ONE PRESIDENT. + + + "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child-- + Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild." + + "What are they that way for, father?" "Last fall, + 'Our candidate's better,' they said, 'than all!'" + + "What did they say he was, father?" "A man + Built on a straight incorruptible plan-- + Believing that none for an office would do + Unless he were honest and capable too." + + "Poor gentlemen--_so_ disappointed!" "Yes, lad, + That is the feeling that's driving them mad; + They're weeping and wailing and gnashing because + They find that he's all that they said that he was." + + + + + THE BRIDE. + + + "You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse + I made a second marriage in my house-- + Divorced old barren Reason from my bed + And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse." + + So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam + Of light that made her like an angel seem, + The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myself + Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream." + + + + + STRAINED RELATIONS. + + + Says England to Germany: "Africa's ours." + Says Germany: "Ours, I opine." + Says Africa: "Tell me, delectable Pow'rs, + What is it that ought to be mine?" + + + + + THE MAN BORN BLIND. + + + A man born blind received his sight + By a painful operation; + And these are things he saw in the light + Of an infant observation. + + He saw a merchant, good and wise. + And greatly, too, respected, + Who looked, to those imperfect eyes, + Like a swindler undetected. + + He saw a patriot address + A noisy public meeting. + And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess. + That for the teat is bleating." + + A doctor stood beside a bed + And shook his summit sadly. + "O see that foul assassin!" said + The man who saw so badly. + + He saw a lawyer pleading for + A thief whom they'd been jailing, + And said: "That's an accomplice, or + My sight again is failing." + + Upon the Bench a Justice sat, + With nothing to restrain him; + "'Tis strange," said the observer, "that + They ventured to unchain him." + + With theologic works supplied, + He saw a solemn preacher; + "A burglar with his kit," he cried, + "To rob a fellow creature." + + A bluff old farmer next he saw + Sell produce in a village, + And said: "What, what! is there no law + To punish men for pillage?" + + A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed, + Who many charms united; + He thanked his stars his lot was cast + Where sepulchers were whited. + + He saw a soldier stiff and stern, + "Full of strange oaths" and toddy; + But was unable to discern + A wound upon his body. + + Ten square leagues of rolling ground + To one great man belonging, + Looked like one little grassy mound + With worms beneath it thronging. + + A palace's well-carven stones, + Where Dives dwelt contented, + Seemed built throughout of human bones + With human blood cemented. + + He watched the yellow shining thread + A silk-worm was a-spinning; + "That creature's coining gold." he said, + "To pay some girl for sinning." + + His eyes were so untrained and dim + All politics, religions, + Arts, sciences, appeared to him + But modes of plucking pigeons. + + And so he drew his final breath, + And thought he saw with sorrow + Some persons weeping for his death + Who'd be all smiles to-morrow. + + + + + A NIGHTMARE. + + + I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by: + The world forgot that such a man as I + Had ever lived and written: other names + Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die. + + Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew. + Its roots transpierced my body, through and through, + My substance fed its growth. From many lands + Men came in troops that giant tree to view. + + 'T was sacred to my memory and fame-- + My monument. But Allen Forman came, + Filled with the fervor of a new untruth, + And carved upon the trunk his odious name! + + + + + A WET SEASON. + + Horas non numero nisi serenas. + + + The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth, + And man's in danger. + O that my mother at my birth + Had borne a stranger! + The flooded ground is all around. + The depth uncommon. + How blest I'd be if only she + Had borne a salmon. + + If still denied the solar glow + 'T were bliss ecstatic + To be amphibious--but O, + To be aquatic! + We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they + That faith are firm of. + O, then, be just: show me some dust + To be a worm of. + + The pines are chanting overhead + A psalm uncheering. + It's O, to have been for ages dead + And hard of hearing! + Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours + The dial reckoned; + 'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime-- + Rameses II. + + + + + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. + + + Tut-tut! give back the flags--how can you care + You veterans and heroes? + Why should you at a kind intention swear + Like twenty Neroes? + + Suppose the act was not so overwise-- + Suppose it was illegal-- + Is 't well on such a question to arise + And pinch the Eagle? + + Nay, let's economize his breath to scold + And terrify the alien + Who tackles him, as Hercules of old + The bird Stymphalian. + + Among the rebels when we made a breach + Was it to get their banners? + That was but incidental--'t was to teach + Them better manners. + + They know the lesson well enough to-day; + Now, let us try to show them + That we 're not only stronger far than they. + (How we did mow them!) + + But more magnanimous. You see, my lads, + 'T was an uncommon riot; + The warlike tribes of Europe fight for "fads," + We fought for quiet. + + If we were victors, then we all must live + With the same flag above us; + 'Twas all in vain unless we now forgive + And make them love us. + + Let kings keep trophies to display above + Their doors like any savage; + The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love, + Despite war's ravage. + + "Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll find + You can't, in right and reason, + While "Washington" and "treason" are combined-- + "Hugo" and "treason." + + All human governments must take the chance + And hazard of sedition. + O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advance + To blind submission. + + It may be wrong, it may be right, to rise + In warlike insurrection: + The loyalty that fools so dearly prize + May mean subjection. + + Be loyal to your country, yes--but how + If tyrants hold dominion? + The South believed they did; can't you allow + For that opinion? + + He who will never rise though rulers plods + His liberties despising + How is he manlier than the _sans culottes_ + Who's always rising? + + Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fell + Too valiant to forsake them. + Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well, + I helped to take them. + + + + + HAEC FABULA DOCET. + + + A rat who'd gorged a box of bane + And suffered an internal pain, + Came from his hole to die (the label + Required it if the rat were able) + And found outside his habitat + A limpid stream. Of bane and rat + 'T was all unconscious; in the sun + It ran and prattled just for fun. + Keen to allay his inward throes, + The beast immersed his filthy nose + And drank--then, bloated by the stream, + And filled with superheated steam, + Exploded with a rascal smell, + Remarking, as his fragments fell + Astonished in the brook: "I'm thinking + This water's damned unwholesome drinking!" + + + + + EXONERATION. + + + When men at candidacy don't connive, + From that suspicion if their friends would free 'em, + The teeth and nails with which they did not strive + Should be exhibited in a museum. + + + + + AZRAEL. + + + The moon in the field of the keel-plowed main + Was watching the growing tide: + A luminous peasant was driving his wain, + And he offered my soul a ride. + + But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall, + And I fixed him fast with mine eye. + "O, peasant," I sang with a dying fall, + "Go leave me to sing and die." + + The water was weltering round my feet, + As prone on the beach they lay. + I chanted my death-song loud and sweet; + "Kioodle, ioodle, iay!" + + Then I heard the swish of erecting ears + Which caught that enchanted strain. + The ocean was swollen with storms of tears + That fell from the shining swain. + + "O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand, + "That ravishing song would make + The devil a saint." He held out his hand + And solemnly added: "Shake." + + We shook. "I crave a victim, you see," + He said--"you came hither to die." + The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he! + And the victim he crove was I! + + 'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard; + And he knocked me on the head. + O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard, + For I didn't want to be dead. + + "You'll sing no worser for that," said he, + And he drove with my soul away, + O, death-song singers, be warned by me, + Kioodle, ioodle, iay! + + + + + AGAIN. + + + Well, I've met her again--at the Mission. + She'd told me to see her no more; + It was not a command--a petition; + I'd granted it once before. + + Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. + Repenting her virtuous freak-- + Subdued myself daily and nightly + For the better part of a week. + + And then ('twas my duty to spare her + The shame of recalling me) I + Just sought her again to prepare her + For an everlasting good-bye. + + O, that evening of bliss--shall I ever + Forget it?--with Shakespeare and Poe! + She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never + To see me again. And now go." + + As we parted with kisses 'twas human + And natural for me to smile + As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: + She'll send for me after a while." + + But she didn't; and so--well, the Mission + Is fine, picturesque and gray; + It's an excellent place for contrition-- + And sometimes she passes that way. + + That's how it occurred that I met her, + And that's ah there is to tell-- + Except that I'd like to forget her + Calm way of remarking: "I'm well." + + It was hardly worth while, all this keying + My soul to such tensions and stirs + To learn that her food was agreeing + With that little stomach of hers. + + + + HOMO PODUNKENSIS. + + + As the poor ass that from his paddock strays + Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, + Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, + Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, + Mistaking for the world's assent the clang + Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; + So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, + Visits the city on the ocean's marge, + Expands his eyes and marvels to remark + Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; + Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares + That native merchants sell imported wares, + Nor comprehends how in his very view + A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; + Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, + Swears it superior to aught on earth, + Sighs for the temples locally renowned-- + The village school-house and the village pound-- + And chalks upon the palaces of Rome + The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!" + + + + + A SOCIAL CALL. + + + Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you, + With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue? + Less redness in the nose--nay, even some blue + Would not, I think, particularly hurt you. + When seen close to, not mounted in your car, + You look the drunkard and the pig you are. + + No matter, sit you down, for I am not + In a gray study, as you sometimes find me. + Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot, + But there's another year of pain behind me. + That's something to be thankful for: the more + There are behind, the fewer are before. + + I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp, + But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation + With an affinity to every tramp + That walks the world and steals its admiration. + For admiration is like linen left + Upon the line--got easiest by theft. + + Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood, + With brains and honesty, some five-and-twenty + Long years as champion of all that's good, + And taken on the mazzard thwacks a-plenty. + Yet now whose praises do the people bawl? + Those of the fellows whom I live to maul! + + Why, this is odd!--the more I try to talk + Of you the more my tongue grows egotistic + To prattle of myself! I'll try to balk + Its waywardness and be more altruistic. + So let us speak of others--how they sin, + And what a devil of a state they 're in! + + That's all I have to say. Good-bye, old man. + Next year you possibly may find me scolding-- + Or miss me altogether: Nature's plan + Includes, as I suppose, a final folding + Of these poor empty hands. Then drop a tear + To think they'll never box another ear. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12658 *** diff --git a/12658-h/12658-h.htm b/12658-h/12658-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9fd1b35 --- /dev/null +++ b/12658-h/12658-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11782 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" name="linkgenerator" /> + <title> + Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + body { margin:20%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent25 { margin-left: 25%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent35 { margin-left: 35%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} +</style> + </head> + <body> +<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12658 ***</div> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SHAPES OF CLAY + </h1> + <h2> + By Ambrose Bierce + </h2> + <h4> + Author Of "In The Midst Of Life," "Can Such Things Be?" "Black Beetles In + Amber," And "Fantastic Fables" + </h4> + <h3> + 1903 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> DEDICATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> SHAPES OF CLAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE PASSING SHOW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ELIXER VITAE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> CONVALESCENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> NOVUM ORGANUM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> GEOTHEOS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> YORICK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A VISION OF DOOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> POLITICS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> POESY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> IN DEFENSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> AN INVOCATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> RELIGION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A MORNING FANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> VISIONS OF SIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE TOWN OF DAE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> AN ANARCHIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> ARMA VIRUMQUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> A DEMAND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> THE WEATHER WIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> MY MONUMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> MAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> HOSPITALITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> MAGNANIMITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> TO HER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> TO A SUMMER POET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> ARTHUR McEWEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> CHARLES AND PETER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> CONTEMPLATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> CREATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> BUSINESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> A POSSIBILITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO A CENSOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> THE HESITATING VETERAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> INSPIRATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> TO-DAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> AN ALIBI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> REBUKE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> THE DYING STATESMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> THE DEATH OF GRANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> LAUS LUCIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> NANINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> TECHNOLOGY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> A REPLY TO A LETTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> TO OSCAR WILDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> PRAYER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> AN EPITAPH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> THE POLITICIAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> AN INSCRIPTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> IN MEMORIAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> THE STATESMEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> THE BROTHERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> CORRECTED NEWS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> AN EXPLANATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> JUSTICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> TO MY LAUNDRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> FAME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> OMNES VANITAS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> ASPIRATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> DEMOCRACY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> THE NEW "ULALUME." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> CONSOLATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> FATE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> PHILOSOPHER BIMM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> REMINDED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> SALVINI IN AMERICA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> ANOTHER WAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> ART. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE DEBTOR ABROAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> FORESIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> A FAIR DIVISION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> GENESIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> LIBERTY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> TO MAUDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> THE SCURRIL PRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> A LACKING FACTOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> THE ROYAL JESTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> A CAREER IN LETTERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> THE FOLLOWING PAIR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> POLITICAL ECONOMY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> TEMPORA MUTANTUR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> CONTENTMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> THE NEW ENOCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> DISAVOWAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> AN AVERAGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> WOMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> INCURABLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> THE PUN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> TO NANINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> VICE VERSA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> A BLACK-LIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> AUTHORITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> THE PSORIAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> ONEIROMANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> PEACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> THANKSGIVING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> THE AESTHETES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> JULY FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> WITH MINE OWN PETARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> CONSTANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> SIRES AND SONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> A CHALLENGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> TWO SHOWS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> A POET'S HOPE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> TWO ROGUES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> BEECHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> NOT GUILTY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> PRESENTIMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> A STUDY IN GRAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> A PARADOX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> FOR MERIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> A BIT OF SCIENCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> THE TABLES TURNED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> TO A DEJECTED POET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> A FOOL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> THE HUMORIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> MONTEFIORE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> A WARNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> DISCRETION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> AN EXILE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> PSYCHOGRAPHS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> FOR WOUNDS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0158"> ELECTION DAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0159"> THE MILITIAMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0160"> A WELCOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0161"> A SERENADE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0162"> THE WISE AND GOOD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0163"> THE LOST COLONEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0164"> FOR TAT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0165"> A DILEMMA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0166"> METEMPSYCHOSIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0167"> THE SAINT AND THE MONK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0168"> THE OPPOSING SEX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0169"> A WHIPPER-IN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0170"> JUDGMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0171"> THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0172"> IN HIGH LIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0173"> A BUBBLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0174"> A RENDEZVOUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0175"> FRANCINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0176"> AN EXAMPLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0177"> REVENGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0178"> THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0179"> IN CONTUMACIAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0180"> RE-EDIFIED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0181"> A BULLETIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0182"> FROM THE MINUTES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0183"> WOMAN IN POLITICS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0184"> TO AN ASPIRANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0185"> A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0186"> A BUILDER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0187"> AN AUGURY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0188"> LUSUS POLITICUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0189"> BEREAVEMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0190"> AN INSCRIPTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0191"> A PICKBRAIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0192"> CONVALESCENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0193"> THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0194"> DETECTED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0195"> BIMETALISM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0196"> THE RICH TESTATOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0197"> TWO METHODS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0198"> FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0199"> AN IMPOSTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0200"> UNEXPOUNDED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0201"> FRANCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0202"> THE EASTERN QUESTION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0203"> A GUEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0204"> A FALSE PROPHECY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0205"> TWO TYPES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0206"> SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0207"> A HYMN OF THE MANY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0208"> ONE MORNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0209"> AN ERROR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0210"> AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0211"> THE KING OF BORES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0212"> HISTORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0213"> THE HERMIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0214"> TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0215"> THE YEARLY LIE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0216"> COOPERATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0217"> AN APOLOGUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0218"> DIAGNOSIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0219"> FALLEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0220"> DIES IRAE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0221"> ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0222"> SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0223"> IN THE BINNACLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0224"> HUMILITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0225"> ONE PRESIDENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0226"> THE BRIDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0227"> STRAINED RELATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0228"> THE MAN BORN BLIND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0229"> A NIGHTMARE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0230"> A WET SEASON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0231"> THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0232"> HAEC FABULA DOCET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0233"> EXONERATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0234"> AZRAEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0235"> AGAIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0236"> HOMO PODUNKENSIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0237"> A SOCIAL CALL. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEDICATION. + </h2> + <p> + WITH PRIDE IN THEIR WORK, FAITH IN THEIR FUTURE AND AFFECTION FOR + THEMSELVES, AN OLD WRITER DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS AND + PUPILS, GEORGE STERLING AND HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. A.B. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE. + </h2> + <p> + Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that part + the names of real persons being used without their assent, it seems fit + that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems well + to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface of + another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its character. I + quote from "Black Beetles in Amber:" + </p> + <p> + "Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable + alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in now + republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, except + with reference to those who since my first censure of them have passed + away. To one having only a reader's interest in the matter it may easily + seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been omitted + from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any considerable + part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth which by this + attempt to preserve some of it I have assumed, their permanent suppression + is impossible, and it is only a question of when and by whom they will be + republished. Some one will surely search them out and put them in + circulation. + </p> + <p> + "I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work collected + in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one whose work, + necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed to challenge as + unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined before time has effaced + the evidence. For the death of a man of whom I have written what I may + venture to think worthy to live I am no way responsible; and however + sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent that it shall affect my + literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not accept the remarkable + doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should spare the sinner, were + bound to let the life of his work be coterminous with that of his subject + his were a lot of peculiar hardship. + </p> + <p> + "Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint + even certain 'epitaphs' which, once of the living, are now of the dead, as + all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms of + applied satire—my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at + least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of + matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown + by abundant instance and example." + </p> + <p> + In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless to + classify them according to character, as "Serious," "Comic," + "Sentimental," "Satirical," and so forth. I do the reader the honor to + think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; and I + entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without + disappointment to that of his author. + </p> + <h3> + AMBROSE BIERCE. <br /><br /> + </h3> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SHAPES OF CLAY + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PASSING SHOW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know not if it was a dream. I viewed + A city where the restless multitude, + Between the eastern and the western deep + Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude. + + Colossal palaces crowned every height; + Towers from valleys climbed into the light; + O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes + Hung in the blue, barbarically bright. + + But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day + Touched the black masses with a grace of gray, + Dim spires of temples to the nation's God + Studding high spaces of the wide survey. + + Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep + Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, + Yet whispered of an hour-when sleepers wake, + The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep. + + The gardens greened upon the builded hills + Above the tethered thunders of the mills + With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet + By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills. + + A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space, + Looked on the builder's blocks about his base + And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: + "Strike! 't is my destiny to lodge your race. + + "'T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed + Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed + Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness, + While on their foeman's offal they caroused." + + Ships from afar afforested the bay. + Within their huge and chambered bodies lay + The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed + The hardy argosies to far Cathay. + + Beside the city of the living spread— + Strange fellowship!—the city of the dead; + And much I wondered what its humble folk, + To see how bravely they were housed, had said. + + Noting how firm their habitations stood, + Broad-based and free of perishable wood— + How deep in granite and how high in brass + The names were wrought of eminent and good, + + I said: "When gold or power is their aim, + The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, + Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare + When they would conquer an abiding fame." + + From the red East the sun—a solemn rite— + Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height + Above the dead; and then with all his strength + Struck the great city all aroar with light! +</pre> + <h3> + II. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know not if it was a dream. I came + Unto a land where something seemed the same + That I had known as 't were but yesterday, + But what it was I could not rightly name. + + It was a strange and melancholy land. + Silent and desolate. On either hand + Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, + And dead above it seemed the hills to stand, + + Grayed all with age, those lonely hills—ah me, + How worn and weary they appeared to be! + Between their feet long dusty fissures clove + The plain in aimless windings to the sea. + + One hill there was which, parted from the rest, + Stood where the eastern water curved a-west. + Silent and passionless it stood. I thought + I saw a scar upon its giant breast. + + The sun with sullen and portentous gleam + Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; + Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars + Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam. + + It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, + That desert in its cold, uncanny light; + No soul but I alone to mark the fear + And imminence of everlasting night! + + All presages and prophecies of doom + Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, + And in the midst of that accursèd scene + A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELIXER VITAE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep + (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) + Sealed upon my senses with so deep + A stupefaction that men thought me dead. + The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, + Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; + I saw mankind in dim procession sweep + Through life, oblivion at each extreme. + Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, + Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing. + + The generations came with dance and song, + And each observed me curiously there. + Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng + Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." + Some said I was a saint, and some a bear— + These all were women. So the young and gay, + Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, + Doddered at last on failing limbs away; + Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, + Fell into its abysses and were strangled. + + At last a generation came that walked + More slowly forward to the common tomb, + Then altogether stopped. The women talked + Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom + Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; + And one cried out: "We are immortal now— + How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, + Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, + And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, + Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!" + + So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped + From its fair shoulders, and but men alone + Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped, + Enough of room remained in every zone, + And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne. + Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks + Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped) + 'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe. + Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking, + And crumbled all to powder in the waking. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONVALESCENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame + Or canting Pharisee no more defame? + Will Treachery caress my hand no more, + Nor Hatred He alurk about my door?— + Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed, + Not close the loaded palm to make a fist? + Will Envy henceforth not retaliate + For virtues it were vain to emulate? + Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout, + Not understanding what 'tis all about, + Yet feeling in its light so mean and small + That all his little soul is turned to gall? + + What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed? + Greed from exaction magically charmed? + Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets, + Like horses fugitive in crowded streets? + The Bigot, with his candle, book and bell, + Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well? + The Critic righteously to justice haled, + His own ear to the post securely nailed— + What most he dreads unable to inflict, + And powerless to hawk the faults he's picked? + The liar choked upon his choicest lie, + And impotent alike to villify + Or flatter for the gold of thrifty men + Who hate his person but employ his pen— + Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt + Belonging to his character and shirt? + + What! "Out of danger?"—Nature's minions all, + Like hounds returning to the huntsman's call, + Obedient to the unwelcome note + That stays them from the quarry's bursting throat?— + Famine and Pestilence and Earthquake dire, + Torrent and Tempest, Lightning, Frost and Fire, + The soulless Tiger and the mindless Snake, + The noxious Insect from the stagnant lake + (Automaton malevolences wrought + Out of the substance of Creative Thought)— + These from their immemorial prey restrained, + Their fury baffled and their power chained? + + I'm safe? Is that what the physician said? + What! "Out of danger?" Then, by Heaven, I'm dead! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning, + All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect; + And in a jeremaid of objurgatory warning + He lifted up his <i>jodel</i> to the following effect: + + O ye sanguinary statesmen, intermit your verbal tussles + O ye editors and orators, consent to hear my lay! + And a little while the digital and maxillary muscles + And attend to what a Venerable Person has to say. + + Cease your writing, cease your shouting, cease your wild unearthly lying; + Cease to bandy such expressions as are never, never found + In the letter of a lover; cease "exposing" and "replying"— + Let there be abated fury and a decrement of sound. + + For to-morrow will be Monday and the fifth day of November— + Only day of opportunity before the final rush. + <i>Carpe diem!</i> go conciliate each person who's a member + Of the other party—do it while you can without a blush. + + "Lo! the time is close upon you when the madness of the season + Having howled itself to silence, like a Minnesota 'clone, + Will at last be superseded by the still, small voice of reason, + When the whelpage of your folly you would willingly disown. + + "Ah, 'tis mournful to consider what remorses will be thronging, + With a consciousness of having been so ghastly indiscreet, + When by accident untoward two ex-gentlemen belonging + To the opposite political denominations meet! + + "Yes, 'tis melancholy, truly, to forecast the fierce, unruly + Supersurging of their blushes, like the flushes upon high + When Aurora Borealis lights her circumpolar palace + And in customary manner sets her banner in the sky. + + "Each will think: 'This falsifier knows that I too am a liar. + Curse him for a son of Satan, all unholily compound! + Curse my leader for another! Curse that pelican, my mother! + Would to God that I when little in my victual had been drowned!'" + + Then that Venerable Person went away without returning + And, the madness of the season having also taken flight, + All the people soon were blushing like the skies to crimson burning + When Aurora Borealis fires her premises by night. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOVUM ORGANUM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Bacon see the culminating prime + Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crime. + He dies and Nature, settling his affairs, + Parts his endowments among us, his heirs: + To every one a pinch of brain for seed, + And, to develop it, a pinch of greed. + Each thrifty heir, to make the gift suffice, + Buries the talent to manure the vice. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GEOTHEOS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As sweet as the look of a lover + Saluting the eyes of a maid, + That blossom to blue as the maid + Is ablush to the glances above her, + The sunshine is gilding the glade + And lifting the lark out of shade. + + Sing therefore high praises, and therefore + Sing songs that are ancient as gold, + Of Earth in her garments of gold; + Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore + They charm as of yore, for behold! + The Earth is as fair as of old. + + Sing songs of the pride of the mountains, + And songs of the strength of the seas, + And the fountains that fall to the seas + From the hands of the hills, and the fountains + That shine in the temples of trees, + In valleys of roses and bees. + + Sing songs that are dreamy and tender, + Of slender Arabian palms, + And shadows that circle the palms, + Where caravans, veiled from the splendor, + Are kneeling in blossoms and balms, + In islands of infinite calms. + + Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing + When mountains were stained as with wine + By the dawning of Time, and as wine + Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning, + Achant in the gusty pine + And the pulse of the poet's line. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YORICK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hard by an excavated street one sat + In solitary session on the sand; + And ever and anon he spake and spat + And spake again—a yellow skull in hand, + To which that retrospective Pioneer + Addressed the few remarks that follow here: + + "Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,' + Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49 + Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross + From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine? + Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way + From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?—say! + + "Was you in Frisco when the water came + Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind + The time when Peters run the faro game— + Jim Peters from old Mississip—behind + Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust + By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust? + + "I wonder was you here when Casey shot + James King o' William? And did you attend + The neck-tie dance ensuin'? <i>I</i> did not, + But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend + Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved + In sech diversions not to be involved. + + "Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed + Your face afore. I don't forget a face, + But names I disremember—I'm that breed + Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space + An' maybe my remarks is too derned free, + Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me. + + "Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed + Nigh onto every dern galoot in town. + That was as late as '50. Now she's growed + Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown, + Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss + We didn't know, the cause was—he knowed us. + + "Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine + Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you + To which Long Mary took a mighty shine, + An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo? + I guess if she could see ye now she'd take + Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake. + + "You ain't so purty now as you was then: + Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes, + An' women which are hitched to better men + Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls, + As Lengthie did. By G——! I <i>hope</i> it's you, + For" <i>(kicks the skull)</i> "I'm Jake the Kangaroo." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A VISION OF DOOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I stood upon a hill. The setting sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom— + The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled, + And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All + These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear + Had ever heard, some spiritual sense + Interpreted, though brokenly; for I + Was haunted by a consciousness of crime, + Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All + These things malign, by sight and sound revealed, + Were sin-begotten; that I knew—no more— + And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams + The sleepy senses babble to the brain + Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice, + But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud + Some words to me in a forgotten tongue, + Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn, + Returned from the illimited inane. + Again, but in a language that I knew, + As in reply to something which in me + Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words, + It spake from the dread mystery about: + "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul + That perished with eternity, attend. + What thou beholdest is as void as thou: + The shadow of a poet's dream—himself + As thou, his soul as thine, long dead, + But not like thine outlasted by its shade. + His dreams alone survive eternity + As pictures in the unsubstantial void. + Excepting thee and me (and we because + The poet wove us in his thought) remains + Of nature and the universe no part + Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread, + Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all + Its desolation and its terrors—lo! + 'T is but a phantom world. So long ago + That God and all the angels since have died + That poet lived—yourself long dead—his mind + Filled with the light of a prophetic fire, + And standing by the Western sea, above + The youngest, fairest city in the world, + Named in another tongue than his for one + Ensainted, saw its populous domain + Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there + Red-handed murder rioted; and there + The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose + The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat, + But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed: + 'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law + Look to the matter.' But the Law did not. + And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain + Within its mother's breast and the same grave + Held babe and mother; and the people smiled, + Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,' + Then the great poet, touched upon the lips + With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised + His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom— + Sang of the time to be, when God should lean + Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand, + And that foul city be no more!—a tale, + A dream, a desolation and a curse! + No vestige of its glory should survive + In fact or memory: its people dead, + Its site forgotten, and its very name + Disputed." + + "Was the prophecy fulfilled?" + The sullen disc of the declining sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom. + But not to me came any voice again; + And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, + I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POLITICS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That land full surely hastens to its end + Where public sycophants in homage bend + The populace to flatter, and repeat + The doubled echoes of its loud conceit. + Lowly their attitude but high their aim, + They creep to eminence through paths of shame, + Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r, + The dupes they flattered they at last devour. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POESY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire + That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire. + The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, + And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk. + So die ingloriously Fame's <i>élite</i>, + But dams of dunces keep the line complete. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN DEFENSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls + Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; + But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle + Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile. + + Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, + Are popular here because popular there; + And for them our ladies persistently go + Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know. + + Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess + The effort's attended with easy success; + And—pardon the freedom—'tis thought, over here, + 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer. + + It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade + Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid, + But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose + No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose. + + Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street + (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!) + 'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say + The men from politeness go seldom astray. + + Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot + Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!) + Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure, + And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure. + + "'Tis nothing but money?" "Your nobles are bought?" + As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought + That England's a country not specially free + Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae. + + You've many a widow and many a girl + With money to purchase a duke or an earl. + 'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, + When goods import buyers from over the sea. + + Alas for the woman of Albion's isle! + She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; + She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose— + But my lord of the future will talk through his nose. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INVOCATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San + Francisco, in 1888.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Goddess of Liberty! O thou + Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, + And look unmoved upon the slain, + Eternal peace upon thy brow,— + + Before thy shrine the races press, + Thy perfect favor to implore— + The proudest tyrant asks no more, + The ironed anarchist no less. + + Thine altar-coals that touch the lips + Of prophets kindle, too, the brand + By Discord flung with wanton hand + Among the houses and the ships. + + Upon thy tranquil front the star + Burns bleak and passionless and white, + Its cold inclemency of light + More dreadful than the shadows are. + + Thy name we do not here invoke + Our civic rites to sanctify: + Enthroned in thy remoter sky, + Thou heedest not our broken yoke. + + Thou carest not for such as we: + Our millions die to serve the still + And secret purpose of thy will. + They perish—what is that to thee? + + The light that fills the patriot's tomb + Is not of thee. The shining crown + Compassionately offered down + To those who falter in the gloom, + + And fall, and call upon thy name, + And die desiring—'tis the sign + Of a diviner love than thine, + Rewarding with a richer fame. + + To him alone let freemen cry + Who hears alike the victor's shout, + The song of faith, the moan of doubt, + And bends him from his nearer sky. + + God of my country and my race! + So greater than the gods of old— + So fairer than the prophets told + Who dimly saw and feared thy face,— + + Who didst but half reveal thy will + And gracious ends to their desire, + Behind the dawn's advancing fire + Thy tender day-beam veiling still,— + + To whom the unceasing suns belong, + And cause is one with consequence,— + To whose divine, inclusive sense + The moan is blended with the song,— + + Whose laws, imperfect and unjust, + Thy just and perfect purpose serve: + The needle, howsoe'er it swerve, + Still warranting the sailor's trust,— + + God, lift thy hand and make us free + To crown the work thou hast designed. + O, strike away the chains that bind + Our souls to one idolatry! + + The liberty thy love hath given + We thank thee for. We thank thee for + Our great dead fathers' holy war + Wherein our manacles were riven. + + We thank thee for the stronger stroke + Ourselves delivered and incurred + When—thine incitement half unheard— + The chains we riveted we broke. + + We thank thee that beyond the sea + The people, growing ever wise, + Turn to the west their serious eyes + And dumbly strive to be as we. + + As when the sun's returning flame + Upon the Nileside statue shone, + And struck from the enchanted stone + The music of a mighty fame, + + Let Man salute the rising day + Of Liberty, but not adore. + 'Tis Opportunity—no more— + A useful, not a sacred, ray. + + It bringeth good, it bringeth ill, + As he possessing shall elect. + He maketh it of none effect + Who walketh not within thy will. + + Give thou or more or less, as we + Shall serve the right or serve the wrong. + Confirm our freedom but so long + As we are worthy to be free. + + But when (O, distant be the time!) + Majorities in passion draw + Insurgent swords to murder Law, + And all the land is red with crime; + + Or—nearer menace!—when the band + Of feeble spirits cringe and plead + To the gigantic strength of Greed, + And fawn upon his iron hand;— + + Nay, when the steps to state are worn + In hollows by the feet of thieves, + And Mammon sits among the sheaves + And chuckles while the reapers mourn; + + Then stay thy miracle!—replace + The broken throne, repair the chain, + Restore the interrupted reign + And veil again thy patient face. + + Lo! here upon the world's extreme + We stand with lifted arms and dare + By thine eternal name to swear + Our country, which so fair we deem— + + Upon whose hills, a bannered throng, + The spirits of the sun display + Their flashing lances day by day + And hear the sea's pacific song— + + Shall be so ruled in right and grace + That men shall say: "O, drive afield + The lawless eagle from the shield, + And call an angel to the place!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RELIGION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hassan Bedreddin, clad in rags, ill-shod, + Sought the great temple of the living God. + The worshippers arose and drove him forth, + And one in power beat him with a rod. + + "Allah," he cried, "thou seest what I got; + Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot." + "Be comforted," the Holy One replied; + "It is the only place where I am not." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A MORNING FANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I drifted (or I seemed to) in a boat + Upon the surface of a shoreless sea + Whereon no ship nor anything did float, + Save only the frail bark supporting me; + And that—it was so shadowy—seemed to be + Almost from out the very vapors wrought + Of the great ocean underneath its keel; + And all that blue profound appeared as naught + But thicker sky, translucent to reveal, + Miles down, whatever through its spaces glided, + Or at the bottom traveled or abided. + + Great cities there I saw—of rich and poor, + The palace and the hovel; mountains, vales, + Forest and field, the desert and the moor, + Tombs of the good and wise who'd lived in jails, + And seas of denser fluid, white with sails + Pushed at by currents moving here and there + And sensible to sight above the flat + Of that opaquer deep. Ah, strange and fair + The nether world that I was gazing at + With beating heart from that exalted level, + And—lest I founder—trembling like the devil! + + The cities all were populous: men swarmed + In public places—chattered, laughed and wept; + And savages their shining bodies warmed + At fires in primal woods. The wild beast leapt + Upon its prey and slew it as it slept. + Armies went forth to battle on the plain + So far, far down in that unfathomed deep + The living seemed as silent as the slain, + Nor even the widows could be heard to weep. + One might have thought their shaking was but laughter; + And, truly, most were married shortly after. + + Above the wreckage of that silent fray + Strange fishes swam in circles, round and round— + Black, double-finned; and once a little way + A bubble rose and burst without a sound + And a man tumbled out upon the ground. + Lord! 'twas an eerie thing to drift apace + On that pellucid sea, beneath black skies + And o'er the heads of an undrowning race; + And when I woke I said—to her surprise + Who came with chocolate, for me to drink it: + "The atmosphere is deeper than you think it." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VISIONS OF SIN. + </h2> + <p> + KRASLAJORSK, SIBERIA, March 29. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "My eyes are better, and I shall travel slowly toward home." +</pre> + <h3> + DANENHOWER. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the regions of the Night, + Coming with recovered sight— + From the spell of darkness free, + What will Danenhower see? + + He will see when he arrives, + Doctors taking human lives. + He will see a learned judge + Whose decision will not budge + Till both litigants are fleeced + And his palm is duly greased. + Lawyers he will see who fight + Day by day and night by night; + Never both upon a side, + Though their fees they still divide. + Preachers he will see who teach + That it is divine to preach— + That they fan a sacred fire + And are worthy of their hire. + He will see a trusted wife + + (Pride of some good husband's life) + Enter at a certain door + And—but he will see no more. + He will see Good Templars reel— + See a prosecutor steal, + And a father beat his child. + He'll perhaps see Oscar Wilde. + + From the regions of the Night + Coming with recovered sight— + From the bliss of blindness free, + That's what Danenhower'll see. + + 1882. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TOWN OF DAE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Swains and maidens, young and old, + You to me this tale have told.</i> + + Where the squalid town of Dae + Irks the comfortable sea, + Spreading webs to gather fish, + As for wealth we set a wish, + Dwelt a king by right divine, + Sprung from Adam's royal line, + Town of Dae by the sea, + Divers kinds of kings there be. + + Name nor fame had Picklepip: + Ne'er a soldier nor a ship + Bore his banners in the sun; + Naught knew he of kingly sport, + And he held his royal court + Under an inverted tun. + Love and roses, ages through, + Bloom where cot and trellis stand; + Never yet these blossoms grew— + Never yet was room for two— + In a cask upon the strand. + + So it happened, as it ought, + That his simple schemes he wrought + Through the lagging summer's day + In a solitary way. + So it happened, as was best, + That he took his nightly rest + With no dreadful incubus + This way eyed and that way tressed, + Featured thus, and thus, and thus, + Lying lead-like on a breast + By cares of State enough oppressed. + Yet in dreams his fancies rude + Claimed a lordly latitude. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Dreamers mate above their state + And waken back to their degree. + + Once to cask himself away + He prepared at close of day. + As he tugged with swelling throat + At a most unkingly coat— + Not to get it off, but on, + For the serving sun was gone— + Passed a silk-appareled sprite + Toward her castle on the height, + Seized and set the garment right. + Turned the startled Picklepip— + Splendid crimson cheek and lip! + Turned again to sneak away, + + But she bade the villain stay, + Bade him thank her, which he did + With a speech that slipped and slid, + Sprawled and stumbled in its gait + As a dancer tries to skate. + Town of Dae by the sea, + In the face of silk and lace + Rags too bold should never be. + + Lady Minnow cocked her head: + "Mister Picklepip," she said, + "Do you ever think to wed?" + Town of Dae by the sea, + No fair lady ever made a + Wicked speech like that to me! + + Wretched little Picklepip + Said he hadn't any ship, + Any flocks at his command, + Nor to feed them any land; + Said he never in his life + Owned a mine to keep a wife. + But the guilty stammer so + That his meaning wouldn't flow; + So he thought his aim to reach + By some figurative speech: + Said his Fate had been unkind + Had pursued him from behind + (How the mischief could it else?) + + Came upon him unaware, + Caught him by the collar—there + Gushed the little lady's glee + Like a gush of golden bells: + "Picklepip, why, that is <i>me</i>!" + Town of Dae by the sea, + Grammar's for great scholars—she + Loved the summer and the lea. + + Stupid little Picklepip + Allowed the subtle hint to slip— + Maundered on about the ship + That he did not chance to own; + Told this grievance o'er and o'er, + Knowing that she knew before; + Told her how he dwelt alone. + Lady Minnow, for reply, + Cut him off with "So do I!" + But she reddened at the fib; + Servitors had she, <i>ad lib.</i> + Town of Dae by the sea, + In her youth who speaks no truth + Ne'er shall young and honest be. + + Witless little Picklepip + Manned again his mental ship + And veered her with a sudden shift. + Painted to the lady's thought + How he wrestled and he wrought + + Stoutly with the swimming drift + By the kindly river brought + From the mountain to the sea, + Fuel for the town of Dae. + Tedious tale for lady's ear: + From her castle on the height, + She had watched her water-knight + Through the seasons of a year, + Challenge more than met his view + And conquer better than he knew. + Now she shook her pretty pate + And stamped her foot—'t was growing late: + "Mister Picklepip, when I + Drifting seaward pass you by; + When the waves my forehead kiss + And my tresses float above— + Dead and drowned for lack of love— + You'll be sorry, sir, for this!" + And the silly creature cried— + Feared, perchance, the rising tide. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Madam Adam, when she had 'em, + May have been as bad as she. + + <i>Fiat lux!</i> Love's lumination + Fell in floods of revelation! + Blinded brain by world aglare, + Sense of pulses in the air, + + Sense of swooning and the beating + Of a voice somewhere repeating + Something indistinctly heard! + And the soul of Picklepip + Sprang upon his trembling lip, + But he spake no further word + Of the wealth he did not own; + In that moment had outgrown + Ship and mine and flock and land— + Even his cask upon the strand. + Dropped a stricken star to earth, + Type of wealth and worldly worth. + Clomb the moon into the sky, + Type of love's immensity! + Shaking silver seemed the sea, + Throne of God the town of Dae! + Town of Dae by the sea, + From above there cometh love, + Blessing all good souls that be. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANARCHIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + False to his art and to the high command + God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand + Beats all in vain the harp he touched before: + It yields a jingle and it yields no more. + No more the strings beneath his finger-tips + Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips, + Touched with a living coal from sacred fires, + Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires. + The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak; + They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek! + The more the wayward, disobedient song + Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong, + More diligently still the singer strums, + To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs. + Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean + Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene, + And Israfel, "whose heart-strings are a lute," + Though now compassion makes their music mute, + Among the weeping company appears, + Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once I "dipt into the future far as human eye could see," + And saw—it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she— + The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran + Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man. + But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set, + And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet. + Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart + All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart. + Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search: + "In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch! + Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes + I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes. + Now without a mate of any kind where am I?—that's to say, + Where shall I be to-morrow?—where exert my rightful sway + And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind? + Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined? + Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance— + From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance— + Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return + To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn. + But I fancy I detected—though I pray it wasn't that— + A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat. + So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year, + Till I'm what you now behold me—or would if you were here— + A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud + An Independent Entity appropriately loud! + Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!) + Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate— + To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man + Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van. + O the horrible dilemma!—to be odiously linked + With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!" + + As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air, + Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare— + Plato's Man!—bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump, + Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump. + First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms + It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms. + Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head, + And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said: + "My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw + Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw + To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth; + And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth. + I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl— + I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!" + + From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then + Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARMA VIRUMQUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Ours is a Christian Army"; so he said + A regiment of bangomen who led. + "And ours a Christian Navy," added he + Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea. + Better they know than men unwarlike do + What is an army and a navy, too. + Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by + The knowledge what a Christian is, and why. + For somewhat lamely the conception runs + Of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf + Between two cities, some ambitious fool, + Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave + To push his clumsy feet upon the span, + That men in after years may single him, + Saying: "Behold the fool who first went o'er!" + So be it when, as now the promise is, + Next summer sees the edifice complete + Which some do name a crematorium, + Within the vantage of whose greater maw's + Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm + And circumvent the handed mole who loves, + With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, + To mine our mortal parts in all their dips + And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth + To link his name with this fair enterprise, + As first decarcassed by the flame. And if + With rival greedings for the fiery fame + They push in clamoring multitudes, or if + With unaccustomed modesty they all + Hold off, being something loth to qualify, + Let me select the fittest for the rite. + By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise + And excellent censure of their true deserts, + And such a searching canvass of their claims, + That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice + Upon the main and general of those + Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, + Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn + God's gracious images, designed to rot, + And bellowed for the right of way for each + Distempered carrion through the water pipes. + With such a sturdy, boisterous exclaim + They did discharge themselves from their own throats + Against the splintered gates of audience + 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth + Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible + And seasoned substances—trunks, legs and arms, + Blent indistinguishable in a mass, + Like winter-woven serpents in a pit— + None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point + Of precedence, and all alive—shall serve + As fueling to fervor the retort + For after cineration of true men. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DEMAND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You promised to paint me a picture, + Dear Mat, + And I was to pay you in rhyme. + Although I am loth to inflict your + Most easy of consciences, I'm + Of opinion that fibbing is awful, + And breaking a contract unlawful, + Indictable, too, as a crime, + A slight and all that. + + If, Lady Unbountiful, any + Of that + By mortals called pity has part + In your obdurate soul—if a penny + You care for the health of my heart, + By performing your undertaking + You'll succor that organ from breaking— + And spare it for some new smart, + As puss does a rat. + + Do you think it is very becoming, + Dear Mat, + To deny me my rights evermore + And—bless you! if I begin summing + Your sins they will make a long score! + You never were generous, madam, + If you had been Eve and I Adam + You'd have given me naught but the core, + And little of that. + + Had I been content with a Titian, + A cat + By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, + No doubt I'd have had your permission + To take it—by purchase abroad. + But why should I sail o'er the ocean + For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion + All's bad that the critics belaud. + I wanted a Mat. + + Presumption's a sin, and I suffer + For that: + But still you <i>did</i> say that sometime, + If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher— + That's more than enough) of rhyme + You'd paint me a picture. I pay you + Hereby in advance; and I pray you + Condone, while you can, your crime, + And send me a Mat. + + But if you don't do it I warn you, + Dear Mat, + I'll raise such a clamor and cry + On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you + As mocker of poets and fly + With bitter complaints to Apollo: + "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, + Her beauty"—they'll hardly deny, + On second thought, <i>that</i>! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WEATHER WIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The way was long, the hill was steep, + My footing scarcely I could keep. + + The night enshrouded me in gloom, + I heard the ocean's distant boom— + + The trampling of the surges vast + Was borne upon the rising blast. + + "God help the mariner," I cried, + "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" + + Then from the impenetrable dark + A solemn voice made this remark: + + "For this locality—warm, bright; + Barometer unchanged; breeze light." + + "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, + "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, + + "Thanks—but my care is somewhat less + For Jack's, than for my own, distress. + + "Could I but find a friendly roof, + Small odds what weather were aloof. + + "For he whose comfort is secure + Another's woes can well endure." + + "The latch-string's out," the voice replied, + "And so's the door—jes' step inside." + + Then through the darkness I discerned + A hovel, into which I turned. + + Groping about beneath its thatch, + I struck my head and then a match. + + A candle by that gleam betrayed + Soon lent paraffinaceous aid. + + A pallid, bald and thin old man + I saw, who this complaint began: + + "Through summer suns and winter snows + I sets observin' of my toes. + + "I rambles with increasin' pain + The path of duty, but in vain. + + "Rewards and honors pass me by— + No Congress hears this raven cry!" + + Filled with astonishment, I spoke: + "Thou ancient raven, why this croak? + + "With observation of your toes + What Congress has to do, Heaven knows! + + "And swallow me if e'er I knew + That one could sit and ramble too!" + + To answer me that ancient swain + Took up his parable again: + + "Through winter snows and summer suns + A Weather Bureau here I runs. + + "I calls the turn, and can declare + Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair. + + "Three times a day I sings out clear + The probs to all which wants to hear. + + "Some weather stations run with light + Frivolity is seldom right. + + "A scientist from times remote, + In Scienceville my birth is wrote. + + "And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign + Jes' take your clo'es in off the line." + + "Not mine, O marvelous old man, + The methods of your art to scan, + + "Yet here no instruments there be— + Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see. + + "Did you (if questions you permit) + At the asylum leave your kit?" + + That strange old man with motion rude + Grew to surprising altitude. + + "Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns— + I tells the weather by my corns. + + "No doors and windows here you see— + The wind and m'isture enters free. + + "No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur + Here falsifies the tempercher. + + "My corns unleathered I expose + To feel the rain's foretellin' throes. + + "No stockin' from their ears keeps out + The comin' tempest's warnin' shout. + + "Sich delicacy some has got + They know next summer's to be hot. + + "This here one says (for that he's best): + 'Storm center passin' to the west.' + + "This feller's vitals is transfixed + With frost for Janawary sixt'. + + "One chap jes' now is occy'pied + In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide. + + "I've shaved this cuss so thin and true + He'll spot a fog in South Peru. + + "Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell + Observatory can excel. + + "By long a-studyin' their throbs + I catches onto all the probs." + + Much more, no doubt, he would have said, + But suddenly he turned and fled; + + For in mine eye's indignant green + Lay storms that he had not foreseen, + + Till all at once, with silent squeals, + His toes "caught on" and told his heels. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + T.A.H. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer— + Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; + Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. + And had whatever's needful for a fall. + As rough inflections on a planet merge + In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, + Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, + So in the survey of his worth the small + Asperities of spirit disappear, + Lost in the grander curves of character. + He lately was hit hard: none knew but I + The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke— + Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, + But set his teeth and made a revelry; + Drank like a devil—staining sometimes red + The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, + Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke + His welcome in a tongue so long forgot + That even his ancient guest remembered not + What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend + Still conjugating with each failing sense + The verb "to die" in every mood and tense, + Pursued his awful humor to the end. + When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke + From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, + And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY MONUMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink + A-drying along my paper, + That a monument fine will surely be mine + When death has extinguished my taper. + + From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe + Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, + A pebble will mark his respect for the stark + Stiff body that's under the barrow. + + By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone + Will make my celebrity deathless. + O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink, + They'd wait till my carcass is breathless. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O ye who push and fight + To hear a wanton sing— + Who utter the delight + That has the bogus ring,— + + O men mature in years, + In understanding young, + The membranes of whose ears + She tickles with her tongue,— + + O wives and daughters sweet, + Who call it love of art + To kiss a woman's feet + That crush a woman's heart,— + + O prudent dams and sires, + Your docile young who bring + To see how man admires + A sinner if she sing,— + + O husbands who impart + To each assenting spouse + The lesson that shall start + The buds upon your brows,— + + All whose applauding hands + Assist to rear the fame + That throws o'er all the lands + The shadow of its shame,— + + Go drag her car!—the mud + Through which its axle rolls + Is partly human blood + And partly human souls. + + Mad, mad!—your senses whirl + Like devils dancing free, + Because a strolling girl + Can hold the note high C. + + For this the avenging rod + Of Heaven ye dare defy, + And tear the law that God + Thundered from Sinai! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOSPITALITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine + (Unless to praise your rascal wine) + Yet never ask some luckless sinner + Who needs, as I do not, a dinner? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let lowly themes engage my humble pen— + Stupidities of critics, not of men. + Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace + Of the expounders' self-directed race— + Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, + Of diligent vacuity the sign. + Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse + The moral meaning of the random verse + That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen + To be half-blotted by ambitious men + Who hope with his their meaner names to link + By writing o'er it in another ink + The thoughts unreal which they think they think, + Until the mental eye in vain inspects + The hateful palimpsest to find the text. + + The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long + Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. + The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, + Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: + Explains its principles, design—in brief, + Pronounces it a parable of grief! + + The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh + With pollen from a hollyhock near by, + Declares he never heard in terms so just + The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! + The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle + To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!" + Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing + And innocently asks: "What!—did I sing?" + + O literary parasites! who thrive + Upon the fame of better men, derive + Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, + And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,— + Who find it half is profit, half delight, + To write about what you could never write,— + Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes + Of famine and discomfiture in those + You write of if they had been critics, too, + And doomed to write of nothing but of you! + + Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, + To see the lion resolutely bent! + The prosing showman who the beast displays + Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. + But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, + The lion owned the show and showed the showman? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Every religion is important. When men rise above existing + conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better + than the old one.—<i>Professor Howison</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Professor dear, I think it queer + That all these good religions + ('Twixt you and me, some two or three + Are schemes for plucking pigeons)— + + I mean 'tis strange that every change + Our poor minds to unfetter + Entails a new religion—true + As t' other one, and better. + + From each in turn the truth we learn, + That wood or flesh or spirit + May justly boast it rules the roast + Until we cease to fear it. + + Nay, once upon a time long gone + Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: + His God he'd find in any kind + Of beast, from a to izzard. + + When risen above his early love + Of dirt and blood and slumber, + He pulled down these vain deities, + And made one out of lumber. + + "Far better that than even a cat," + The Howisons all shouted; + "When God is wood religion's good!" + But one poor cynic doubted. + + "A timber God—that's very odd!" + Said Progress, and invented + The simple plan to worship Man, + Who, kindly soul! consented. + + But soon our eye we lift asky, + Our vows all unregarded, + And find (at least so says the priest) + The Truth—and Man's discarded. + + Along our line of march recline + Dead gods devoid of feeling; + And thick about each sun-cracked lout + Dried Howisons are kneeling. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAGNANIMITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "To the will of the people we loyally bow!" + That's the minority shibboleth now. + O noble antagonists, answer me flat— + What would you do if you didn't do that? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, Sinner A, to me unknown + Be such a conscience as your own! + To ease it you to Sinner B + Confess the sins of Sinner C. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A SUMMER POET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, + With a him. + And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, + On the limb; + Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking + And the dudelet is a-smoking + Cigarettes; + And the hackman is a-hacking + And the showman is a-cracking + Up his pets; + Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore + And the snapdog—we have heard it o'er and o'er; + Yes, my poet, + Well we know it— + Know the spooners how they spoon + In the bright + Dollar light + Of the country tavern moon; + Yes, the caterpillars fall + From the trees (we know it all), + And with beetles all the shelves + Are alive. + + Please unbuttonhole us—O, + Have the grace to let us go, + For we know + How you Summer poets thrive, + By the recapitulation + And insistent iteration + Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among + Ourselves! + So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. + For you, poor human linnet, + There's a half a living in it, + But there's not a copper cent in it for us! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARTHUR McEWEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Posterity with all its eyes + Will come and view him where he lies. + Then, turning from the scene away + With a concerted shrug, will say: + "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus— + What interest has that to us? + We can't admire at all, at all, + A tumble-bug without its ball." + And then a sage will rise and say: + "Good friends, you err—turn back, I pray: + This freak that you unwisely shun + Is bug and ball rolled into one." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHARLES AND PETER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere Gabriel's note to silence died + All graves of men were gaping wide. + + Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," + Rose slowly from the deepest one. + + "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," + Quoth he—"ick, bick, ban, doe,—I'm It!" + + (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, + Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe": + + Of beating Nick the subtle art + Was part of his immortal part.) + + Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, + Arriving at the Gates of Light. + + There Warden Peter, in the throes + Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. + + "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried— + "I've an engagement there inside." + + The Saint arose and scratched his head. + "I recollect your face," he said. + + "(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), + But——" Dana handed him a card. + + "Ah, yes, I now remember—bless + My soul, how dull I am I—yes, yes, + + "We've nothing better here than bliss. + Walk in. But I must tell you this: + + "We've rest and comfort, though, and peace." + "H'm—puddles," Dana said, "for geese. + + "Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no," + Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below. + + "'T is not included in our scheme— + 'T is but a preacher's idle dream." + + The great man slowly moved away. + "I'll call," he said, "another day. + + "On earth I played it, o'er and o'er, + And Heaven without it were a bore." + + "O, stuff!—come in. You'll make," said Pete, + "A hell where'er you set your feet." + + 1885. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTEMPLATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I muse upon the distant town + In many a dreamy mood. + Above my head the sunbeams crown + The graveyard's giant rood. + The lupin blooms among the tombs. + The quail recalls her brood. + + Ah, good it is to sit and trace + The shadow of the cross; + It moves so still from place to place + O'er marble, bronze and moss; + With graves to mark upon its arc + Our time's eternal loss. + + And sweet it is to watch the bee + That reve's in the rose, + And sense the fragrance floating free + On every breeze that blows + O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, + Mine enemies repose. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CREATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place, + And sailing worlds with many a venturous race! + He woke—His smile alone illumined space. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BUSINESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two villains of the highest rank + Set out one night to rob a bank. + They found the building, looked it o'er, + Each window noted, tried each door, + Scanned carefully the lidded hole + For minstrels to cascade the coal— + In short, examined five-and-twenty + Good paths from poverty to plenty. + But all were sealed, they saw full soon, + Against the minions of the moon. + "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied." + The other, smiling fair and wide, + Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you: + No burglar ever can get through. + Fate surely prospers our design— + The booty all is yours and mine." + So, full of hope, the following day + To the exchange they took their way + And bought, with manner free and frank, + Some stock of that devoted bank; + And they became, inside the year, + One President and one Cashier. + + Their crime I can no further trace— + The means of safety to embrace, + I overdrew and left the place. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A POSSIBILITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If the wicked gods were willing + (Pray it never may be true!) + That a universal chilling + Should ensue + Of the sentiment of loving,— + If they made a great undoing + Of the plan of turtle-doving, + Then farewell all poet-lore, + Evermore. + If there were no more of billing + There would be no more of cooing + And we all should be but owls— + Lonely fowls + Blinking wonderfully wise, + With our great round eyes— + Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two, + As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo; + With regard to being mated, + Asking still with aggravated + Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A CENSOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of + our judges is responsible for half the murders."—<i>Daily Newspaper</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend, + Impeach Delay and you will make an end. + Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot + For doing all the things that it should not. + Put not good-natured judges under bond, + But make Delay in damages respond. + Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled + Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold— + Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled + To "lash the rascals naked through the world." + The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing + Above whose back your knotted scourges sing. + <i>Your</i> satire, truly, like a razor keen, + "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;" + For naught that you assail with falchion free + Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see. + Against abstractions evermore you charge + You hack no helmet and you need no targe. + That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice, + That wrong's not right and foulness never nice, + Fearless affirm. All consequences dare: + Smite the offense and the offender spare. + When Ananias and Sapphira lied + Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died. + When money-changers in the Temple sat, + At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat" + (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen) + And all the brokers would have cried amen! + + Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame + Have you no courage, or has he no name? + Upon his method will you wreak your wrath, + Himself all unmolested in his path? + Fall to! fall to!—your club no longer draw + To beat the air or flail a man of straw. + Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall + Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall. + Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal— + Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel! + + We know that judges are corrupt. We know + That crimes are lively and that laws are slow. + We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay; + That priests and preachers are but birds of pray; + That merchants cheat and journalists for gold + Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold. + 'Tis all familiar as the simple lore + That two policemen and two thieves make four. + + But since, while some are wicked, some are good, + (As trees may differ though they all are wood) + Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit, + The bad would sentence and the good acquit. + In sparing everybody none you spare: + Rebukes most personal are least unfair. + To fire at random if you still prefer, + And swear at Dog but never kick a cur, + Permit me yet one ultimate appeal + To something that you understand and feel: + Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade— + You might be read if you would learn your trade. + + Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed + Not one of you but all are here addressed) + Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart + Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart + Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green, + Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HESITATING VETERAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I was young and full of faith + And other fads that youngsters cherish + A cry rose as of one that saith + With unction: "Help me or I perish!" + 'Twas heard in all the land, and men + The sound were each to each repeating. + It made my heart beat faster then + Than any heart can now be beating. + + For the world is old and the world is gray— + Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. + She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, + And doesn't now go in for Pity. + Besides, the melancholy cry + Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, + Whose plight no one beneath the sky + Felt half so poignantly as he did. + + Moreover, he was black. And yet + That sentimental generation + With an austere compassion set + Its face and faith to the occasion. + Then there were hate and strife to spare, + And various hard knocks a-plenty; + And I ('twas more than my true share, + I must confess) took five-and-twenty. + + That all is over now—the reign + Of love and trade stills all dissensions, + And the clear heavens arch again + Above a land of peace and pensions. + The black chap—at the last we gave + Him everything that he had cried for, + Though many white chaps in the grave + 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for. + + I hope he's better off—I trust + That his society and his master's + Are worth the price we paid, and must + Continue paying, in disasters; + But sometimes doubts press thronging round + ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) + If war for union was a sound + And profitable undertaking. + + 'Tis said they mean to take away + The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. + 'Tis true he sits in darkness day + And night, as formerly, when fettered; + But pray observe—howe'er he vote + To whatsoever party turning, + He'll be with gentlemen of note + And wealth and consequence and learning. + With Hales and Morgans on each side, + How could a fool through lack of knowledge, + Vote wrong? If learning is no guide + Why ought one to have been in college? + O Son of Day, O Son of Night! + What are your preferences made of? + I know not which of you is right, + Nor which to be the more afraid of. + + The world is old and the world is bad, + And creaks and grinds upon its axis; + And man's an ape and the gods are mad!— + There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. + No mortal man can Truth restore, + Or say where she is to be sought for. + I know what uniform I wore— + O, that I knew which side I fought for! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, + Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, + Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed + The river to join the loved and lost. + In the space of a year their spirits fled, + Silent and white, to the camp of the dead. + + One after one, they fall asleep + And the pension agents awake to weep, + And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail + As the souls flit by on the evening gale. + O Father of Battles, pray give us release + From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INSPIRATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: + I fain would view the lettered stone. + What carvest thou?—perchance some grand + And solemn fancy all thine own. + For oft to know the fitting word + Some humble worker God permits. + "Jain Ann Meginnis, + Agid 3rd. + He givith His beluved fits." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO-DAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw a man who knelt in prayer, + And heard him say: + "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare + To-day. + + "Lord, for to-morrow and its need + I do not pray; + Let me upon my neighbor feed + To-day. + + "Let me my duty duly shirk + And run away + From any form or phase of work + To-day. + + "From Thy commands exempted still + Let me obey + The promptings of my private will + To-day. + + "Let me no word profane, no lie + Unthinking say + If anyone is standing by + To-day. + + "My secret sins and vices grave + Let none betray; + The scoffer's jeers I do not crave + To-day. + + "And if to-day my fortune all + Should ebb away, + Help me on other men's to fall + To-day. + + "So, for to-morrow and its mite + I do not pray; + Just give me everything in sight + To-day." + + I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran + Like oil away. + I said: "I've seen an honest man + To-day." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ALIBI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A famous journalist, who long + Had told the great unheaded throng + Whate'er they thought, by day or night. + Was true as Holy Writ, and right, + Was caught in—well, on second thought, + It is enough that he was caught, + And being thrown in jail became + The fuel of a public flame. + + "<i>Vox populi vox Dei</i>," said + The jailer. Inxling bent his head + Without remark: that motto good + In bold-faced type had always stood + Above the columns where his pen + Had rioted in praise of men + And all they said—provided he + Was sure they mostly did agree. + Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife + To take, or save, the culprit's life + Or liberty (which, I suppose, + Was much the same to him) arose + Outside. The journal that his pen + Adorned denounced his crime—but then + Its editor in secret tried + To have the indictment set aside. + The opposition papers swore + His father was a rogue before, + And all his wife's relations were + Like him and similar to her. + They begged their readers to subscribe + A dollar each to make a bribe + That any Judge would feel was large + Enough to prove the gravest charge— + Unless, it might be, the defense + Put up superior evidence. + The law's traditional delay + Was all too short: the trial day + Dawned red and menacing. The Judge + Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, + And all the motions counsel made + Could not move <i>him</i>—and there he stayed. + "The case must now proceed," he said, + "While I am just in heart and head, + It happens—as, indeed, it ought— + Both sides with equal sums have bought + My favor: I can try the cause + Impartially." (Prolonged applause.) + + The prisoner was now arraigned + And said that he was greatly pained + To be suspected—<i>he</i>, whose pen + Had charged so many other men + With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," + He said, a tear in either eye, + "If men who live by crying out + 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt + Of their integrity exempt, + Let all forego the vain attempt + To make a reputation! Sir, + I'm innocent, and I demur." + Whereat a thousand voices cried + Amain he manifestly lied— + <i>Vox populi</i> as loudly roared + As bull by <i>picadores</i> gored, + In his own coin receiving pay + To make a Spanish holiday. + + The jury—twelve good men and true— + Were then sworn in to see it through, + And each made solemn oath that he + As any babe unborn was free + From prejudice, opinion, thought, + Respectability, brains—aught + That could disqualify; and some + Explained that they were deaf and dumb. + A better twelve, his Honor said, + Was rare, except among the dead. + The witnesses were called and sworn. + The tales they told made angels mourn, + And the Good Book they'd kissed became + Red with the consciousness of shame. + + Whenever one of them approached + The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, + Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. + "Strike out his testimony," quoth + The learned judge: "This Court denies + Its ear to stories which surprise. + I hold that witnesses exempt + From coaching all are in contempt." + Both Prosecution and Defense + Applauded the judicial sense, + And the spectators all averred + Such wisdom they had never heard: + 'Twas plain the prisoner would be + Found guilty in the first degree. + Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed + The nameless terrors in his breast. + He felt remorseful, too, because + He wasn't half they said he was. + "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused + On opportunities unused, + "I might have easily become + As wealthy as Methusalum." + This journalist adorned, alas, + The middle, not the Bible, class. + + With equal skill the lawyers' pleas + Attested their divided fees. + Each gave the other one the lie, + Then helped him frame a sharp reply. + + Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, + And lasted all the day and night. + When once or oftener the roar + Had silenced the judicial snore + The speaker suffered for the sport + By fining for contempt of court. + Twelve jurors' noses good and true + Unceasing sang the trial through, + And even <i>vox populi</i> was spent + In rattles through a nasal vent. + Clerk, bailiff, constables and all + Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call + To arms—his arms—and all fell in + Save counsel for the Man of Sin. + That thaumaturgist stood and swayed + The wand their faculties obeyed— + That magic wand which, like a flame. + Leapt, wavered, quivered and became + A wonder-worker—known among + The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue. + + How long, O Lord, how long my verse + Runs on for better or for worse + In meter which o'ermasters me, + Octosyllabically free!— + A meter which, the poets say, + No power of restraint can stay;— + A hard-mouthed meter, suited well + To him who, having naught to tell, + Must hold attention as a trout + Is held, by paying out and out + The slender line which else would break + Should one attempt the fish to take. + Thus tavern guides who've naught to show + But some adjacent curio + By devious trails their patrons lead + And make them think 't is far indeed. + Where was I? + + While the lawyer talked + The rogue took up his feet and walked: + While all about him, roaring, slept, + Into the street he calmly stepped. + In very truth, the man who thought + The people's voice from heaven had caught + God's inspiration took a change + Of venue—it was passing strange! + Straight to his editor he went + And that ingenious person sent + A Negro to impersonate + The fugitive. In adequate + Disguise he took his vacant place + And buried in his arms his face. + When all was done the lawyer stopped + And silence like a bombshell dropped + Upon the Court: judge, jury, all + Within that venerable hall + (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, + And one or two whom death had freed) + Awoke and tried to look as though + Slumber was all they did not know. + + And now that tireless lawyer-man + Took breath, and then again began: + "Your Honor, if you did attend + To what I've urged (my learned friend + Nodded concurrence) to support + The motion I have made, this court + May soon adjourn. With your assent + I've shown abundant precedent + For introducing now, though late, + New evidence to exculpate + My client. So, if you'll allow, + I'll prove an <i>alibi</i>!" "What?—how?" + Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't + Deny your showing, and I grant + The motion. Do I understand + You undertake to prove—good land!— + That when the crime—you mean to show + Your client wasn't <i>there</i>?" "O, no, + I cannot quite do that, I find: + My <i>alibi's</i> another kind + Of <i>alibi</i>,—I'll make it clear, + Your Honor, that he isn't <i>here</i>." + The Darky here upreared his head, + Tranquillity affrighted fled + And consternation reigned instead! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REBUKE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Admonition's hand essays + Our greed to curse, + Its lifted finger oft displays + Our missing purse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + J.F.B. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How well this man unfolded to our view + The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell— + This man whose own convictions none could tell, + Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. + Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew + The fair philosophies of doubt so well + That while we listened to his words there fell + Some that were strangely comforting, though true. + Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt, + We said: "If so, by groping in the night, + He can proclaim some certain paths of trust, + How great our profit if he saw about + His feet the highways leading to the light." + Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DYING STATESMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is a politician man— + He draweth near his end, + And friends weep round that partisan, + Of every man the friend. + + Between the Known and the Unknown + He lieth on the strand; + The light upon the sea is thrown + That lay upon the land. + + It shineth in his glazing eye, + It burneth on his face; + God send that when we come to die + We know that sign of grace! + + Upon his lips his blessed sprite + Poiseth her joyous wing. + "How is it with thee, child of light? + Dost hear the angels sing?" + + "The song I hear, the crown I see, + And know that God is love. + Farewell, dark world—I go to be + A postmaster above!" + + For him no monumental arch, + But, O, 'tis good and brave + To see the Grand Old Party march + To office o'er his grave! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF GRANT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Father! whose hard and cruel law + Is part of thy compassion's plan, + Thy works presumptuously we scan + For what the prophets say they saw. + + Unbidden still the awful slope + Walling us in we climb to gain + Assurance of the shining plain + That faith has certified to hope. + + In vain!—beyond the circling hill + The shadow and the cloud abide. + Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide + To trust the Record and be still. + + To trust it loyally as he + Who, heedful of his high design, + Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, + But wrought thy will unconsciously, + + Disputing not of chance or fate, + Nor questioning of cause or creed; + For anything but duty's deed + Too simply wise, too humbly great. + + The cannon syllabled his name; + His shadow shifted o'er the land, + Portentous, as at his command + Successive cities sprang to flame! + + He fringed the continent with fire, + The rivers ran in lines of light! + Thy will be done on earth—if right + Or wrong he cared not to inquire. + + His was the heavy hand, and his + The service of the despot blade; + His the soft answer that allayed + War's giant animosities. + + Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, + Fill, Father, with another light, + That we may see with clearer sight + Thy servant's soul in Paradise. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + The Muse of History records + That he'd get drunk as twenty lords. + + He'd get so truly drunk that men + Stood by to marvel at him when + His slow advance along the street + Was but a vain cycloidal feat. + + And when 'twas fated that he fall + With a wide geographical sprawl, + They signified assent by sounds + Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds. + + And yet this Mr. Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes + When it was red or otherwise. + + All malt, or spirituous, tope + He loathed as cats dissent from soap; + And cider, if it touched his lip, + Evoked a groan at every sip. + + But still, as heretofore explained, + He not infrequently was grained. + (I'm not of those who call it "corned." + Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.) + + Though truth to say, and that's but right, + Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) + Was what had put him in the mud, + The only kind he used was blood! + + Alas, that an immortal soul + Addicted to the flowing bowl, + The emptied flagon should again + Replenish from a neighbor's vein. + + But, Mr. Shanahan was so + Constructed, and his taste that low. + Nor more deplorable was he + In kind of thirst than in degree; + + For sometimes fifty souls would pay + The debt of nature in a day + To free him from the shame and pain + Of dread Sobriety's misreign. + + His native land, proud of its sense + Of his unique inabstinence, + Abated something of its pride + At thought of his unfilled inside. + + And some the boldness had to say + 'Twere well if he were called away + To slake his thirst forevermore + In oceans of celestial gore. + + But Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Knew that his thirst was mortal; so + Remained unsainted here below— + + Unsainted and unsaintly, for + He neither went to glory nor + To abdicate his power deigned + Where, under Providence, he reigned, + + But kept his Boss's power accurst + To serve his wild uncommon thirst. + Which now had grown so truly great + It was a drain upon the State. + + Soon, soon there came a time, alas! + When he turned down an empty glass— + All practicable means were vain + His special wassail to obtain. + + In vain poor Decimation tried + To furnish forth the needful tide; + And Civil War as vainly shed + Her niggard offering of red. + + Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased + Until he wished himself deceased, + Invoked the firearm and the knife, + But could not die to save his life! + + He was so dry his own veins made + No answer to the seeking blade; + So parched that when he would have passed + Away he could not breathe his last. + + 'Twas then, when almost in despair, + (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) + He saw as in a dream a way + To wet afresh his mortal clay. + + Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Saw freedom, and with joy and pride + "Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried. + + Straight to the Aldermen went he, + With many a "pull" and many a fee, + And many a most corrupt "combine" + (The Press for twenty cents a line + + Held out and fought him—O, God, bless + Forevermore the holy Press!) + Till he had franchises complete + For trolley lines on every street! + + The cars were builded and, they say, + Were run on rails laid every way— + Rhomboidal roads, and circular, + And oval—everywhere a car— + + Square, dodecagonal (in great + Esteem the shape called Figure 8) + And many other kinds of shapes + As various as tails of apes. + + No other group of men's abodes + E'er had such odd electric roads, + That winding in and winding out, + Began and ended all about. + + No city had, unless in Mars, + That city's wealth of trolley cars. + They ran by day, they flew by night, + And O, the sorry, sorry sight! + + And Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Incessantly, the Muse records, + Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LAUS LUCIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the + Mysteries of Antiquity."—<i>Vide the Newspapers, passim</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Each to his taste: some men prefer to play + At mystery, as others at piquet. + Some sit in mystic meditation; some + Parade the street with tambourine and drum. + One studies to decipher ancient lore + Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; + Another swears that learning is but good + To darken things already understood, + Then writes upon Simplicity so well + That none agree on what he wants to tell, + And future ages will declare his pen + Inspired by gods with messages to men. + To found an ancient order those devote + Their time—with ritual, regalia, goat, + Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease + And all the modern inconveniences; + These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites + And go to church for rational delights. + So all are suited, shallow and profound, + The prophets prosper and the world goes round. + For me—unread in the occult, I'm fain + To damn all mysteries alike as vain, + Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon + The Revelations of the good St. John. + + 1897. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NANINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We heard a song-bird trilling— + 'T was but a night ago. + Such rapture he was rilling + As only we could know. + + This morning he is flinging + His music from the tree, + But something in the singing + Is not the same to me. + + His inspiration fails him, + Or he has lost his skill. + Nanine, Nanine, what ails him + That he should sing so ill? + + Nanine is not replying— + She hears no earthly song. + The sun and bird are lying + And the night is, O, so long! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TECHNOLOGY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas a serious person with locks of gray + And a figure like a crescent; + His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, + But his smile was evanescent. + + He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and + With (likewise) a high falsetto; + And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand + As if it had been a stiletto. + + His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, + Came out of his head unblended, + And the wonderful altitude of some + Was exceptionally splendid. + + While executing a shake of the head, + With the hand, as it were, of a master, + This agonizing old gentleman said: + "'Twas a truly sad disaster! + + "Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, + Went down"—he paused and snuffled. + A single tear was observed to fall, + And the old man's drum was muffled. + + "A very calamitous year," he said. + And again his head-piece hoary + He shook, and another pearl he shed, + As if he wept <i>con amore.</i> + + "O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why + Should these failures so affect you? + With speculators in stocks no eye + That's normal would ever connect you." + + He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled + In a sinister sort of manner. + "Young man," he said, "your words are wild: + I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.' + + "For she has went down in a howlin' squall, + And my heart is nigh to breakin'— + Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all + Will never need undertakin'! + + "I'm in the business myself," said he, + "And you've mistook my expression; + For I uses the technical terms, you see, + Employed in my perfession." + + That old undertaker has joined the throng + On the other side of the River, + But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long," + And a tape-line makes me shiver. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A REPLY TO A LETTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O nonsense, parson—tell me not they thrive + And jubilate who follow your dictation. + The good are the unhappiest lot alive— + I know they are from careful observation. + If freedom from the terrors of damnation + Lengthens the visage like a telescope, + And lacrymation is a sign of hope, + Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, + To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope + Contentedly without your lantern's light; + And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, + Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap. + + You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, + With many a million others of my kidney. + Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed + With sinners—worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney + And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss + To simulate respect for Genesis— + Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, + But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, + And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss. + + Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, + Must go to—beg your pardon, sir—perdition, + The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, + But count it sin of the sort called omission + The groan to smother or the tear to stay + Or fail to—what is that they live by?—pray. + So down they flop, and the whole serious race is + Put by divine compassion on a praying basis. + + Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet + Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, + You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, + And you look down upon us out of Heaven. + In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades + Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades + Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, + Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound, + Dash downward through the glimmering profound, + Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out! + + Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs + To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs + Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, + With less of ink than incoherence fraught + Befits the folly that it tries to utter. + Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: + You suffer from impediment of thought. + + When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: + Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where! + Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, + Bears witness how my anger I can tame: + I've called you everything except your hateful name! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO OSCAR WILDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because from Folly's lips you got + Some babbled mandate to subdue + The realm of Common Sense, and you + Made promise and considered not— + + Because you strike a random blow + At what you do not understand, + And beckon with a friendly hand + To something that you do not know, + + I hold no speech of your desert, + Nor answer with porrected shield + The wooden weapon that you wield, + But meet you with a cast of dirt. + + Dispute with such a thing as you— + Twin show to the two-headed calf? + Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, + 'T is more than half the world can do. + + 1882. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRAYER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fear not in any tongue to call + Upon the Lord—He's skilled in all. + But if He answereth my plea + He speaketh one unknown to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh + Is a statesman of world-wide fame, + With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh + To glorify somebody's name— + Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters + To succor the country from divers disasters + Portentous to Mr. Mahosh. + + Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee + Is in the political swim. + He cares not a button for men, not he: + Great principles captivate him— + Principles cleverly cut out and fitted + To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, + And fought for by Mr. Cabee. + + Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse + Holds office the most of his life. + For men nor for principles cares he a curse, + But much for his neighbor's wife. + The Ship of State leaks, but <i>he</i> doesn't pump any, + Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company + Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Liberty, God-gifted— + Young and immortal maid— + In your high hand uplifted; + The torch declares your trade. + + Its crimson menace, flaming + Upon the sea and shore, + Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming + That Law shall be no more. + + Austere incendiary, + We're blinking in the light; + Where is your customary + Grenade of dynamite? + + Where are your staves and switches + For men of gentle birth? + Your mask and dirk for riches? + Your chains for wit and worth? + + Perhaps, you've brought the halters + You used in the old days, + When round religion's altars + You stabled Cromwell's bays? + + Behind you, unsuspected, + Have you the axe, fair wench, + Wherewith you once collected + A poll-tax from the French? + + America salutes you— + Preparing to disgorge. + Take everything that suits you, + And marry Henry George. + + 1894 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. + One place it never comes, and that is here. + Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, + No well-worn greetings tediously ring— + For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: + The hollower they are they ring the more. + Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, + Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, + No trinket-laden vegetable come, + No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. + No shrilling children shall their voices rear. + Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer! + + No presents, if you please—I know too well + What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell + (I know not if he did) yet might have told + Of present-giving in the days of old, + When Early Man with gifts propitiated + The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, + Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude + Advantage from the taker's gratitude. + Since thus the Gift its origin derives + (How much of its first character survives + You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, + My pocket buttoned—with my soul inside. + I save my money and I save my pride. + + Dinner? Yes; thank you—just a human body + Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy + To give me appetite; and as for drink, + About a half a jug of blood, I think, + Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, + Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine + Fretting the satin surface of its flood. + O tope of kings—divine Falernian—blood! + + Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, + The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! + Has not a pagan rights to be regarded— + His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded + With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan + Even in his demonium would ban? + + No, friends—no Christmas here, for I have sworn + To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. + Enough you have of jester, player, priest: + I as the skeleton attend your feast, + In the mad revelry to make a lull + With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. + However you my services may flout, + Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, + I mean to hold in customary state, + My dismal revelry and celebrate + My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, + Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom + And cultivate an oasis of gloom. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes + Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; + Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown + Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; + Justice denied, authority abused, + And the one honest person the accused— + Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, + Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPITAPH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse— + So small a tenant of so big a house! + He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist + Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) + And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, + His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,— + What poetry he'd written but for lack + Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! + Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep + To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! + To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs + And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. + No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, + Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" + The genius of his purse no longer draws + The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. + All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, + Though riddances of worms improve his brains. + All his no talents to the earth revert, + And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POLITICIAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Let Glory's sons manipulate + The tiller of the Ship of State. + Be mine the humble, useful toil + To work the tiller of the soil." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INSCRIPTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him who + Made it Beautiful. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dear + Good folk he lived and moved among in peace— + Guarded on either hand by the police, + With soldiers in his front and in his rear. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The polecat, sovereign of its native wood, + Dashes damnation upon bad and good; + The health of all the upas trees impairs + By exhalations deadlier than theirs; + Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad— + The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode! + She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking dale + The horrid aspergillus of her tail! + From every saturated hair, till dry, + The spargent fragrances divergent fly, + Deafen the earth and scream along the sky! + + Removed to alien scenes, amid the strife + Of urban odors to ungladden life— + Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspire + The flesh to torture and the soul to fire— + Where all the "well defined and several stinks" + Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks— + Humbled in spirit, smitten with a sense + Of lost distinction, leveled eminence, + She suddenly resigns her baleful trust, + Nor ever lays again our mortal dust. + Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk, + She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O, I'm the Unaverage Man, + But you never have heard of me, + For my brother, the Average Man, outran + My fame with rapiditee, + And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea, + But my bully big brother the world can span + With his wide notorietee. + I do everything that I can + To make 'em attend to me, + But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man + With a weird uniformitee." + + So sang with a dolorous note + A voice that I heard from the beach; + On the sable waters it seemed to float + Like a mortal part of speech. + The sea was Oblivion's sea, + And I cried as I plunged to swim: + "The Unaverage Man shall reside with me." + But he didn't—I stayed with him! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spice + And shells and corals, brought for my inspection + From the fair tropics—paid a Christian price + And was content in my fool's paradise, + Where never had been heard the word "Protection." + + 'T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone— + No customs-house, collector nor collection, + But a man came, who, in a pious tone + Condoled with me that I had never known + The manifest advantage of Protection. + + So, when the trading-boat arrived one day, + He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section. + The traders paddled for their lives away, + Nor came again into that haunted bay, + The blessed home thereafter of Protection. + + Then down he sat, that philanthropic man, + And spat upon some mud of his selection, + And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan, + To shapes of shells and coral things, and span + A thread of song in glory of Protection. + + He baked them in the sun. His air devout + Enchanted me. I made a genuflexion: + "God help you, gentle sir," I said. "No doubt," + He answered gravely, "I'll get on without + Assistance now that we have got Protection." + + Thenceforth I bought his wares—at what a price + For shells and corals of such imperfection! + "Ah, now," said he, "your lot is truly nice." + But still in all that isle there was no spice + To season to my taste that dish, Protection. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I died. As meekly in the earth I lay, + With shriveled fingers reverently folded, + The worm—uncivil engineer!—my clay + Tunneled industriously, and the mole did. + My body could not dodge them, but my soul did; + For that had flown from this terrestrial ball + And I was rid of it for good and all. + + So there I lay, debating what to do— + What measures might most usefully be taken + To circumvent the subterranean crew + Of anthropophagi and save my bacon. + My fortitude was all this while unshaken, + But any gentleman, of course, protests + Against receiving uninvited guests. + + However proud he might be of his meats, + Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus, + Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets; + "<i>Aut Caesar</i>," say judicious hosts, "<i>aut nullus</i>." + And though when Marcius came unbidden Tullus + Aufidius feasted him because he starved, + Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved. + + We feed the hungry, as the book commands + (For men might question else our orthodoxy) + But do not care to see the outstretched hands, + And so we minister to them by proxy. + When Want, in his improper person, knocks he + Finds we're engaged. The graveworm's very fresh + To think we like his presence in the flesh. + + So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in all + That underworld no judges could determine + My rights. When Death approaches them they fall, + And falling, naturally soil their ermine. + And still below ground, as above, the vermin + That work by dark and silent methods win + The case—the burial case that one is in. + + Cases at law so slowly get ahead, + Even when the right is visibly unclouded, + That if all men are classed as quick and dead, + The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded. + Pray Jove that when they're actually crowded + On Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight, + His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite. + + Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begot + A race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourish + And woman to caress, the muse had not + Lamented the decay of virtues currish, + And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish, + For barking, biting, kissing to employ + Canine repeaters were indeed a joy. + + Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I, + Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping, + By moles and worms and such familiar fry + Run through and through, am singing still and harping + Of mundane matters—flatting, too, and sharping. + I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup: + So I'm for getting—and for shutting—up. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN MEMORIAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid + Of many things in the world afraid. + She wasn't a maid who turned and fled + At sight of a mouse, alive or dead. + She wasn't a maid a man could "shoo" + By shouting, however abruptly, "Boo!" + She wasn't a maid who'd run and hide + If her face and figure you idly eyed. + She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shake + When asked what part of the fowl she'd take. + (I blush myself to confess she preferred, + And commonly got, the most of the bird.) + She wasn't a maid to simper because + She was asked to sing—if she ever was. + + In short, if the truth must be displayed + <i>In puris</i>—Beauty wasn't a maid. + Beauty, furry and fine and fat, + Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that, + Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat! + + I loved her well, and I'm proud that she + Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me; + In fact I have sometimes gone so far + (You know, mesdames, how silly men are) + As to think she preferred—excuse the conceit— + <i>My</i> legs upon which to sharpen her feet. + Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much, + But I started and thrilled beneath her touch! + + Ah, well, that's ancient history now: + The fingers of Time have touched my brow, + And I hear with never a start to-day + That Beauty has passed from the earth away. + Gone!—her death-song (it killed her) sung. + Gone!—her fiddlestrings all unstrung. + Gone to the bliss of a new <i>régime</i> + Of turkey smothered in seas of cream; + Of roasted mice (a superior breed, + To science unknown and the coarser need + Of the living cat) cooked by the flame + Of the dainty soul of an erring dame + Who gave to purity all her care, + Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,— + Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice + By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise; + A very digestible sort of mice. + + Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold + That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold, + To eat and eat, forever and aye, + On a velvet rug from a golden tray. + But the human spirit—that is my creed— + Rots in the ground like a barren seed. + That is my creed, abhorred by Man + But approved by Cat since time began. + Till Death shall kick at me, thundering "Scat!" + I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STATESMEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How blest the land that counts among + Her sons so many good and wise, + To execute great feats of tongue + When troubles rise. + + Behold them mounting every stump + Our liberty by speech to guard. + Observe their courage:—see them jump + And come down hard! + + "Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud, + "And learn from me what you must do + To turn aside the thunder cloud, + The earthquake too. + + "Beware the wiles of yonder quack + Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. + I—I alone can show that black + Is white as grass." + + They shout through all the day and break + The silence of the night as well. + They'd make—I wish they'd <i>go</i> and make— + Of Heaven a Hell. + + A advocates free silver, B + Free trade and C free banking laws. + Free board, clothes, lodging would from me + Win warm applause. + + Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see + The single tax on land would fall + On all alike." More evenly + No tax at all. + + "With paper money" bellows E + "We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt— + And richest of the lot will be + The chap without. + + As many "cures" as addle wits + Who know not what the ailment is! + Meanwhile the patient foams and spits + Like a gin fizz. + + Alas, poor Body Politic, + Your fate is all too clearly read: + To be not altogether quick, + Nor very dead. + + You take your exercise in squirms, + Your rest in fainting fits between. + 'T is plain that your disorder's worms— + Worms fat and lean. + + Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell + Within your maw and muscle's scope. + Their quarrels make your life a Hell, + Your death a hope. + + God send you find not such an end + To ills however sharp and huge! + God send you convalesce! God send + You vermifuge. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BROTHERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scene—<i>A lawyer's dreadful den. + Enter stall-fed citizen.</i> +</pre> + <p> + LAWYER.—'Mornin'. How-de-do? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +CITIZEN.—Sir, same to you. + Called as counsel to retain you + In a case that I'll explain you. + Sad, <i>so</i> sad! Heart almost broke. + Hang it! where's my kerchief? Smoke? + Brother, sir, and I, of late, + Came into a large estate. + Brother's—h'm, ha,—rather queer + Sometimes <i>(tapping forehead) </i>here. + What he needs—you know—a "writ"— + Something, eh? that will permit + Me to manage, sir, in fine, + His estate, as well as mine. + 'Course he'll <i>kick</i>; 't will break, I fear, + His loving heart—excuse this tear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +LAWYER.—Have you nothing more? + All of this you said before— + When last night I took your case. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +CITIZEN.—Why, sir, your face + Ne'er before has met my view! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +LAWYER.—Eh? The devil! True: + My mistake—it was your brother. + But you're very like each other. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In that fair city, Ispahan, + There dwelt a problematic man, + Whose angel never was released, + Who never once let out his beast, + But kept, through all the seasons' round, + Silence unbroken and profound. + No Prophecy, with ear applied + To key-hole of the future, tried + Successfully to catch a hint + Of what he'd do nor when begin 't; + As sternly did his past defy + Mild Retrospection's backward eye. + Though all admired his silent ways, + The women loudest were in praise: + For ladies love those men the most + Who never, never, never boast— + Who ne'er disclose their aims and ends + To naughty, naughty, naughty friends. + + Yet, sooth to say, the fame outran + The merit of this doubtful man, + For taciturnity in him, + Though not a mere caprice or whim, + Was not a virtue, such as truth, + High birth, or beauty, wealth or youth. + + 'Twas known, indeed, throughout the span + Of Ispahan, of Gulistan— + These utmost limits of the earth + Knew that the man was dumb from birth. + + Unto the Sun with deep salaams + The Parsee spreads his morning palms + (A beacon blazing on a height + Warms o'er his piety by night.) + The Moslem deprecates the deed, + Cuts off the head that holds the creed, + Then reverently goes to grass, + Muttering thanks to Balaam's Ass + For faith and learning to refute + Idolatry so dissolute! + But should a maniac dash past, + With straws in beard and hands upcast, + To him (through whom, whene'er inclined + To preach a bit to Madmankind, + The Holy Prophet speaks his mind) + Our True Believer lifts his eyes + Devoutly and his prayer applies; + But next to Solyman the Great + Reveres the idiot's sacred state. + Small wonder then, our worthy mute + Was held in popular repute. + Had he been blind as well as mum, + Been lame as well as blind and dumb, + No bard that ever sang or soared + Could say how he had been adored. + More meagerly endowed, he drew + An homage less prodigious. True, + No soul his praises but did utter— + All plied him with devotion's butter, + But none had out—'t was to their credit— + The proselyting sword to spread it. + I state these truths, exactly why + The reader knows as well as I; + They've nothing in the world to do + With what I hope we're coming to + If Pegasus be good enough + To move when he has stood enough. + Egad! his ribs I would examine + Had I a sharper spur than famine, + Or even with that if 'twould incline + To examine his instead of mine. + Where was I? Ah, that silent man + Who dwelt one time in Ispahan— + He had a name—was known to all + As Meerza Solyman Zingall. + + There lived afar in Astrabad, + A man the world agreed was mad, + So wickedly he broke his joke + Upon the heads of duller folk, + So miserly, from day to day, + He gathered up and hid away + In vaults obscure and cellars haunted + What many worthy people wanted, + A stingy man!—the tradesmen's palms + Were spread in vain: "I give no alms + Without inquiry"—so he'd say, + And beat the needy duns away. + The bastinado did, 'tis true, + Persuade him, now and then, a few + Odd tens of thousands to disburse + To glut the taxman's hungry purse, + But still, so rich he grew, his fear + Was constant that the Shah might hear. + (The Shah had heard it long ago, + And asked the taxman if 'twere so, + Who promptly answered, rather airish, + The man had long been on the parish.) + The more he feared, the more he grew + A cynic and a miser, too, + Until his bitterness and pelf + Made him a terror to himself; + Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke, + He tartly cut his final joke. + So perished, not an hour too soon, + The wicked Muley Ben Maroon. + + From Astrabad to Ispahan + At camel speed the rumor ran + That, breaking through tradition hoar, + And throwing all his kinsmen o'er, + The miser'd left his mighty store + Of gold—his palaces and lands— + To needy and deserving hands + (Except a penny here and there + To pay the dervishes for prayer.) + 'Twas known indeed throughout the span + Of earth, and into Hindostan, + That our beloved mute was the + Residuary legatee. + The people said 'twas very well, + And each man had a tale to tell + Of how he'd had a finger in 't + By dropping many a friendly hint + At Astrabad, you see. But ah, + They feared the news might reach the Shah! + To prove the will the lawyers bore 't + Before the Kadi's awful court, + Who nodded, when he heard it read, + Confirmingly his drowsy head, + Nor thought, his sleepiness so great, + Himself to gobble the estate. + "I give," the dead had writ, "my all + To Meerza Solyman Zingall + Of Ispahan. With this estate + I might quite easily create + Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun + Temptation and create but one, + In whom the whole unthankful crew + The rich man's air that ever drew + To fat their pauper lungs I fire + Vicarious with vain desire! + From foul Ingratitude's base rout + I pick this hapless devil out, + Bestowing on him all my lands, + My treasures, camels, slaves and bands + Of wives—I give him all this loot, + And throw my blessing in to boot. + Behold, O man, in this bequest + Philanthropy's long wrongs redressed: + To speak me ill that man I dower + With fiercest will who lacks the power. + Allah il Allah! now let him bloat + With rancor till his heart's afloat, + Unable to discharge the wave + Upon his benefactor's grave!" + + Forth in their wrath the people came + And swore it was a sin and shame + To trick their blessed mute; and each + Protested, serious of speech, + That though <i>he'd</i> long foreseen the worst + He'd been against it from the first. + By various means they vainly tried + The testament to set aside, + Each ready with his empty purse + To take upon himself the curse; + For <i>they</i> had powers of invective + Enough to make it ineffective. + The ingrates mustered, every man, + And marched in force to Ispahan + (Which had not quite accommodation) + And held a camp of indignation. + + The man, this while, who never spoke— + On whom had fallen this thunder-stroke + Of fortune, gave no feeling vent + Nor dropped a clue to his intent. + Whereas no power to him came + His benefactor to defame, + Some (such a length had slander gone to) + Even whispered that he didn't want to! + But none his secret could divine; + If suffering he made no sign, + Until one night as winter neared + From all his haunts he disappeared— + Evanished in a doubtful blank + Like little crayfish in a bank, + Their heads retracting for a spell, + And pulling in their holes as well. + + All through the land of Gul, the stout + Young Spring is kicking Winter out. + The grass sneaks in upon the scene, + Defacing it with bottle-green. + + The stumbling lamb arrives to ply + His restless tail in every eye, + Eats nasty mint to spoil his meat + And make himself unfit to eat. + Madly his throat the bulbul tears— + In every grove blasphemes and swears + As the immodest rose displays + Her shameless charms a dozen ways. + Lo! now, throughout the utmost span + Of Ispahan—of Gulistan— + A big new book's displayed in all + The shops and cumbers every stall. + The price is low—the dealers say 'tis— + And the rich are treated to it gratis. + Engraven on its foremost page + These title-words the eye engage: + "The Life of Muley Ben Maroon, + Of Astrabad—Rogue, Thief, Buffoon + And Miser—Liver by the Sweat + Of Better Men: A Lamponette + Composed in Rhyme and Written all + By Meerza Solyman Zingall!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CORRECTED NEWS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'T was a maiden lady (the newspapers say) + Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray. + She slept like an angel, holy and white, + Till ten o' the clock in the shank o' the night + (When men and other wild animals prey) + And then she cried in the viewless gloom: + "There's a man in the room, a man in the room!" + And this maiden lady (they make it appear) + Leapt out of the window, five fathom sheer! + + Alas, that lying is such a sin + When newspaper men need bread and gin + And none can be had for less than a lie! + For the maiden lady a bit gone-gray + Saw the man in the room from across the way, + And leapt, not out of the window but in— + <i>Ten</i> fathom sheer, as I hope to die! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXPLANATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I never yet exactly could determine + Just how it is that the judicial ermine + Is kept so safely from predacious vermin." + + "It is not so, my friend: though in a garret + 'Tis kept in camphor, and you often air it, + The vermin will get into it and wear it." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUSTICE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jack Doe met Dick Roe, whose wife he loved, + And said: "I will get the best of him." + So pulling a knife from his boot, he shoved + It up to the hilt in the breast of him. + + Then he moved that weapon forth and back, + Enlarging the hole he had made with it, + Till the smoking liver fell out, and Jack + Merrily, merrily played with it. + + Then he reached within and he seized the slack + Of the lesser bowel, and, traveling + Hither and thither, looked idly back + On that small intestine, raveling. + + The wretched Richard, with many a grin + Laid on with exceeding suavity, + Curled up and died, and they ran John in + And charged him with sins of gravity. + + The case was tried and a verdict found: + The jury, with great humanity, + Acquitted the prisoner on the ground + Of extemporary insanity. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of a person known as Peters I will humbly crave your leave + An unusual adventure into narrative to weave— + Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel, + A public educator and an orator as well. + Mr. Peters had a weakness which, 'tis painful to relate, + Was a strong predisposition to the pleasures of debate. + He would foster disputation wheresoever he might be; + In polygonal contention none so happy was as he. + 'Twas observable, however, that the exercises ran + Into monologue by Peters, that rhetorical young man. + And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show, + By involuntary silence testified their overthrow— + Mr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief, + Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief. + O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold + As to entertain opinions that he didn't care to hold. + + One day—'t was in pursuance of a pedagogic plan + For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man— + Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained + That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained) + Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate + Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate + On the question, "Which is better, as a serviceable gift, + Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?" + The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met + At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet, + They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove, + And the non-committal "barkeep" on their differences throve. + And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way: + You'll have the more to back your word the less you have to say. + Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink + Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think. + + On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel + Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well— + All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear. + Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear, + And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn't lift + The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift. + The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled, + The question he proceeded <i>in extenso</i> to unfold: + "<i>Resolved</i>—The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach + Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech." + This simple proposition he expounded, word by word, + Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard. + Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain— + The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain. + Beginning at a period before Creation's morn, + He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn. + As down the early centuries of pre-historic time + He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme, + And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay, + Had risen and like an earthquake, "reeled unheededly away," + And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve, + Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve, + A noise arose outside—the door was opened with a bang + And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating "G'lang!" + Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink + An ancient ass—the property it was of Mr. Fink. + Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread, + Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped! + It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown + Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone. + Then spake old Ebenezer: "Gents, I heern o' this debate + On w'ether v'ice or y'ears is best the mind to elevate. + Now 'yer's a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme: + He has 'em both, I'm free to say, oncommonly extreme. + He wa'n't invited for to speak, but he will not refuse + (If t'other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views." + + Ere merriment or anger o'er amazement could prevail; + He cut the string that held the stone on that canary's tail. + Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight, + Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite. + With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid, + Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then—to put it mildly—brayed! + He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills, + And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills. + 'T is said that awful bugle-blast—to make the story brief— + Wafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf! + + Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred + 'Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard + That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel, + A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel, + Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MY LAUNDRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Saponacea, wert thou not so fair + I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins— + For sending home my clothes all full of pins— + A shirt occasionally that's a snare + And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where, + The Lord knows why—a sock whose outs and ins + None know, nor where it ends nor where begins, + And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share. + But when I mark thy lilies how they grow, + And the red roses of thy ripening charms, + I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming. + I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go + Into the magic circle of thine arms, + Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FAME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One thousand years I slept beneath the sod, + My sleep in 1901 beginning, + Then, by the action of some scurvy god + Who happened then to recollect my sinning, + I was revived and given another inning. + On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd— + A formless multitude of men and women, + Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud + I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in; + And, pointing at me, one said: "Let's put <i>him</i> in." + Then each turned on me with an evil look, + As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook. + + "Nay, good Posterity," I cried, "forbear! + If that's a jail I fain would be remaining + Outside, for truly I should little care + To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining + The life lost long ago by my disdaining + To take precautions against draughts like those + That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting + Old structure." Then an aged wight arose + From a chair of state in which he had been sitting, + And with preliminary coughing, spitting + And wheezing, said: "'T is not a jail, we're sure, + Whate'er it may have been when it was newer. + + "'T was found two centuries ago, o'ergrown + With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated; + And in restoring it we found a stone + Set here and there in the dilapidated + And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated + Big characters, with certain uncouth names, + Which we conclude were borne of old by awful + Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games— + Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful, + And orators less sensible than jawful. + So each ten years we add to the long row + A name, the most unworthy that we know." + + "But why," I asked, "put <i>me</i> in?" He replied: + "You look it"—and the judgment pained me greatly; + Right gladly would I then and there have died, + But that I'd risen from the grave so lately. + But on examining that solemn, stately + Old ruin I remarked: "My friend, you err— + The truth of this is just what I expected. + This building in its time made quite a stir. + I lived (was famous, too) when 't was erected. + The names here first inscribed were much respected. + This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork, + And this goat pasture once was called New York." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OMNES VANITAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Alas for ambition's possessor! + Alas for the famous and proud! + The Isle of Manhattan's best dresser + Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud. + + The world has forgotten his glory; + The wagoner sings on his wain, + And Chauncey Depew tells a story, + And jackasses laugh in the lane. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASPIRATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No man can truthfully say that he would not like to + be President.—<i>William C. Whitney.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the pride + Of qualities to meaner beasts denied, + Surveys the ass with reverence and fear, + Adoring his superior length of ear, + And says: "No living creature, lean or fat, + But wishes in his heart to be like That!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEMOCRACY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let slaves and subjects with unvaried psalms + Before their sovereign execute salaams; + The freeman scorns one idol to adore— + Tom, Dick and Harry and himself are four. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NEW "ULALUME." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The skies they were ashen and sober, + The leaves they were crisped and sere,— + " " " withering " " + It was night in the lonesome October + Of my most immemorial year; + It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,— + " " down " " dark tarn " " + In the misty mid region of Weir,— + " " ghoul-haunted woodland " " +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONSOLATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Little's the good to sit and grieve + Because the serpent tempted Eve. + Better to wipe your eyes and take + A club and go out and kill a snake. + + What do you gain by cursing Nick + For playing her such a scurvy trick? + Better go out and some villain find + Who serves the devil, and beat him blind. + + But if you prefer, as I suspect, + To philosophize, why, then, reflect: + If the cunning rascal upon the limb + Hadn't tempted her she'd have tempted him. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FATE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide!— + He turned from the beaten trail aside, + Wandered bewildered, lay down and died. + + O grim is the Irony of Fate: + It switches the man of low estate + And loosens the dogs upon the great. + + It lights the fireman to roast the cook; + The fisherman squirms upon the hook, + And the flirt is slain with a tender look. + + The undertaker it overtakes; + It saddles the cavalier, and makes + The haughtiest butcher into steaks. + + Assist me, gods, to balk the decree! + Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be, + In order that nothing be done to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PHILOSOPHER BIMM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Republicans think Jonas Bimm + A Democrat gone mad, + And Democrats consider him + Republican and bad. + + The Tough reviles him as a Dude + And gives it him right hot; + The Dude condemns his crassitude + And calls him <i>sans culottes.</i> + + Derided as an Anglophile + By Anglophobes, forsooth, + As Anglophobe he feels, the while, + The Anglophilic tooth. + + The Churchman calls him Atheist; + The Atheists, rough-shod, + Have ridden o'er him long and hissed + "The wretch believes in God!" + + The Saints whom clergymen we call + Would kill him if they could; + The Sinners (scientists and all) + Complain that he is good. + + All men deplore the difference + Between themselves and him, + And all devise expedients + For paining Jonas Bimm. + + I too, with wild demoniac glee, + Would put out both his eyes; + For Mr. Bimm appears to me + Insufferably wise! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REMINDED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath my window twilight made + Familiar mysteries of shade. + Faint voices from the darkening down + Were calling vaguely to the town. + Intent upon a low, far gleam + That burned upon the world's extreme, + I sat, with short reprieve from grief, + And turned the volume, leaf by leaf, + Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought + A million miracles of thought. + My fingers carelessly unclung + The lettered pages, and among + Them wandered witless, nor divined + The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. + The soul that should have led their quest + Was dreaming in the level west, + Where a tall tower, stark and still, + Uplifted on a distant hill, + Stood lone and passionless to claim + Its guardian star's returning flame. + + I know not how my dream was broke, + But suddenly my spirit woke + Filled with a foolish fear to look + Upon the hand that clove the book, + Significantly pointing; next + I bent attentive to the text, + And read—and as I read grew old— + The mindless words: "Poor Tom's a-cold!" + + Ah me! to what a subtle touch + The brimming cup resigns its clutch + Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ + That hearts their overburden bear + Of bitterness though thou permit + The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks, + And striking coward blows from books, + And dead hands reaching everywhere? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SALVINI IN AMERICA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, gentlemen—your gold. + Thanks: welcome to the show. + To hear a story told + In words you do not know. + + Now, great Salvini, rise + And thunder through your tears, + Aha! friends, let your eyes + Interpret to your ears. + + Gods! 't is a goodly game. + Observe his stride—how grand! + When legs like his declaim + Who can misunderstand? + + See how that arm goes round. + It says, as plain as day: + "I love," "The lost is found," + "Well met, sir," or, "Away!" + + And mark the drawing down + Of brows. How accurate + The language of that frown: + Pain, gentlemen—or hate. + + Those of the critic trade + Swear it is all as clear + As if his tongue were made + To fit an English ear. + + Hear that Italian phrase! + Greek to your sense, 't is true; + But shrug, expression, gaze— + Well, they are Grecian too. + + But it is Art! God wot + Its tongue to all is known. + Faith! he to whom 't were not + Would better hold his own. + + Shakespeare says act and word + Must match together true. + From what you've seen and heard, + How can you doubt they do? + + Enchanting drama! Mark + The crowd "from pit to dome", + One box alone is dark— + The prompter stays at home. + + Stupendous artist! You + Are lord of joy and woe: + We thrill if you say "Boo," + And thrill if you say "Bo." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER WAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I lay in silence, dead. A woman came + And laid a rose upon my breast and said: + "May God be merciful." She spoke my name, + And added: "It is strange to think him dead. + + "He loved me well enough, but 't was his way + To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath: + "Besides"—I knew what further she would say, + But then a footfall broke my dream of death. + + To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose + Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem + It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows + I had more pleasure in the other dream. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ART. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For Gladstone's portrait five thousand pounds + Were paid, 't is said, to Sir John Millais. + I cannot help thinking that such fine pay + Transcended reason's uttermost bounds. + + For it seems to me uncommonly queer + That a painted British stateman's price + Exceeds the established value thrice + Of a living statesman over here. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A is defrauded of his land by B, + Who's driven from the premises by C. + D buys the place with coin of plundered E. + "That A's an Anarchist!" says F to G. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When at your window radiant you've stood + I've sometimes thought—forgive me if I've erred— + That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred + Your heart to beat less gently than it should. + I know you beautiful; that you are good + I hope—or fear—I cannot choose the word, + Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard + Reason at love's dictation never could. + Blindly to this dilemma so I grope, + As one whose every pathway has a snare: + If you are minded in the saintly fashion + Of your pure face my passion's without hope; + If not, alas! I equally despair, + For what to me were hope without the passion? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEBTOR ABROAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Grief for an absent lover, husband, friend, + Is barely felt before it comes to end: + A score of early consolations serve + To modify its mouth's dejected curve. + But woes of creditors when debtors flee + Forever swell the separating sea. + When standing on an alien shore you mark + The steady course of some intrepid bark, + How sweet to think a tear for you abides, + Not all unuseful, in the wave she rides!— + That sighs for you commingle in the gale + Beneficently bellying her sail! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FORESIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An "actors' cemetery"! Sure + The devil never tires + Of planning places to procure + The sticks to feed his fires. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FAIR DIVISION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Another Irish landlord gone to grass, + Slain by the bullets of the tenant class! + Pray, good agrarians, what wrong requires + Such foul redress? Between you and the squires + All Ireland's parted with an even hand— + For you have all the ire, they all the land. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GENESIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God said: "Let there be Man," and from the clay + Adam came forth and, thoughtful, walked away. + The matrix whence his body was obtained, + An empty, man-shaped cavity, remained + All unregarded from that early time + Till in a recent storm it filled with slime. + Now Satan, envying the Master's power + To make the meat himself could but devour, + Strolled to the place and, standing by the pool, + Exerted all his will to make a fool. + A miracle!—from out that ancient hole + Rose Morehouse, lacking nothing but a soul. + "To give him that I've not the power divine," + Said Satan, sadly, "but I'll lend him mine." + He breathed it into him, a vapor black, + And to this day has never got it back. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LIBERTY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo! + The red skies all were luminous. The glow + Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks + One hundred and eleven years ago!" + + So sang a patriot whom once I saw + Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe + I noted that he shone with sacred light, + Like Moses with the tables of the Law. + + One hundred and eleven years? O small + And paltry period compared with all + The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed + To etch Yosemite's divided wall! + + Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young + Whose harps are in your adoration strung + (Each swears you are his countrywoman, too, + And speak no language but his mother tongue). + + And truly, lass, although with shout and horn + Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn, + I cannot think you old—I think, indeed, + You are by twenty centuries unborn. + + 1886. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sullen church-bell's intermittent moan, + The dirge's melancholy monotone, + The measured march, the drooping flags, attest + A great man's progress to his place of rest. + Along broad avenues himself decreed + To serve his fellow men's disputed need— + Past parks he raped away from robbers' thrift + And gave to poverty, wherein to lift + Its voice to curse the giver and the gift— + Past noble structures that he reared for men + To meet in and revile him, tongue and pen, + Draws the long retinue of death to show + The fit credentials of a proper woe. + + "Boss" Shepherd, you are dead. Your hand no more + Throws largess to the mobs that ramp and roar + For blood of benefactors who disdain + Their purity of purpose to explain, + Their righteous motive and their scorn of gain. + Your period of dream—'twas but a breath— + Is closed in the indifference of death. + Sealed in your silences, to you alike + If hands are lifted to applaud or strike. + No more to your dull, inattentive ear + Praise of to-day than curse of yesteryear. + From the same lips the honied phrases fall + That still are bitter from cascades of gall. + We note the shame; you in your depth of dark + The red-writ testimony cannot mark + On every honest cheek; your senses all + Locked, <i>incommunicado</i>, in your pall, + Know not who sit and blush, who stand and bawl. + + "Seven Grecian cities claim great Homer dead, + Through which the living Homer begged his + bread." + So sang, as if the thought had been his own, + An unknown bard, improving on a known. + "Neglected genius!"—that is sad indeed, + But malice better would ignore than heed, + And Shepherd's soul, we rightly may suspect, + Prayed often for the mercy of neglect + When hardly did he dare to leave his door + Without a guard behind him and before + To save him from the gentlemen that now + In cheap and easy reparation bow + Their corrigible heads above his corse + To counterfeit a grief that's half remorse. + + The pageant passes and the exile sleeps, + And well his tongue the solemn secret keeps + Of the great peace he found afar, until, + Death's writ of extradition to fulfill, + They brought him, helpless, from that friendly zone + To be a show and pastime in his own— + A final opportunity to those + Who fling with equal aim the stone and rose; + That at the living till his soul is freed, + This at the body to conceal the deed! + + Lone on his hill he's lying to await + What added honors may befit his state— + The monument, the statue, or the arch + (Where knaves may come to weep and dupes to march) + Builded by clowns to brutalize the scenes + His genius beautified. To get the means, + His newly good traducers all are dunned + For contributions to the conscience fund. + If each subscribe (and pay) one cent 'twill rear + A structure taller than their tallest ear. + + Washington, May 4, 1903. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MAUDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not as two errant spheres together grind + With monstrous ruin in the vast of space, + Destruction born of that malign embrace, + Their hapless peoples all to death consigned— + Not so when our intangible worlds of mind, + Even mine and yours, each with its spirit race + Of beings shadowy in form and face, + Shall drift together on some blessed wind. + No, in that marriage of gloom and light + All miracles of beauty shall be wrought, + Attesting a diviner faith than man's; + For all my sad-eyed daughters of the night + Shall smile on your sweet seraphim of thought, + Nor any jealous god forbid the banns. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When, long ago, the young world circling flew + Through wider reaches of a richer blue, + New-eyed, the men and maids saw, manifest, + The thoughts untold in one another's breast: + Each wish displayed, and every passion learned— + A look revealed them as a look discerned. + But sating Time with clouds o'ercast their eyes; + Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies. + A goddess then, emerging from the dust, + Fair Virtue rose, the daughter of Distrust. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Seraphs came to Christ, and said: "Behold! + The man, presumptuous and overbold, + Who boasted that his mercy could excel + Thine own, is dead and on his way to Hell." + + Gravely the Saviour asked: "What did he do + To make his impious assertion true?" + + "He was a Governor, releasing all + The vilest felons ever held in thrall. + No other mortal, since the dawn of time, + Has ever pardoned such a mass of crime!" + + Christ smiled benignly on the Seraphim: + "Yet I am victor, for I pardon <i>him</i>." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SCURRIL PRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TOM JONESMITH <i>(loquitur)</i>: I've slept right through + The night—a rather clever thing to do. + How soundly women sleep <i>(looks at his wife.)</i> + They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life + Is woman when she lies with folded tongue, + Its toil completed and its day-song sung. + (<i>Thump</i>) That's the morning paper. What a bore + That it should be delivered at the door. + There ought to be some expeditious way + To get it <i>to</i> one. By this long delay + The fizz gets off the news <i>(a rap is heard)</i>. + That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird; + She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul. + <i>(Gets up and takes it in.)</i> Upon the whole + The system's not so bad a one. What's here? + Gad, if they've not got after—listen dear + <i>(To sleeping wife)</i>—young Gastrotheos! Well, + If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell + She'll shriek again—with laughter—seeing how + They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow + 'T is right if he goes dining at The Pup + With Mrs. Thing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WIFE <i>(briskly, waking up)</i>: + With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +JONESMITH (<i>continuing to "seek the light"</i>): + What's this about old Impycu? That's good! + Grip—that's the funny man—says Impy should + Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps. + I knew old Impy when he had the "stamps" + To buy us all out, and he wasn't then + So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen + Is just a tickler!—and the world, no doubt, + Is better with it than it was without. + What? thirteen ladies—Jumping Jove! we know + Them nearly all!—who gamble at a low + And very shocking game of cards called "draw"! + O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw! + Let's see what else (<i>wife snores</i>). Well, I'll be blest! + A woman doesn't understand a jest. + Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds + To take a fling at <i>me</i>, condemn him! (<i>reads</i>): + Tom Jonesmith—my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!—<i>Of + the new Shavings Bank</i>—the man's gone mad! + That's libelous; I'll have him up for that—<i>Has + had his corns cut</i>. Devil take the rat! + What business is 't of his, I'd like to know? + He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low + And scurril things our papers have become! + You skim their contents and you get but scum. + Here, Mary, (<i>waking wife</i>) I've been attacked + In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WIFE (<i>reading it</i>): How wicked! Who do you + Suppose 't was wrote it? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +JONESMITH: Who? why, who + But Grip, the so-called funny man—he wrote + Me up because I'd not discount his note. + (<i>Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie— + He'll think of one that's better by and by— + Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads + A lively measure on it—kicks the shreds + And patches all about the room, and still + Performs his jig with unabated will.</i>) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WIFE (<i>warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn</i>): + Dear, do be careful of that second corn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +STANLEY. + Noting some great man's composition vile: + A head of wisdom and a heart of guile, + A will to conquer and a soul to dare, + Joined to the manners of a dancing bear, + Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey + Of various Nature's compensating sway, + Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff, + To praise the one and at the other laugh, + Yearn all in vain and impotently seek + Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak + The sycophantic worship of the weak. + Not so the wise, from superstition free, + Who find small pleasure in the bended knee; + Quick to discriminate 'twixt good and bad, + And willing in the king to find the cad— + No reason seen why genius and conceit, + The power to dazzle and the will to cheat, + The love of daring and the love of gin, + Should not dwell, peaceful, in a single skin. + To such, great Stanley, you're a hero still, + Despite your cradling in a tub for swill. + Your peasant manners can't efface the mark + Of light you drew across the Land of Dark. + + In you the extremes of character are wed, + To serve the quick and villify the dead. + Hero and clown! O, man of many sides, + The Muse of Truth adores you and derides, + And sheds, impartial, the revealing ray + Upon your head of gold and feet of clay. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She stood at the ticket-seller's + Serenely removing her glove, + While hundreds of strugglers and yellers, + And some that were good at a shove, + Were clustered behind her like bats in + a cave and unwilling to speak their love. + + At night she still stood at that window + Endeavoring her money to reach; + The crowds right and left, how they sinned—O, + How dreadfully sinned in their speech! + Ten miles either way they extended + their lines, the historians teach. + + She stands there to-day—legislation + Has failed to remove her. The trains + No longer pull up at that station; + And over the ghastly remains + Of the army that waited and died of + old age fall the snows and the rains. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Upon this quarter-eagle's leveled face, + The Lord's Prayer, legibly inscribed, I trace. + "Our Father which"—the pronoun there is funny, + And shows the scribe to have addressed the money— + "Which art in Heaven"—an error this, no doubt: + The preposition should be stricken out. + Needless to quote; I only have designed + To praise the frankness of the pious mind + Which thought it natural and right to join, + With rare significancy, prayer and coin. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LACKING FACTOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "You acted unwisely," I cried, "as you see + By the outcome." He calmly eyed me: + "When choosing the course of my action," said he, + "I had not the outcome to guide me." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROYAL JESTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, + There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. + So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: + He was a hero, even to his queen, + In whose respect he held so high a place + That none was higher,—nay, not even the ace. + He was so just his Parliament declared + Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; + So wise that none of the debating throng + Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; + So good that Crime his anger never feared, + And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; + So brave that if his army got a beating + None dared to face him when he was retreating. + This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, + And loved him tenderly despite his worth. + Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, + He called the Fool before the throne one day + And to that jester seriously said: + "I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, + While I, attired in motley, will make sport + To entertain your Majesty and Court." + + 'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed + The time of harvest and the time of seed; + Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, + And had a famine every second year; + Altered the calendar to suit his freak, + Ordaining six whole holidays a week; + Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; + Made war when angry and made peace when scared. + New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; + Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, + In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not + Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot + Made the whole country with his praises ring, + Declaring he was every inch a king; + And the High Priest averred 't was very odd + If one so competent were not a god. + + Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, + Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, + That some condoled with him as with a brother + Who, having lost a wife, had got another. + Others, mistaking his profession, often + Approached him to be measured for a coffin. + For years this highborn jester never broke + The silence—he was pondering a joke. + At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, + He strode into the Council and displayed + A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom + Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. + Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, + To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, + He brought it down with peremptory stroke + And simultaneously cracked his joke! + + I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school + Myself to quote from any other fool: + A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start + My tears; if better, it would break my heart. + So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state + That royal Jester's melancholy fate. + + The insulted nation, so the story goes, + Rose as one man—the very dead arose, + Springing indignant from the riven tomb, + And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! + All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, + By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. + In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, + The tools of legislation were displayed, + And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, + Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. + Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas + Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, + Royal approval—and the same in stacks + Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; + Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; + With mucilage convenient to extend them; + Scissors for limiting their application, + And acids to repeal all legislation— + These, flung as missiles till the air was dense, + Were most offensive weapons of offense, + And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. + They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. + Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, + His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, + His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, + His fertile head by scissors made to yield + Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, + In every wrinkle and on every welt, + Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills + And thickly studded with a pride of quills, + The royal Jester in the dreadful strife + Was made (in short) an editor for life! + + An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks + In this as plainly as in greater works. + I shall not give it birth: one moral here + Would die of loneliness within a year. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CAREER IN LETTERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Liberverm resigned the chair + Of This or That in college, where + For two decades he'd gorged his brain + With more than it could well contain, + In order to relieve the stress + He took to writing for the press. + Then Pondronummus said, "I'll help + This mine of talent to devel'p;" + And straightway bought with coin and credit + The <i>Thundergust</i> for him to edit. + + The great man seized the pen and ink + And wrote so hard he couldn't think; + Ideas grew beneath his fist + And flew like falcons from his wrist. + His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways + Till all the rivers were ablaze, + And where the coruscations fell + Men uttered words I dare not spell. + + Eftsoons with corrugated brow, + Wet towels bound about his pow, + Locked legs and failing appetite, + He thought so hard he couldn't write. + His soaring fancies, chickenwise, + Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. + With dimmer light and milder heat + His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, + Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came— + He couldn't even write his name. + The <i>Thundergust</i> in three short weeks + Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. + Said Pondronummus, "How unjust! + The storm I raised has laid my dust!" + + When, Moneybagger, you have aught + Invested in a vein of thought, + Be sure you've purchased not, instead, + That salted claim, a bookworm's head. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOLLOWING PAIR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O very remarkable mortal, + What food is engaging your jaws + And staining with amber their portal? + "It's 'baccy I chaws." + + And why do you sway in your walking, + To right and left many degrees, + And hitch up your trousers when talking? + "I follers the seas." + + Great indolent shark in the rollers, + Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?— + You, too, display maculate molars. + "I dines upon salts." + + Strange diet!—intestinal pain it + Is commonly given to nip. + And how can you ever obtain it? + "I follers the ship." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POLITICAL ECONOMY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, + As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, + "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds + As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, + Increase of life's comforts the general sum— + Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come," + The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, + How that is of any advantage to geese." + "What, what!" said the man—"you are very obtuse! + Consumption no profit to those who produce? + No good to accrue to Supply from a grand + Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand? + Luxurious habits no benefit bring + To those who purvey the luxurious thing? + Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth + Of luxury promises—" "Promises," quoth + The sufferer, "what?—to what course is it pledged + To pay me for being so often defledged?" + "Accustomed"—this notion the plucker expressed + As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast— + "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn + For others and ever for others in turn; + And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, + His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, + His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage + By dining on goose with a dressing of sage." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I've found the secret of your charm," I said, + Expounding with complacency my guess. + Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, + For all its secret was unconsciousness. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I reckon that ye never knew, + That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, + He had a touch as light an' free + As that of any honey-bee; + But where it lit there wasn't much + To jestify another touch. + O, what a Sunday-school it was + To watch him puttin' up his paws + An' roominate upon their heft— + Particular his holy left! + Tom was my style—that's all I say; + Some others may be equal gay. + What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure— + He's dead—which make his fate obscure. + I only started in to clear + One vital p'int in his career, + Which is to say—afore he died + He soiled his erming mighty snide. + Ye see he took to politics + And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; + Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, + Just like he was the President; + Went to the Legislator; spoke + Right out agin the British yoke— + But that was right. He let his hair + Grow long to qualify for Mayor, + An' once or twice he poked his snoot + In Congress like a low galoot! + It had to come—no gent can hope + To wrastle God agin the rope. + Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, + I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, + For sech inikities as flow + From politics ain't fit to know; + But, if you think it's actin' white + To tell it—Thomas throwed a fight! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As time rolled on the whole world came to be + A desolation and a darksome curse; + And some one said: "The changes that you see + In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, + Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer + Because the moon assisted with her shimmer. + + "Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, + Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, + He called her 'scab,' and meanly would retard + Her rising: and at last the villain hurled + A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion + Into the nebula of great O'Ryan. + + "The planets all had struck some time before, + Demanding what they said were equal rights: + Some pointing out that others had far more + That a fair dividend of satellites. + So all went out—though those the best provided, + If they had dared, would rather have abided. + + "The stars struck too—I think it was because + The comets had more liberty than they, + And were not bound by any hampering laws, + While <i>they</i> were fixed; and there are those who say + The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, + An aged orb that hasn't any hair. + + "The earth's the only one that isn't in + The movement—I suppose because she's watched + With horror and disgust how her fair skin + Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched + With blood and grease in every labor riot, + When seeing any purse or throat to fly at." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TEMPORA MUTANTUR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The world is dull," I cried in my despair: + "Its myths and fables are no longer fair. + + "Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time. + To Greece transport me in her golden prime. + + "Give back the beautiful old Gods again— + The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad's jocund train, + + "Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades, + The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas. + + "Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I'll dare + To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair + + "(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate, + That stiffen men into a stony state) + + "And die—erecting, as my soul goes hence, + A statue of myself, without expense." + + Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate: + "Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait." + + Raising my eyes, I saw Medusa stand, + Stheno, Euryale, on either hand. + + I gazed unpetrified and unappalled— + The girls had aged and were entirely bald! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTENTMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed + Long years had circled since my life had fled. + The world was different, and all things seemed + Remote and strange, like noises to the dead. + And one great Voice there was; and something said: + "Posterity is speaking—rightly deemed + Infallible:" and so I gave attention, + Hoping Posterity my name would mention. + + "Illustrious Spirit," said the Voice, "appear! + While we confirm eternally thy fame, + Before our dread tribunal answer, here, + Why do no statues celebrate thy name, + No monuments thy services proclaim? + Why did not thy contemporaries rear + To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? + It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge." + + Up spake I hotly: "That is where you err!" + But some one thundered in my ear: "You shan't + Be interrupting these proceedings, sir; + The question was addressed to General Grant." + Some other things were spoken which I can't + Distinctly now recall, but I infer, + By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead, + Posterity's environment is torrid. + + Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark) + Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong, + As Grant's great shade, replying from the dark, + Said in a tone that rang the earth along, + And thrilled the senses of the Judges' throng: + "I'd rather you would question why, in park + And street, my monuments were not erected + Than why they were." Then, waking, I reflected. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NEW ENOCH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Enoch Arden was an able + Seaman; hear of his mishap— + Not in wild mendacious fable, + As 't was told by t' other chap; + + For I hold it is a youthful + Indiscretion to tell lies, + And the writer that is truthful + Has the reader that is wise. + + Enoch Arden, able seaman, + On an isle was cast away, + And before he was a freeman + Time had touched him up with gray. + + Long he searched the fair horizon, + Seated on a mountain top; + Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on + That would undertake to stop. + + Seeing that his sight was growing + Dim and dimmer, day by day, + Enoch said he must be going. + So he rose and went away— + + Went away and so continued + Till he lost his lonely isle: + Mr. Arden was so sinewed + He could row for many a mile. + + Compass he had not, nor sextant, + To direct him o'er the sea: + Ere 't was known that he was extant, + At his widow's home was he. + + When he saw the hills and hollows + And the streets he could but know, + He gave utterance as follows + To the sentiments below: + + "Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver, + Too, my timbers!) but, I say, + W'at a larruk to diskiver, + I have lost me blessid way! + + "W'at, alas, would be my bloomin' + Fate if Philip now I see, + Which I lammed?—or my old 'oman, + Which has frequent basted <i>me</i>?" + + Scenes of childhood swam around him + At the thought of such a lot: + In a swoon his Annie found him + And conveyed him to her cot. + + 'T was the very house, the garden, + Where their honeymoon was passed: + 'T was the place where Mrs. Arden + Would have mourned him to the last. + + Ah, what grief she'd known without him! + Now what tears of joy she shed! + Enoch Arden looked about him: + "Shanghaied!"—that was all he said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DISAVOWAL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two bodies are lying in Phoenix Park, + Grim and bloody and stiff and stark, + And a Land League man with averted eye + Crosses himself as he hurries by. + And he says to his conscience under his breath: + "I have had no hand in this deed of death!" + + A Fenian, making a circuit wide + And passing them by on the other side, + Shudders and crosses himself and cries: + "Who says that I did it, he lies, he lies!" + + Gingerly stepping across the gore, + Pat Satan comes after the two before, + Makes, in a solemnly comical way, + The sign of the cross and is heard to say: + "O dear, what a terrible sight to see, + For babes like them and a saint like me!" + + 1882. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN AVERAGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I ne'er could be entirely fond + Of any maiden who's a blonde, + And no brunette that e'er I saw + Had charms my heart's whole + warmth to draw. + + Yet sure no girl was ever made + Just half of light and half of shade. + And so, this happy mean to get, + I love a blonde and a brunette. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WOMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Study good women and ignore the rest, + For he best knows the sex who knows the best. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INCURABLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy— + From any kind of vice, or folly, + Bias, propensity or passion + That is in prevalence and fashion, + Save one, the sufferer or lover + May, by the grace of God, recover: + Alone that spiritual tetter, + The zeal to make creation better, + Glows still immedicably warmer. + Who knows of a reformed reformer? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PUN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, + Most rare and excellent bequest + Of dying idiot to the wit + He died of, rat-like, in a pit! + + Thyself disguised, in many a way + Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, + Adorning all where'er it turns, + As the revealing bull's-eye burns, + Of the dim thief, and plays its trick + Upon the lock he means to pick. + + Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear + As boldly as a brigadier + Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, + Of rank, brigade, division, corps, + To show by every means he can + An officer is not a man; + Or naked, with a lordly swagger, + Proud as a cur without a wagger, + Who says: "See simple worth prevail— + All dog, sir—not a bit of tail!" + + 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, + As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. + + O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace + Of skeleton clock without a case— + With all its boweling displayed, + And all its organs on parade. + + Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, + Where <i>Punch</i> and I can meet and kiss; + Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r— + No higher his does ever soar. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O statesmen, what would you be at, + With torches, flags and bands? + You make me first throw up my hat, + And then my hands. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO NANINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear, if I never saw your face again; + If all the music of your voice were mute + As that of a forlorn and broken lute; + If only in my dreams I might attain + The benediction of your touch, how vain + Were Faith to justify the old pursuit + Of happiness, or Reason to confute + The pessimist philosophy of pain. + Yet Love not altogether is unwise, + For still the wind would murmur in the corn, + And still the sun would splendor all the mere; + And I—I could not, dearest, choose but hear + Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes + Shine in the glory of the summer morn. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VICE VERSA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, + A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, + Married a soldier—though the good Lord knows + That very common act scarce calls for mention. + What makes it worthy to be writ and read— + The man she married had been nine hours dead! + + Now, marrying a corpse is not an act + Familiar to our daily observation, + And so I crave her pardon if the fact + Suggests this interesting speculation: + Should some mischance restore the man to life + Would she be then a widow, or a wife? + + Let casuists contest the point; I'm not + Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. + 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot + And drive me staring mad as any hatter— + Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, + Sane, and all other human beings cracked. + + Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; + Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; + In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, + And think it of the Devil's own invention. + Enough of joy to know though when I wed + I <i>must</i> be married, yet I <i>may</i> be dead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BLACK-LIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Resolved that we will post," the tradesmen say, + "All names of debtors who do never pay." + "Whose shall be first?" inquires the ready scribe— + "Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?" + Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain, + Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane! + Within that temple all the names are scrolled + Of village bards upon a slab of gold; + To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire, + And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. + Yet not to total shame those names devote, + But add in mercy this explaining note: + "These cheat because the law makes theft a crime, + And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Let music flourish!" So he said and died. + Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins: + The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide, + Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide— + The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AUTHORITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Authority, authority!" they shout + Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt, + Some chance opinion ever entertain, + By dogma billeted upon their brain. + "Ha!" they exclaim with choreatic glee, + "Here's Dabster if you won't give in to me— + Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look + With reverence!" The fellow wrote a book. + It matters not that many another wight + Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write + On t' other side—that you yourself possess + Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. + God help you if ambitious to persuade + The fools who take opinion ready-made + And "recognize authorities." Be sure + No tittle of their folly they'll abjure + For all that you can say. But write it down, + Publish and die and get a great renown— + Faith! how they'll snap it up, misread, misquote, + Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote, + And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PSORIAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The King of Scotland, years and years ago, + Convened his courtiers in a gallant row + And thus addressed them: + + "Gentle sirs, from you + Abundant counsel I have had, and true: + What laws to make to serve the public weal; + What laws of Nature's making to repeal; + What old religion is the only true one, + And what the greater merit of some new one; + What friends of yours my favor have forgot; + Which of your enemies against me plot. + In harvests ample to augment my treasures, + Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! + The punctual planets, to their periods just, + Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. + Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: + The grateful placemen bless their useful king! + But while you quaff the nectar of my favor + I mean somewhat to modify its flavor + By just infusing a peculiar dash + Of tonic bitter in the calabash. + And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, + Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it! + + "You know, you dogs, your master long has felt + A keen distemper in the royal pelt— + A testy, superficial irritation, + Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. + For this a thousand simples you've prescribed— + Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. + You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas + You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, + To brew me remedies which, in probation, + Were sovereign only in their application. + In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied + Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: + Physic and hope have been my daily food— + I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood! + + "Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year + And tame the seasons in their mad career, + When set to higher purposes has failed me + And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. + Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech + His rivals' skill has labored to impeach + By hints equivocal in secret speech. + For years, to conquer our respective broils, + We've plied each other with pacific oils. + In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, + My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; + My life so wretched from your strife to save it + That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. + With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, + My subjects muster in contending ranks. + Those fling their banners to the startled breeze + To champion some royal ointment; these + The standard of some royal purge display + And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! + Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, + Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea! + My people perish in their martial fear, + And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear! + + "Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour + Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! + Behold this lotion, carefully compound + Of all the poisons you for me have found— + Of biting washes such as tan the skin, + And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. + What aggravates an ailment will produce— + I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! + Divided counsels you no more shall hatch— + At last you shall unanimously scratch. + Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts—God bless us! + They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!" + + The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke, + From Arthur's Seat confirming thunders broke. + The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned, + Sank to their knees, all piously inclined. + This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats, + The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes. + Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts + Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts, + Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses, + Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes. + The king advanced—then cursing fled amain + Dashing the phial to the stony plain + (Where't straight became a fountain brimming o'er, + Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store) + For lo! already on each back <i>sans</i> stitch + The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch! + + [Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking Edinburgh.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONEIROMANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I fell asleep and dreamed that I + Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky; + Like him was lamed—another part: + His leg was crippled and my heart. + I woke in time to see my love + Conceal a letter in her glove. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PEACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When lion and lamb have together lain down + Spectators cry out, all in chorus; + "The lamb doesn't shrink nor the lion frown— + A miracle's working before us!" + + But 't is patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in, + And Faint-heart her terror and loathing; + For the one's but an ass in a lion's skin, + The other a wolf in sheep's clothing. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THANKSGIVING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>The Superintendent of an Almshouse. A Pauper.</i> +</pre> + <h3> + SUPERINTENDENT: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So <i>you're</i> unthankful—you'll not eat the bird? + You sit about the place all day and gird. + I understand you'll not attend the ball + That's to be given to-night in Pauper Hall. +</pre> + <h3> + PAUPER: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why, that is true, precisely as you've heard: + I have no teeth and I will eat no bird. +</pre> + <h3> + SUPERINTENDENT: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah! see how good is Providence. Because + Of teeth He has denuded both your jaws + The fowl's made tender; you can overcome it + By suction; or at least—well, you can gum it, + Attesting thus the dictum of the preachers + That Providence is good to all His creatures— + Turkeys excepted. Come, ungrateful friend, + If our Thanksgiving dinner you'll attend + You shall say grace—ask God to bless at least + The soft and liquid portions of the feast. +</pre> + <h3> + PAUPER. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Without those teeth my speech is rather thick— + He'll hardly understand Gum Arabic. + No, I'll not dine to-day. As to the ball, + 'Tis known to you that I've no legs at all. + I had the gout—hereditary; so, + As it could not be cornered in my toe + They cut my legs off in the fond belief + That shortening me would make my anguish brief. + Lacking my legs I could not prosecute + With any good advantage a pursuit; + And so, because my father chose to court + Heaven's favor with his ortolans and Port + (Thanksgiving every day!) the Lord supplied + Saws for my legs, an almshouse for my pride + And, once a year, a bird for my inside. + No, I'll not dance—my light fantastic toe + Took to its heels some twenty years ago. + Some small repairs would be required for putting + My feelings on a saltatory footing. + + <i>(Sings)</i> + + O the legless man's an unhappy chap— + <i>Tum-hi, tum-hi, tum-he o'haddy.</i> + The favors o' fortune fall not in his lap— + <i>Tum-hi, tum-heedle-do hum.</i> + The plums of office avoid his plate + No matter how much he may stump the State— + <i>Tum-hi, ho-heeee.</i> + The grass grows never beneath his feet, + But he cannot hope to make both ends meet— + <i>Tum-hi.</i> + With a gleeless eye and a somber heart, + He plays the role of his mortal part: + Wholly himself he can never be. + O, a soleless corporation is he! + <i>Tum</i>. +</pre> + <h3> + SUPERINTENDENT: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The chapel bell is calling, thankless friend, + Balls you may not, but church you <i>shall</i>, attend. + Some recognition cannot be denied + To the great mercy that has turned aside + The sword of death from us and let it fall + Upon the people's necks in Montreal; + That spared our city, steeple, roof and dome, + And drowned the Texans out of house and home; + Blessed all our continent with peace, to flood + The Balkan with a cataclysm of blood. + Compared with blessings of so high degree, + Your private woes look mighty small—to me. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + L'AUDACE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Daughter of God! Audacity divine— + Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign— + Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool, + Not thine of idiots the vocal drool: + Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass, + Presumption, actuates the charging ass. + Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings + Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings; + The notes should mount on pinions true and strong, + For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song, + Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng! + Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails, + They (notes, not angels) drop and the hymn fails; + The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs + Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums. + Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand + For stronger voices and a harder hand: + Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire, + And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Betook him to the place where sat + With folded feet upon a mat + Of precious stones beneath a palm, + In sweet and everlasting calm, + That ancient and immortal gent, + The God of Rational Content. + As tranquil and unmoved as Fate, + The deity reposed in state, + With palm to palm and sole to sole, + And beaded breast and beetling jowl, + And belly spread upon his thighs, + And costly diamonds for eyes. + As Chunder Sen approached and knelt + To show the reverence he felt; + Then beat his head upon the sod + To prove his fealty to the god; + And then by gestures signified + The other sentiments inside; + The god's right eye (as Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Half-fancied) grew by just a thought + More narrow than it truly ought. + Yet still that prince of devotees, + Persistent upon bended knees + And elbows bored into the earth, + Declared the god's exceeding worth, + And begged his favor. Then at last, + Within that cavernous and vast + Thoracic space was heard a sound + Like that of water underground— + A gurgling note that found a vent + At mouth of that Immortal Gent + In such a chuckle as no ear + Had e'er been privileged to hear! + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest, greatest, best of men, + Heard with a natural surprise + That mighty midriff improvise. + And greater yet the marvel was + When from between those massive jaws + Fell words to make the views more plain + The god was pleased to entertain: + "Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen," + So ran the rede in speech of men— + "Foremost of mortals in assent + To creed of Rational Content, + Why come you here to impetrate + A blessing on your scurvy pate? + Can you not rationally be + Content without disturbing me? + Can you not take a hint—a wink— + Of what of all this rot I think? + Is laughter lost upon you quite, + To check you in your pious rite? + What! know you not we gods protest + That all religion is a jest? + You take me seriously?—you + About me make a great ado + (When I but wish to be alone) + With attitudes supine and prone, + With genuflexions and with prayers, + And putting on of solemn airs, + To draw my mind from the survey + Of Rational Content away! + Learn once for all, if learn you can, + This truth, significant to man: + A pious person is by odds + The one most hateful to the gods." + Then stretching forth his great right hand, + Which shadowed all that sunny land, + That deity bestowed a touch + Which Chunder Sen not overmuch + Enjoyed—a touch divine that made + The sufferer hear stars! They played + And sang as on Creation's morn + When spheric harmony was born. + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The most astonished man of men, + Fell straight asleep, and when he woke + The deity nor moved nor spoke, + But sat beneath that ancient palm + In sweet and everlasting calm. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AESTHETES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The lily cranks, the lily cranks, + The loppy, loony lasses! + They multiply in rising ranks + To execute their solemn pranks, + They moon along in masses. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + The maiden ass, the maiden ass, + The tall and tailless jenny! + In limp attire as green as grass, + She stands, a monumental brass, + The one of one too many. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JULY FOURTH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God said: "Let there be noise." The dawning fire + Of Independence gilded every spire. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WITH MINE OWN PETARD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Time was the local poets sang their songs + Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs + I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke + Bards, like the conies, are "a feeble folk," + Fearing all noises but the one they make + Themselves—at which all other mortals quake. + Now from their cracked and disobedient throats, + Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes + Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves, + If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves; + As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all + The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall. + A year's exemption from the critic's curse + Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse. + Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night, + Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight, + Or by the sudden plashing of a stone + From some adjacent cottage garden thrown, + But straight renew the song with double din + Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in. + Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched, + My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached) + Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass, + Accomplishing my body all in brass, + And arm in battle royal to oppose + A village poet singing through the nose, + Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums + With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs? + No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before + And stilled their songs—but, Satan! how they swore!— + Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats + They cleared for action with their sweetest notes; + Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine) + And damned them roundly all along the line; + Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes, + A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes! + What gained I so? I feathered every curse + Launched at the village bards with lilting verse. + The town approved and christened me (to show its + High admiration) Chief of Local Poets! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONSTANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dull were the days and sober, + The mountains were brown and bare, + For the season was sad October + And a dirge was in the air. + + The mated starlings flew over + To the isles of the southern sea. + She wept for her warrior lover— + Wept and exclaimed: "Ah, me! + + "Long years have I mourned my darling + In his battle-bed at rest; + And it's O, to be a starling, + With a mate to share my nest!" + + The angels pitied her sorrow, + Restoring her warrior's life; + And he came to her arms on the morrow + To claim her and take her to wife. + + An aged lover—a portly, + Bald lover, a trifle too stiff, + With manners that would have been courtly, + And would have been graceful, if— + + If the angels had only restored him + Without the additional years + That had passed since the enemy bored him + To death with their long, sharp spears. + + As it was, he bored her, and she rambled + Away with her father's young groom, + And the old lover smiled as he ambled + Contentedly back to the tomb. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SIRES AND SONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wild wanton Luxury lays waste the land + With difficulty tilled by Thrift's hard hand! + Then dies the State!—and, in its carcass found, + The millionaires, all maggot-like, abound. + Alas! was it for this that Warren died, + And Arnold sold himself to t' other side, + Stark piled at Bennington his British dead, + And Gates at Camden, Lee at Monmouth, fled?— + For this that Perry did the foeman fleece, + And Hull surrender to preserve the peace? + Degenerate countrymen, renounce, I pray, + The slothful ease, the luxury, the gay + And gallant trappings of this idle life, + And be more fit for one another's wife. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CHALLENGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bull imprisoned in a stall + Broke boldly the confining wall, + And found himself, when out of bounds, + Within a washerwoman's grounds. + Where, hanging on a line to dry, + A crimson skirt inflamed his eye. + With bellowings that woke the dead, + He bent his formidable head, + With pointed horns and gnarly forehead; + Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, + Began, with rage made half insane, + To paw the arid earth amain, + Flinging the dust upon his flanks + In desolating clouds and banks, + The while his eyes' uneasy white + Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright + Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight. + The garment, which, all undismayed, + Had never paled a single shade, + Now found a tongue—a dangling sock, + Left carelessly inside the smock: + "I must insist, my gracious liege, + That you'll be pleased to raise the siege: + My colors I will never strike. + I know your sex—you're all alike. + Some small experience I've had— + You're not the first I've driven mad." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO SHOWS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!) + Parades a "School of Educated Apes!" + Small education's needed, I opine, + Or native wit, to make a monkey shine; + The brute exhibited has naught to do + But ape the larger apes who come to view— + The hoodlum with his horrible grimace, + Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace, + Significant reminders of the time + When hunters, not policemen, made him climb; + The lady loafer with her draggling "trail," + That free translation of an ancient tail; + The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit, + Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot; + The painted actress throwing down the gage + To elder artists of the sylvan stage, + Proving that in the time of Noah's flood + Two ape-skins held her whole profession's blood; + The critic waiting, like a hungry pup, + To write the school—perhaps to eat it—up, + As chance or luck occasion may reveal + To earn a dollar or maraud a meal. + To view the school of apes these creatures go, + Unconscious that themselves are half the show. + These, if the simian his course but trim + To copy them as they have copied him, + Will call him "educated." Of a verity + There's much to learn by study of posterity. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A POET'S HOPE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal + Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead. + He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding, + As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said. + + "Sacred stranger"—I addressed him with a reverence befitting + The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore; + 'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing + One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"— + + "Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection, + But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread. + How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander + By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?" + + Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making, + Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye + On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy, + Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply: + + "O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit— + I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head. + I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal + To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed. + + "Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me + And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more. + For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me, + Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'" + + Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection, + For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog. + So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman + Can appreciate the fashion of your merit—buy a dog." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Man and Woman had been made, + All but the disposition, + The Devil to the workshop strayed, + And somehow gained admission. + + The Master rested from his work, + For this was on a Sunday, + The man was snoring like a Turk, + Content to wait till Monday. + + "Too bad!" the Woman cried; "Oh, why, + Does slumber not benumb me? + A disposition! Oh, I die + To know if 'twill become me!" + + The Adversary said: "No doubt + 'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am, + Though sure 'tis long to be without— + I beg to lend you mine, ma'am." + + The Devil's disposition when + She'd got, of course she wore it, + For she'd no disposition then, + Nor now has, to restore it. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0138" id="link2H_4_0138"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO ROGUES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost, + The sentry occupied his post, + To all the stirrings of the night + Alert of ear and sharp of sight. + A sudden something—sight or sound, + About, above, or underground, + He knew not what, nor where—ensued, + Thrilling the sleeping solitude. + The soldier cried: "Halt! Who goes there?" + The answer came: "Death—in the air." + "Advance, Death—give the countersign, + Or perish if you cross that line!" + To change his tone Death thought it wise— + Reminded him they 'd been allies + Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk, + In many a bloody bit of work. + "In short," said he, "in every weather + We've soldiered, you and I, together." + The sentry would not let him pass. + "Go back," he growled, "you tiresome ass— + Go back and rest till the next war, + Nor kill by methods all abhor: + Miasma, famine, filth and vice, + With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice, + Foul food, foul water, and foul gases, + Rank exhalations from morasses. + If you employ such low allies + This business you will vulgarize. + Renouncing then the field of fame + To wallow in a waste of shame, + I'll prostitute my strength and lurk + About the country doing work— + These hands to labor I'll devote, + Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0139" id="link2H_4_0139"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BEECHER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too— + Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds + Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds + That man has ever taught and never knew. + + When on this mighty instrument He laid + His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan + Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone + Grew more vivacious when the Devil played. + + No more those luring harmonies we hear, + And lo! already men forget the sound. + They turn, retracing all the dubious ground + O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0140" id="link2H_4_0140"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOT GUILTY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I saw your charms in another's arms," + Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil; + "And he kissed you fair as he held you there, + A willing bird in a serpent's coil!" + + The maid looked up from the cinctured cup + Wherein she was crushing the berries red, + Pain and surprise in her honest eyes— + "It was only one o' those gods," she said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0141" id="link2H_4_0141"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRESENTIMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With saintly grace and reverent tread, + She walked among the graves with me; + Her every foot-fall seemed to be + A benediction on the dead. + + The guardian spirit of the place + She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn + Surprised in the untimely morn + She made with her resplendent face. + + Moved by some waywardness of will, + Three paces from the path apart + She stepped and stood—my prescient heart + Was stricken with a passing chill. + + The folk-lore of the years agone + Remembering, I smiled and thought: + "Who shudders suddenly at naught, + His grave is being trod upon." + + But now I know that it was more + Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, + I did not think such little feet + Could make a buried heart so sore! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0142" id="link2H_4_0142"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A STUDY IN GRAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I step from the door with a shiver + (This fog is uncommonly cold) + And ask myself: What did I give her?— + The maiden a trifle gone-old, + With the head of gray hair that was gold. + + Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, + And doubtless the change is correct, + Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller + Than what I'd a right to expect. + But you pay when you dine, I reflect. + + So I walk up the street—'twas a saunter + A score of years back, when I strolled + From this door; and our talk was all banter + Those days when her hair was of gold, + And the sea-fog less searching and cold. + + I button my coat (for I'm shaken, + And fevered a trifle, and flushed + With the wine that I ought to have taken,) + Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, + Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed. + + A score? Why, that isn't so very + Much time to have lost from a life. + There's reason enough to be merry: + I've not fallen down in the strife, + But marched with the drum and the fife. + + If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, + Had pushed at my shoulders instead, + And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, + Had laureled the worthiest head, + I could garland the years that are dead. + + Believe me, I've held my own, mostly + Through all of this wild masquerade; + But somehow the fog is more ghostly + To-night, and the skies are more grayed, + Like the locks of the restaurant maid. + + If ever I'd fainted and faltered + I'd fancy this did but appear; + But the climate, I'm certain, has altered— + Grown colder and more austere + Than it was in that earlier year. + + The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, + That lead from the street to the quay. + I think they'll go out—and I'm ready + To follow. Out there in the sea + The fog-bell is calling to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0143" id="link2H_4_0143"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PARADOX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "If life were not worth having," said the preacher, + "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature." + "An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: + What's not worth having cannot be worth taking." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0144" id="link2H_4_0144"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR MERIT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To Parmentier Parisians raise + A statue fine and large: + He cooked potatoes fifty ways, + Nor ever led a charge. + + "<i>Palmam qui meruit"</i>—the rest + You knew as well as I; + And best of all to him that best + Of sayings will apply. + + Let meaner men the poet's bays + Or warrior's medal wear; + Who cooks potatoes fifty ways + Shall bear the palm—de terre. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BIT OF SCIENCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream + And he who dreams it is not overwise, + If colors are vibration they but seem, + And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, + Why, come, then—photograph my lady's eyes. + Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, + As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, + To naught but vibratory motion's due, + As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest. + How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making + In me so uncontrollable a shaking? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0146" id="link2H_4_0146"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TABLES TURNED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over the man the street car ran, + And the driver did never grin. + "O killer of men, pray tell me when + Your laughter means to begin. + + "Ten years to a day I've observed you slay, + And I never have missed before + Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels + Were spattered with human gore. + + "Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy, + And why do you make no sign + Of the merry mind that is dancing behind + A solemner face than mine?" + + The driver replied: "I would laugh till I cried + If I had bisected you; + But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain, + 'T is myself that I've cut in two." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0147" id="link2H_4_0147"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A DEJECTED POET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy gift, if that it be of God, + Thou hast no warrant to appraise, + Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways, + The road too stony to be trod." + + Not thine to call the labor hard + And the reward inadequate. + Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate + Is better bargainer than bard. + + What! count the effort labor lost + When thy good angel holds the reed? + It were a sorry thing indeed + To stay him till thy palm be crossed. + + "The laborer is worthy"—nay, + The sacred ministry of song + Is rapture!—'t were a grievous wrong + To fix a wages-rate for play. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0148" id="link2H_4_0148"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FOOL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Says Anderson, Theosophist: + "Among the many that exist + In modern halls, + Some lived in ancient Egypt's clime + And in their childhood saw the prime + Of Karnak's walls." + + Ah, Anderson, if that is true + 'T is my conviction, sir, that you + Are one of those + That once resided by the Nile, + Peer to the sacred Crocodile, + Heir to his woes. + + My judgment is, the holy Cat + Mews through your larynx (and your hat) + These many years. + Through you the godlike Onion brings + Its melancholy sense of things, + And moves to tears. + + In you the Bull divine again + Bellows and paws the dusty plain, + To nature true. + I challenge not his ancient hate + But, lowering my knurly pate, + Lock horns with you. + + And though Reincarnation prove + A creed too stubborn to remove, + And all your school + Of Theosophs I cannot scare— + All the more earnestly I swear + That you're a fool. + + You'll say that this is mere abuse + Without, in fraying you, a use. + That's plain to see + With only half an eye. Come, now, + Be fair, be fair,—consider how + It eases <i>me</i>! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0149" id="link2H_4_0149"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HUMORIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What is that, mother?" + "The funny man, child. + His hands are black, but his heart is mild." + + "May I touch him, mother?" + "'T were foolishly done: + He is slightly touched already, my son." + + "O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?" + "That's the outward sign of a joke within." + + "Will he crack it, mother?" + "Not so, my saint; + 'T is meant for the <i>Saturday Livercomplaint."</i> + + "Does he suffer, mother?" + "God help him, yes!— + A thousand and fifty kinds of distress." + + "What makes him sweat so?" + "The demons that lurk + In the fear of having to go to work." + + "Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?" + "Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0150" id="link2H_4_0150"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MONTEFIORE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw—'twas in a dream, the other night— + A man whose hair with age was thin and white: + One hundred years had bettered by his birth, + And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. + + Before him and about him pressed a crowd. + Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, + And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues + Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud. + + I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, + "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied + In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er + To want and worth had charity denied. + + So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan + He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan + A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, + And in a moment was a lonely man! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0151" id="link2H_4_0151"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WARNING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!— + The distance hither's brief indeed." + But Youth pressed on without delay— + The shout had reached but half the way. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0152" id="link2H_4_0152"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DISCRETION. + </h2> + <h3> + SHE: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm told that men have sometimes got + Too confidential, and + Have said to one another what + They—well, you understand. + I hope I don't offend you, sweet, + But are you sure that <i>you're</i> discreet? +</pre> + <h3> + HE: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine + Their conquests <i>do</i> recall, + But none can truly say that mine + Are known to him at all. + I never, never talk you o'er— + In truth, I never get the floor. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0153" id="link2H_4_0153"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXILE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis the census enumerator + A-singing all forlorn: + It's ho! for the tall potater, + And ho! for the clustered corn. + The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine + Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine. + + "Some there must be to till the soil + And the widow's weeds keep down. + I wasn't cut out for rural toil + But they <i>won't</i> let me live in town! + They 're not so many by two or three, + As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me." + + Thus the census man, bowed down with care, + Warbled his wood-note high. + There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair, + But he had no blood in his eye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0154" id="link2H_4_0154"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Baffled he stands upon the track— + The automatic switches clack. + + Where'er he turns his solemn eyes + The interlocking signals rise. + + The trains, before his visage pale, + Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail. + + No splinter-spitted victim he + Hears uttering the note high C. + + In sorrow deep he hangs his head, + A-weary—would that he were dead. + + Now suddenly his spirits rise— + A great thought kindles in his eyes. + + Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare, + Splendors the path of his despair. + + His genius shines, the clouds roll back— + "I'll place obstructions on the track!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0155" id="link2H_4_0155"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PSYCHOGRAPHS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Says Gerald Massey: "When I write, a band + Of souls of the departed guides my hand." + How strange that poems cumbering our shelves, + Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0156" id="link2H_4_0156"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Newman, in you two parasites combine: + As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine. + When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt, + The pride of residence was all you felt + (What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knew + To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?) + And when the praises of the dead you've sung, + 'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue; + As ill-bred men when warming to their wine + Boast of its merit though it be but brine. + Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should— + Even charity would shun you if she could. + You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole, + But what you get you take by way of toll. + Vain to resist you—vermifuge alone + Has power to push you from your robber throne. + When to escape you he's compelled to die + Hey! presto!—in the twinkling of an eye + You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear + As graveworm and resume your curst career. + As host no more, to satisfy your need + He serves as dinner your unaltered greed. + O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame, + Son of servility and priest of shame, + While naught your mad ambition can abate + To lick the spittle of the rich and great; + While still like smoke your eulogies arise + To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes; + While still with holy oil, like that which ran + Down Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man, + I cannot choose but think it very odd + It ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0157" id="link2H_4_0157"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR WOUNDS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O bear me, gods, to some enchanted isle + Where woman's tears can antidote her smile. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0158" id="link2H_4_0158"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELECTION DAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Despots effete upon tottering thrones + Unsteadily poised upon dead men's bones, + Walk up! walk up! the circus is free, + And this wonderful spectacle you shall see: + Millions of voters who mostly are fools— + Demagogues' dupes and candidates' tools, + Armies of uniformed mountebanks, + And braying disciples of brainless cranks. + Many a week they've bellowed like beeves, + Bitterly blackguarding, lying like thieves, + Libeling freely the quick and the dead + And painting the New Jerusalem red. + Tyrants monarchical—emperors, kings, + Princes and nobles and all such things— + Noblemen, gentlemen, step this way: + There's nothing, the Devil excepted, to pay, + And the freaks and curios here to be seen + Are very uncommonly grand and serene. + + No more with vivacity they debate, + Nor cheerfully crack the illogical pate; + No longer, the dull understanding to aid, + The stomach accepts the instructive blade, + Nor the stubborn heart learns what is what + From a revelation of rabbit-shot; + And vilification's flames—behold! + Burn with a bickering faint and cold. + + Magnificent spectacle!—every tongue + Suddenly civil that yesterday rung + (Like a clapper beating a brazen bell) + Each fair reputation's eternal knell; + Hands no longer delivering blows, + And noses, for counting, arrayed in rows. + + Walk up, gentlemen—nothing to pay— + The Devil goes back to Hell to-day. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0159" id="link2H_4_0159"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MILITIAMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O warrior with the burnished arms— + With bullion cord and tassel— + Pray tell me of the lurid charms + Of service and the fierce alarms: + The storming of the castle, + The charge across the smoking field, + The rifles' busy rattle— + What thoughts inspire the men who wield + The blade—their gallant souls how steeled + And fortified in battle." + + "Nay, man of peace, seek not to know + War's baleful fascination— + The soldier's hunger for the foe, + His dread of safety, joy to go + To court annihilation. + Though calling bugles blow not now, + Nor drums begin to beat yet, + One fear unmans me, I'll allow, + And poisons all my pleasure: How + If I should get my feet wet!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "A LITERARY METHOD." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His poems Riley says that he indites + Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers, + Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writes + Upon his empty stomach empties ours! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0160" id="link2H_4_0160"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WELCOME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and + There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,— + Because you thus by vain pretense degrade + To paltry purposes traditions grand,— + + Because to cheat the ignorant you say + The thing that's not, elated still to sway + The crass credulity of gaping fools + And women by fantastical display,— + + Because no sacred fires did ever warm + Your hearts, high knightly service to perform— + A woman's breast or coffer of a man + The only citadel you dare to storm,— + + Because while railing still at lord and peer, + At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer, + Each member of your order tries to graft + A peacock's tail upon his barren rear,— + + Because that all these things are thus and so, + I bid you welcome to our city. Lo! + You're free to come, and free to stay, and free + As soon as it shall please you, sirs—to go. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0161" id="link2H_4_0161"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SERENADE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sas agapo sas agapo," + He sang beneath her lattice. + "'Sas agapo'?" she murmured—"O, + I wonder, now, what <i>that</i> is!" + + Was she less fair that she did bear + So light a load of knowledge? + Are loving looks got out of books, + Or kisses taught in college? + + Of woman's lore give me no more + Than how to love,—in many + A tongue men brawl: she speaks them all + Who says "I love," in any. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0162" id="link2H_4_0162"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WISE AND GOOD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O father, I saw at the church as I passed + The populace gathered in numbers so vast + That they couldn't get in; and their voices were low, + And they looked as if suffering terrible woe." + + "'Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead + For whom the great heart of humanity bled." + + "What made it bleed, father, for every day + Somebody passes forever away? + Do the newspaper men print a column or more + Of every person whose troubles are o'er?" + + "O, no; they could never do that—and indeed, + Though printers might print it, no reader would read. + To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne, + But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn." + + "That's right, father dear, but how can our eyes + Distinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?" + + "That's easy enough to the stupidest mind: + They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind." + + "Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green? + And takest thy son for a gaping marine? + Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the Good + Who are poor and lamented to babes in the wood." + + And that horrible youth as I hastened away + Was building a wink that affronted the day. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0163" id="link2H_4_0163"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOST COLONEL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'Tis a woeful yarn," said the sailor man bold + Who had sailed the northern-lakes— + "No woefuler one has ever been told + Exceptin' them called 'fakes.'" + + "Go on, thou son of the wind and fog, + For I burn to know the worst!" + But his silent lip in a glass of grog + Was dreamily immersed. + + Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said: + "It's never like that I drinks + But what of the gallant gent that's dead + I truly mournful thinks. + + "He was a soldier chap—leastways + As 'Colonel' he was knew; + An' he hailed from some'rs where they raise + A grass that's heavenly blue. + + "He sailed as a passenger aboard + The schooner 'Henery Jo.' + O wild the waves and galeses roared, + Like taggers in a show! + + "But he sat at table that calm an' mild + As if he never had let + His sperit know that the waves was wild + An' everlastin' wet!— + + "Jest set with a bottle afore his nose, + As was labeled 'Total Eclipse' + (The bottle was) an' he frequent rose + A glass o' the same to his lips. + + "An' he says to me (for the steward slick + Of the 'Henery Jo' was I): + 'This sailor life's the very old Nick— + On the lakes it's powerful dry!' + + "I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch. + I hopes you'll outlast the trip.' + But if I'd been him—an' I said as much— + I'd 'a' took a faster ship. + + "His laughture, loud an' long an' free, + Rang out o'er the tempest's roar. + 'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he, + 'But it's powerful dry ashore!'" + + "O mariner man, why pause and don + A look of so deep concern? + Have another glass—go on, go on, + For to know the worst I burn." + + "One day he was leanin' over the rail, + When his footing some way slipped, + An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale), + He was accidental unshipped! + + "The empty boats was overboard hove, + As he swum in the 'Henery's wake'; + But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had drove + From sight on the ragin' lake!" + + "And so the poor gentleman was drowned— + And now I'm apprised of the worst." + "What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found— + In the yawl—stone dead o' thirst!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0164" id="link2H_4_0164"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR TAT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, heavenly powers! will wonders never cease?— + Hair upon dogs and feathers upon geese! + The boys in mischief and the pigs in mire! + The drinking water wet! the coal on fire! + In meadows, rivulets surpassing fair, + Forever running, yet forever there! + A tail appended to the gray baboon! + A person coming out of a saloon! + Last, and of all most marvelous to see, + A female Yahoo flinging filth at me! + If 'twould but stick I'd bear upon my coat + May Little's proof that she is fit to vote. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0165" id="link2H_4_0165"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DILEMMA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, + For years I criticised their prose and verges: + Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, + Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then + Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! + + They said: "That's all that he can do—just sneer, + And pull to pieces and be analytic. + Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear, + Publish a book or two, and so appear + As one who has the right to be a critic? + + "Let him who knows it all forbear to tell + How little others know, but show his learning." + The public added: "Who has written well + May censure freely"—quoting Pope. I fell + Into the trap and books began out-turning,— + + Books by the score—fine prose and poems fair, + And not a book of them but was a terror, + They were so great and perfect; though I swear + I tried right hard to work in, here and there, + (My nature still forbade) a fault or error. + + 'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, + Professed to find—but that's a trifling matter. + Now, when the flood of noble books was out + I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout, + Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! + + (Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. + 'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em, + But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad + We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, + They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!) + + "Consistency, thou art a"—well, you're <i>paste</i>! + When next I felt my demon in possession, + And made the field of authorship a waste, + All said of me: "What execrable taste, + To rail at others of his own profession!" + + Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin + Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, + And hears a voice from Heaven say: "Pitch in"? + He finds himself—alas, poor son of sin— + Between the devil and the deep blue ocean! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0166" id="link2H_4_0166"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + METEMPSYCHOSIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once with Christ he entered Salem, + Once in Moab bullied Balaam, + Once by Apuleius staged + He the pious much enraged. + And, again, his head, as beaver, + Topped the neck of Nick the Weaver. + Omar saw him (minus tether— + Free and wanton as the weather: + Knowing naught of bit or spur) + Stamping over Bahram-Gur. + Now, as Altgeld, see him joy + As Governor of Illinois! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0167" id="link2H_4_0167"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SAINT AND THE MONK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed + The tools and terrors of his awful trade; + The key, the frown as pitiless as night, + That slays intending trespassers at sight, + And, at his side in easy reach, the curled + Interrogation points all ready to be hurled. + + Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced + No others were about) a soul advanced— + A fat, orbicular and jolly soul + With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl— + A monk so prepossessing that the saint + Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint, + Forgot his frown and all his questions too, + Forgoing even the customary "Who?"— + Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin, + Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in." + + The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please— + Who's in there?" By insensible degrees + The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem, + As growing snores annihilate a dream. + The frown began to blacken on his brow, + His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?" + "O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained; + "I'm rather—well, particular. I've strained + A point in coming here at all; 'tis said + That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead + At last) and all her followers are here. + As company, they'd be—confess it—rather queer." + + The saint replied, his rising anger past: + "What can I do?—the law is hard-and-fast, + Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown— + An oral order issued from the Throne. + By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred + God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd." + + That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile, + Said, slowly turning on his heel the while: + "Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar— + I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are." + + 1895. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0168" id="link2H_4_0168"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OPPOSING SEX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing: + "No longer the 'masher' + Sees Widows of Ashur!" + So each is a lasher + Of Man's smallest failing. + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing. + + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling— + No wooing can gull 'em + In Cave of Adullam. + No angel can lull 'em + To cease their defiling + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling. + + At men they are cursing— + The Widows of Ashur; + Themselves, too, for nursing + The men they are cursing. + The praise they're rehearsing + Of every slasher + At men. <i>They</i> are cursing + The Widows of Ashur. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0169" id="link2H_4_0169"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WHIPPER-IN. + </h2> + <p> + [Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and + declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not regularly + attend.—<i>N.Y. World.]</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note, + Worthy of honor from a feeble pen + Blunted in service of all true, good men, + You serve the Lord—in courses, <i>table d'hôte: + Au, naturel,</i> as well as <i>àla Nick</i>— + "Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick." + + O, truly pious caterer, forbear + To push the Saviour and Him crucified + <i>(Brochette</i> you'd call it) into their inside + Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare. + The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion + Of aught that it has taken on compulsion. + + I search the Scriptures, but I do not find + That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings + For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings + To charm away the scruples of the mind. + It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"— + Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell! + + Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true: + We cower timidly beneath the rod + Lifted in menace by an angry God, + But won't endure it from an ape like you. + Detested simian with thumb prehensile, + Switch <i>me</i> and I would brain you with my pencil! + + Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back + On its transplendency to flog some wight + Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night + Your ugly shadow lays along his track. + O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin, + Behold what rascals try to scourge it in! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0170" id="link2H_4_0170"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUDGMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I drew aside the Future's veil + And saw upon his bier + The poet Whitman. Loud the wail + And damp the falling tear. + + "He's dead—he is no more!" one cried, + With sobs of sorrow crammed; + "No more? He's this much more," replied + Another: "he is damned!" + + 1885. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0171" id="link2H_4_0171"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand, + Played accordions as well as any lady in the land; + And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was such + That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch; + And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang + That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang. + This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine, + Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine. + She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet + When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet— + Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung + As to overtax the strength of any single human lung. + That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell, + Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell. + + One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smart + A chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part. + Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrude + It was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude. + Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to see + That he <i>was</i> a real Gent of an uncommon high degree. + That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regards + On this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards; + But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blind + To her many charms of person and the merits of her mind, + And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad, + And acted in a manner that in general was bad. + + One evening—'twas in summer—she was holding in her lap + Her accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap, + Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued, + Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude. + + Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to hum + And elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb. + Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled, + And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed. + "In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impassioned strain, + And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain, + Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round, + And going into session strove to magnify the sound. + He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rang + With the song that to <i>his</i> darling he impetuously sang! + Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes, + Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines, + From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog, + Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0172" id="link2H_4_0172"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN HIGH LIFE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea, + Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee. + The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare; + The fashion, the rank and the wealth were all there— + No person was absent of all whom one meets. + Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, + While good Sir John Satan attended the door + And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor, + Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, + Preserving the peace between poodle and pug. + Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle + To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; + Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom + To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom. + The rites were performed by the hand and the lip + Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, + Assisted by three able-bodied divines. + He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs. + Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such grace + Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place! + That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, + Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0173" id="link2H_4_0173"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BUBBLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore + Was a dame of superior mind, + With a gown which, modestly fitting before, + Was greatly puffed up behind. + + The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned + With an inspiration bright: + It magnified seven diameters and + Was remarkably nice and light. + + It was made of rubber and edged with lace + And riveted all with brass, + And the whole immense interior space + Inflated with hydrogen gas. + + The ladies all said when she hove in view + Like the round and rising moon: + "She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true, + And men called her the Captive Balloon. + + To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day + She went and she said: "O dear! + If I leave off <i>this</i> what will people say? + I shall look so uncommonly queer!" + + So a costume she had accordingly made + To take it all nicely in, + And when she appeared in that suit arrayed, + She was greeted with many a grin. + + Proudly and happily looking around, + She waded out into the wet, + But the water was very, very profound, + And her feet and her forehead met! + + As her bubble drifted away from the shore, + On the glassy billows borne, + All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore? + I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!" + + Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot, + Till it burst with a sullen roar, + And the sea like oil closed over the spot— + Farewell, O Mehitable Moore! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0174" id="link2H_4_0174"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A RENDEZVOUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nightly I put up this humble petition: + "Forgive me, O Father of Glories, + My sins of commission, my sins of omission, + My sins of the Mission Dolores." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0175" id="link2H_4_0175"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did I believe the angels soon would call + You, my beloved, to the other shore, + And I should never see you any more, + I love you so I know that I should fall + Into dejection utterly, and all + Love's pretty pageantry, wherein we bore + Twin banners bravely in the tumult's fore, + Would seem as shadows idling on a wall. + So daintily I love you that my love + Endures no rumor of the winter's breath, + And only blossoms for it thinks the sky + Forever gracious, and the stars above + Forever friendly. Even the fear of death + Were frost wherein its roses all would die. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0176" id="link2H_4_0176"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXAMPLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They were two deaf mutes, and they loved and they + Resolved to be groom and bride; + And they listened to nothing that any could say, + Nor ever a word replied. + + From wedlock when warned by the married men, + Maintain an invincible mind: + Be deaf and dumb until wedded—and then + Be deaf and dumb and blind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0177" id="link2H_4_0177"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REVENGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A spitcat sate on a garden gate + And a snapdog fared beneath; + Careless and free was his mien, and he + Held a fiddle-string in his teeth. + + She marked his march, she wrought an arch + Of her back and blew up her tail; + And her eyes were green as ever were seen, + And she uttered a woful wail. + + The spitcat's plaint was as follows: "It ain't + That I am to music a foe; + For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside, + And I twang them soft and low. + + "But that dog has trifled with art and rifled + A kitten of mine, ah me! + That catgut slim was marauded from him: + 'Tis the string that men call E." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Then she sounded high, in the key of Y, + A note that cracked the tombs; + And the missiles through the firmament flew + From adjacent sleeping-rooms. + + As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell + She followed it down to earth; + And that snapdog wears a placard that bears + The inscription: "Blind from birth." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0178" id="link2H_4_0178"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Adam first saw Eve he said: + "O lovely creature, share my bed." + Before consenting, she her gaze + Fixed on the greensward to appraise, + As well as vision could avouch, + The value of the proffered couch. + And seeing that the grass was green + And neatly clipped with a machine— + Observing that the flow'rs were rare + Varieties, and some were fair, + The posts of precious woods, besprent + With fragrant balsams, diffluent, + And all things suited to her worth, + She raised her angel eyes from earth + To his and, blushing to confess, + Murmured: "I love you, Adam—yes." + Since then her daughters, it is said, + Look always down when asked to wed. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0179" id="link2H_4_0179"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN CONTUMACIAM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Och! Father McGlynn, + Ye appear to be in + Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; + An' there's divil a doubt + But he's knockin' ye out + While ye're hangin' onto the rope. + + An' soon ye'll lave home + To thravel to Rome, + For its bound to Canossa ye are. + Persistin' to shtay + When ye're ordered away— + Bedad! that is goin' too far! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0180" id="link2H_4_0180"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RE-EDIFIED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lord of the tempest, pray refrain + From leveling this church again. + Now in its doom, as so you've willed it, + We acquiesce. But <i>you'll</i> rebuild it. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0181" id="link2H_4_0181"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BULLETIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Lothario is very low," + So all the doctors tell. + Nay, nay, not <i>so</i>—he will be, though, + If ever he get well. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0182" id="link2H_4_0182"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM THE MINUTES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When, with the force of a ram that discharges its ponderous body + Straight at the rear elevation of the luckless culler of simples, + The foot of Herculean Kilgore—statesman of surname suggestive + Or carnage unspeakable!—lit like a missile prodigious + Upon the Congressional door with a monstrous and mighty momentum, + Causing that vain ineffective bar to political freedom + To fly from its hinges, effacing the nasal excrescence of Dingley, + That luckless one, decently veiling the ruin with ready bandanna, + Lamented the loss of his eminence, sadly with sobs as follows: + "Ah, why was I ever elected to the halls of legislation, + So soon to be shown the door with pitiless emphasis? Truly, + I've leaned on a broken Reed, and the same has gone back on me meanly. + Where now is my prominence, erstwhile in council conspicuous, patent? + Alas, I did never before understand what I now see clearly, + To wit, that Democracy tends to level all human distinctions!" + His fate so untoward and sad the Pine-tree statesman, bewailing, + Stood in the corridor there while Democrats freed from confinement + Came trooping forth from the chamber, dissembling all, as they passed him, + Hilarious sentiments painful indeed to observe, and remarking: + "O friend and colleague of the Speaker, what ails the unjoyous proboscis?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0183" id="link2H_4_0183"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WOMAN IN POLITICS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What, madam, run for School Director? You? + And want my vote and influence? Well, well, + That beats me! Gad! where <i>are</i> we drifting to? + In all my life I never have heard tell + Of such sublime presumption, and I smell + A nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam; + We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam. + + But now you mention it—well, well, who knows? + We might, that's certain, give the sex a show. + I have a cousin—teacher. I suppose + If I stand in and you 're elected—no? + You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go! + But understand that school administration + Belongs to Politics, not Education. + + We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wise + To understand each other at the start. + You know my business—books and school supplies; + You'd hardly, if elected, have the heart + Some small advantage to deny me—part + Of all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing? + Please don't express yourself with so much feeling. + + You pain me, truly. Now one question more. + Suppose a fair young man should ask a place + As teacher—would you (pardon) shut the door + Of the Department in his handsome face + Until—I know not how to put the case— + Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor? + Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver. + + Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect: + A woman has no head for useful tricks. + My profitable offers you reject + And will not promise anything to fix + The opposition. That's not politics. + Good morning. Stay—I'm chaffing you, conceitedly. + Madam, I mean to vote for you—repeatedly. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0184" id="link2H_4_0184"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO AN ASPIRANT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! you a Senator—you, Mike de Young? + Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung? + Sir, if all Senators were such as you, + Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,— + (Shaped to the pocket for commercial work, + For literary, fitted to the dirk)— + So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers, + The toga's touch would give a man the shivers. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0185" id="link2H_4_0185"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives, + And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives, + Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame— + The assassinating wassail that has given him his name; + Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen + To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green, + While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread + With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head; + Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun, + And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run, + Lived a colony of settlers—old Missouri was the State + Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date. + + Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme + Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream. + + The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free, + And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea. + So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce, + And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use— + Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day, + Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way. + Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God create + Such a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state? + + Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he; + With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree; + So he knelt upon the <i>mesa</i> and he prayed with all his chin + That the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin. + + Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land, + And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand! + Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birth + Fitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth. + Astounded by the miracle, the people met that night + To celebrate it properly by some religious rite; + And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunk + Every man and every woman was devotionally drunk. + A half a standard gallon (says history) per head + Of the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed. + O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk. + By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke! + Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye, + And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky! + Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass, + Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass. + Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way, + To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say, + Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop, + To the head of population—and consumes it, every drop! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0186" id="link2H_4_0186"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BUILDER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw the devil—he was working free: + A customs-house he builded by the sea. + "Why do you this?" The devil raised his head; + "Churches and courts I've built enough," he said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0187" id="link2H_4_0187"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN AUGURY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Upon my desk a single spray, + With starry blossoms fraught. + I write in many an idle way, + Thinking one serious thought. + + "O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear, + And with a fine Greek grace." + Be still, O heart, that turns to share + The sunshine of a face. + + "Have ye no messages—no brief, + Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?" + A sudden stir of stem and leaf— + A breath of heliotrope! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0188" id="link2H_4_0188"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LUSUS POLITICUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come in, old gentleman. How do you do? + Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called. + I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you + Are a pleasant-appearing person, too, + With a head agreeably bald. + That's right—sit down in the scuttle of coal + And put up your feet in a chair. + It is better to have them there: + And I've always said that a hat of lead, + Such as I see you wear, + Was a better hat than a hat of glass. + And your boots of brass + Are a natural kind of boots, I swear. + "May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?" + Why, certainly, man, why not? + I rather expected you'd do it before, + When I saw you poking it in at the door. + It's dev'lish hot— + The weather, I mean. "You are twins"? + Why, that was evident at the start, + From the way that you paint your head + In stripes of purple and red, + With dots of yellow. + That proves you a fellow + With a love of legitimate art. + "You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"? + That's very sad, + But Longfellow's words I beg to recall: + Your lot is the common lot of all. + "Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"? + That, I fancy, is just as you please. + Some think that way and others hold + The opposite view; + I never quite knew, + For the matter o' that, + When everything's been said— + May I offer this mat + If you <i>will</i> stand on your head? + I suppose I look to be upside down + From your present point of view. + It's a giddy old world, from king to clown, + And a topsy-turvy, too. + But, worthy and now uninverted old man, + <i>You're</i> built, at least, on a normal plan + If ever a truth I spoke. + Smoke? + Your air and conversation + Are a liberal education, + And your clothes, including the metal hat + And the brazen boots—what's that? + + "You never could stomach a Democrat + Since General Jackson ran? + You're another sort, but you predict + That your party'll get consummately licked?" + Good God! what a queer old man! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0189" id="link2H_4_0189"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BEREAVEMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Countess (so they tell the tale) + Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale, + Where ladies, even of high degree, + Know more of love than of A.B.C, + Came once with a prodigious bribe + Unto the learned village scribe, + That most discreet and honest man + Who wrote for all the lover clan, + Nor e'er a secret had betrayed— + Save when inadequately paid. + "Write me," she sobbed—"I pray thee do— + A book about the Prince di Giu— + A book of poetry in praise + Of all his works and all his ways; + The godlike grace of his address, + His more than woman's tenderness, + His courage stern and lack of guile, + The loves that wantoned in his smile. + So great he was, so rich and kind, + I'll not within a fortnight find + His equal as a lover. O, + My God! I shall be drowned in woe!" + + "What! Prince di Giu has died!" exclaimed + The honest man for letters famed, + The while he pocketed her gold; + "Of what'?—if I may be so bold." + Fresh storms of tears the lady shed: + "I stabbed him fifty times," she said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0190" id="link2H_4_0190"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INSCRIPTION + </h2> + <h3> + FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A famous conqueror, in battle brave, + Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave. + His reign laid quantities of human dust: + He fell upon the just and the unjust. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0191" id="link2H_4_0191"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PICKBRAIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! imitate me, friend? Suppose that you + With agony and difficulty do + What I do easily—what then? You've got + A style I heartily wish <i>I</i> had not. + If I from lack of sense and you from choice + Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice, + No equal censure our deserts will suit— + We both are fools, but you're an ape to boot! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0192" id="link2H_4_0192"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONVALESCENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "By good men's prayers see Grant restored!" + Shouts Talmage, pious creature! + Yes, God, by supplication bored + From every droning preacher, + Exclaimed: "So be it, tiresome crew— + But I've a crow to pick with <i>you</i>." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0193" id="link2H_4_0193"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He looked upon the ships as they + All idly lay at anchor, + Their sides with gorgeous workmen gay— + The riveter and planker— + + Republicans and Democrats, + Statesmen and politicians. + He saw the swarm of prudent rats + Swimming for land positions. + + He marked each "belted cruiser" fine, + Her poddy life-belts floating + In tether where the hungry brine + Impinged upon her coating. + + He noted with a proud regard, + As any of his class would, + The poplar mast and poplar yard + Above the hull of bass-wood. + + He saw the Eastlake frigate tall, + With quaintly carven gable, + Hip-roof and dormer-window—all + With ivy formidable. + + In short, he saw our country's hope + In best of all conditions— + Equipped, to the last spar and rope, + By working politicians. + + He boarded then the noblest ship + And from the harbor glided. + "Adieu, adieu!" fell from his lip. + Verdict: "He suicided." + + 1881. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0194" id="link2H_4_0194"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DETECTED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Congress once great Mowther shone, + Debating weighty matters; + Now into an asylum thrown, + He vacuously chatters. + + If in that legislative hall + His wisdom still he 'd vented, + It never had been known at all + That Mowther was demented. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0195" id="link2H_4_0195"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BIMETALISM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ben Bulger was a silver man, + Though not a mine had he: + He thought it were a noble plan + To make the coinage free. + + "There hain't for years been sech a time," + Said Ben to his bull pup, + "For biz—the country's broke and I'm + The hardest kind of up. + + "The paper says that that's because + The silver coins is sea'ce, + And that the chaps which makes the laws + Puts gold ones in their place. + + "They says them nations always be + Most prosperatin' where + The wolume of the currency + Ain't so disgustin' rare." + + His dog, which hadn't breakfasted, + Dissented from his view, + And wished that he could swell, instead, + The volume of cold stew. + + "Nobody'd put me up," said Ben, + "With patriot galoots + Which benefits their feller men + By playin' warious roots; + + "But havin' all the tools about, + I'm goin' to commence + A-turnin' silver dollars out + Wuth eighty-seven cents. + + "The feller takin' 'em can't whine: + (No more, likewise, can I): + They're better than the genooine, + Which mostly satisfy. + + "It's only makin' coinage free, + And mebby might augment + The wolume of the currency + A noomerous per cent." + + I don't quite see his error nor + Malevolence prepense, + But fifteen years they gave him for + That technical offense. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0196" id="link2H_4_0196"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RICH TESTATOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He lay on his bed and solemnly "signed," + Gasping—perhaps 'twas a jest he meant: + "This of a sound and disposing mind + Is the last ill-will and contestament." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0197" id="link2H_4_0197"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO METHODS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fed + The Priest delivers masses for the dead, + And even from estrays outside the fold + Death for the masses he would not withhold. + The Parson, loth alike to free or kill, + Forsakes the souls already on the grill, + And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming, + Spares living sinners for a harder damning. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0198" id="link2H_4_0198"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranks + Are played by sentimental cranks! + First this one mounts his hinder hoofs + And brays the chimneys off the roofs; + Then that one, with exalted voice, + Expounds the thesis of his choice, + Our understandings to bombard, + Till all the window panes are starred! + A third augments the vocal shock + Till steeples to their bases rock, + Confessing, as they humbly nod, + They hear and mark the will of God. + A fourth in oral thunder vents + His awful penury of sense + Till dogs with sympathetic howls, + And lowing cows, and cackling fowls, + Hens, geese, and all domestic birds, + Attest the wisdom of his words. + Cranks thus their intellects deflate + Of theories about the State. + This one avers 'tis built on Truth, + And that on Temperance. This youth + Declares that Science bears the pile; + That graybeard, with a holy smile, + Says Faith is the supporting stone; + While women swear that Love alone + Could so unflinchingly endure + The heavy load. And some are sure + The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock + Is the indubitable bedrock. + + Physicians once about the bed + Of one whose life was nearly sped + Blew up a disputatious breeze + About the cause of his disease: + This, that and t' other thing they blamed. + "Tut, tut!" the dying man exclaimed, + "What made me ill I do not care; + You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear. + And if you had the skill to make it + I'd see you hanged before I'd take it!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0199" id="link2H_4_0199"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN IMPOSTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain + Your worth, and all the reasons give again + Why black and red are similarly white, + And you and God identically right? + Still must our ears without redress submit + To hear you play the solemn hypocrite + Walking in spirit some high moral level, + Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil? + Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made + Your mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayed + To have an earless head. Since she did not, + Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot— + Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air + So delicately, mercifully rare + That when the fellow climbs that giddy hill, + As, for my sins, I know at last he will, + To utter twaddle in that void inane + His soundless organ he will play in vain. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0200" id="link2H_4_0200"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UNEXPOUNDED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills, + On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills, + Lawyers great books indite; + The creaking of their busy quills + I've never heard on Right. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0201" id="link2H_4_0201"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive: + Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive; + A Prince who'd govern where he dares not dwell, + And who for power would his birthright sell— + Who, anxious o'er his enemies to reign, + Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain; + While pugnant factions mutually strive + By cutting throats to keep the land alive. + Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse— + To all a mistress, to thyself a curse; + Sweetheart of Europe! every sun's embrace + Matures the charm and poison of thy grace. + Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings: + In blood of citizens and blood of kings + The stones of thy stability are set, + And the fair fabric trembles at a threat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0202" id="link2H_4_0202"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EASTERN QUESTION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Looking across the line, the Grecian said: + "This border I will stain a Turkey red." + The Moslem smiled securely and replied: + "No Greek has ever for his country dyed." + While thus each patriot guarded his frontier, + The Powers stole all the country in his rear. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0203" id="link2H_4_0203"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A GUEST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Death, are you well? I trust you have no cough + That's painful or in any way annoying— + No kidney trouble that may carry you off, + Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying + Your meals—and ours. 'T were very sad indeed + To have to quit the busy life you lead. + + You've been quite active lately for so old + A person, and not very strong-appearing. + I'm apprehensive, somehow, that my bold, + Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing. + And my two friends—I fear, sir, that you ran + Quite hard for them, especially the man. + + I crave your pardon: 'twas no fault of mine; + If you are overworked I'm sorry, very. + Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine. + What shall it be—Marsala, Port or Sherry? + What! just a mug of blood? That's funny grog + To ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0204" id="link2H_4_0204"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FALSE PROPHECY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil + (Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut), + They say that you're imperially ill, + And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut! + Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but + A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill + A man predestined to depart this life + By the assassin's bullet, bomb or knife. + + Sir, once there was a President who freed + Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar + Who freed five times as many serfs. Sins breed + The means of punishment, and tyrants are + Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car + If faster than the law allows they speed. + Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut; + <i>You</i> freed slaves too. Paralysis—tut-tut! + + 1885. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0205" id="link2H_4_0205"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO TYPES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Courageous fool!—the peril's strength unknown. + Courageous man!—so conscious of your own. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0206" id="link2H_4_0206"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. + </h2> + <h3> + STEPHEN DORSEY. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst, + Where rests in Satan an offender first + In point of greatness, as in point of time, + Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime. + Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab + The dark arcana of each mighty grab, + And famed for lying from his early youth, + He sinned secure behind a veil of truth. + Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write + A damning record and conceal from sight; + Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it. + His way to keep a secret was to tell it. +</pre> + <h3> + STEPHEN J. FIELD. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here sleeps one of the greatest students + Of jurisprudence. + Nature endowed him with the gift + Of the juristhrift. + All points of law alike he threw + The dice to settle. + Those honest cubes were loaded true + With railway metal. +</pre> + <h3> + GENERAL B.F. BUTLER. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God, + We gave, O gallant brother; + And o'er thy grave the awkward squad + Fired into one another! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath this monument which rears its head. + A giant note of admiration—dead, + His life extinguished like a taper's flame. + John Ericsson is lying in his fame. + Behold how massive is the lofty shaft; + How fine the product of the sculptor's craft; + The gold how lavishly applied; the great + Man's statue how impressive and sedate! + Think what the cost-was! It would ill become + Our modesty to specify the sum; + Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're giving + Of what we robbed him of when he was living. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk + Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk. + His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear, + But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead + He looked so natural that round his bed + + The people stood, in silence all, to weep. + They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid + The tools of his infernal trade— + His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude + They grew—so slack in gratitude, + His hand was wounded as he wrote, + And when he spoke he cut his throat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Within this humble mausoleum + Poor Guiteau's flesh you'll find. + His bones are kept in a museum, + And Tillman has his mind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stranger, uncover; here you have in view + The monument of Chauncey M. Depew. + Eater and orator, the whole world round + For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned. + Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech, + Nothing he knew excepting how to teach. + But in default of something to impart + He multiplied his words with all his heart: + When least he had to say, instructive most— + A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost. + + Dining his way to eminence, he rowed + With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed + From lakes of favor—pulled with all his force + And found each river sweeter than the source. + Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor, + Gnawing and rising till obscure no more, + He ate his way to eminence, and Fame + Inscribes in gravy his immortal name. + A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly, + So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly. + Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him, + And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie; + Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why. + In '71 he filled the public eye, + In '72 he bade the world good-bye, + In God's good time, with a protesting sigh, + He came to life just long enough to die. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay, + Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray. + He joined the great Order and studied with zeal + The awful arcana he meant to reveal. + At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell— + There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0207" id="link2H_4_0207"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A HYMN OF THE MANY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God's people sorely were oppressed, + I heard their lamentations long;— + I hear their singing, clear and strong, + I see their banners in the West! + + The captains shout the battle-cry, + The legions muster in their might; + They turn their faces to the light, + They lift their arms, they testify: + + "We sank beneath the Master's thong, + Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;— + Now clash your lances in the sun + And bless your banners with a song! + + "God bides his time with patient eyes + While tyrants build upon the land;— + He lifts his face, he lifts his hand, + And from the stones his temples rise. + + "Now Freedom waves her joyous wing + Beyond the foemen's shields of gold. + March forward, singing, for, behold, + The right shall rule while God is king!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0208" id="link2H_4_0208"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE MORNING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because that I am weak, my love, and ill, + I cannot follow the impatient feet + Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat + Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill + The hour appointed for the air to thrill + And brighten at your coming. O my sweet, + The tale of moments is at last complete— + The tryst is broken on the gusty hill! + O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed, + The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not; + Think rather that the clock and sun have lied + And all too early, you have sought the spot. + For lo! despair has darkened all the light, + And till I see your face it still is night. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0209" id="link2H_4_0209"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ERROR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream + How sweet the roses in the autumn seem! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0210" id="link2H_4_0210"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You 're grayer than one would have thought you: + The climate you have over there + In the East has apparently brought you + Disorders affecting the hair, + Which—pardon me—seems a thought spare. + + You'll not take offence at my giving + Expression to notions like these. + You might have been stronger if living + Out here in our sanative breeze. + It's unhealthy here for disease. + + No, I'm not as plump as a pullet. + But that's the old wound, you see. + Remember my paunching a bullet?— + And how that it didn't agree + With—well, honest hardtack for me. + + Just pass me the wine—I've a helly + And horrible kind of drouth! + When a fellow has that in his belly + Which didn't go in at his mouth + He's hotter than all Down South! + + Great Scott! what a nasty day <i>that</i> was— + When every galoot in our crack + Division who didn't lie flat was + Dissuaded from further attack + By the bullet's felicitous whack. + + 'Twas there that our major slept under + Some cannon of ours on the crest, + Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, + And he cursed them for breaking his rest, + And died in the midst of his jest. + + That night—it was late in November— + The dead seemed uncommonly chill + To the touch; and one chap I remember + Who took it exceedingly ill + When I dragged myself over his bill. + + Well, comrades, I'm off now—good morning. + Your talk is as pleasant as pie, + But, pardon me, one word of warning: + Speak little of self, say I. + That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0211" id="link2H_4_0211"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING OF BORES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Abundant bores afflict this world, and some + Are bores of magnitude that-come and—no, + They're always coming, but they never go— + Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum + Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum, + Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow. + But one superb tormentor I can show— + Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum. + He the johndonkey is who, when I pen + Amorous verses in an idle mood + To nobody, or of her, reads them through + And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then + Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood + This tender sonnet's application too. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0212" id="link2H_4_0212"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HISTORY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice, + Another indolence, another dice. + Emascle says polygamy. "Not so," + Says Impycu—"'twas luxury and show." + The parson, lifting up a brow of brass, + Swears superstition gave the <i>coup de grâce</i>, + Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms + 'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: "'T was worms") + And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars, + Averring the no coins were silver dollars. + Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack + Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back, + Holds a new "autopsy" and finds that death + Resulted partly from the want of breath, + But chiefly from some visitation sad + That points his argument or serves his fad. + They're all in error—never human mind + The cause of the disaster has divined. + What slew the Roman power? Well, provided + You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0213" id="link2H_4_0213"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HERMIT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To a hunter from the city, + Overtaken by the night, + Spake, in tones of tender pity + For himself, an aged wight: + + "I have found the world a fountain + Of deceit and Life a sham. + I have taken to the mountain + And a Holy Hermit am. + + "Sternly bent on Contemplation, + Far apart from human kind—— + In the hill my habitation, + In the Infinite my mind. + + "Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing, + Growing bald and bent with dole. + Vainly seeking for a Something + To engage my gloomy soul. + + "Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you + Eat, and quaff my simple drink, + Please suggest whatever suits you + As a Theme for me to Think." + + Then the hunter answered gravely: + "From distraction free, and strife, + You could ponder very bravely + On the Vanity of Life." + + "O, thou wise and learned Teacher, + You have solved the Problem well— + You have saved a grateful creature + From the agonies of hell. + + "Take another root, another + Cup of water: eat and drink. + Now I have a Subject, brother, + Tell me What, and How, to think." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0214" id="link2H_4_0214"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Affronting fool, subdue your transient light; + When Wisdom's dull dares Folly to be bright: + If Genius stumble in the path to fame, + 'Tis decency in dunces to go lame. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0215" id="link2H_4_0215"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YEARLY LIE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A merry Christmas? Prudent, as I live!— + You wish me something that you need not give. + + Merry or sad, what does it signify? + To you 't is equal if I laugh, or die. + + Your hollow greeting, like a parrot's jest, + Finds all its meaning in the ear addressed. + + Why "merry" Christmas? Faith, I'd rather frown + Than grin and caper like a tickled clown. + + When fools are merry the judicious weep; + The wise are happy only when asleep. + + A present? Pray you give it to disarm + A man more powerful to do you harm. + + 'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot let + You pay for favors that you'll never get. + + Perish the savage custom of the gift, + Founded in terror and maintained in thrift! + + What men of honor need to aid their weal + They purchase, or, occasion serving, steal. + + Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies, + Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies. + + Let Santa Claus descend again the flue; + If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true. + + "A lie well stuck to is as good as truth," + And God's too old to legislate for youth. + + Hail Christmas! On my knees and fowl I fall: + For greater grace and better gravy call. + <i>Vive l'Humbug!</i>—that's to say, God bless us all! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0216" id="link2H_4_0216"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COOPERATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No more the swindler singly seeks his prey; + To hunt in couples is the modern way— + A rascal, from the public to purloin, + An honest man to hide away the coin. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0217" id="link2H_4_0217"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN APOLOGUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A traveler observed one day + A loaded fruit-tree by the way. + And reining in his horse exclaimed: + "The man is greatly to be blamed + Who, careless of good morals, leaves + Temptation in the way of thieves. + Now lest some villain pass this way + And by this fruit be led astray + To bag it, I will kindly pack + It snugly in my saddle-sack." + He did so; then that Salt o' the Earth + Rode on, rejoicing in his worth. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0218" id="link2H_4_0218"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIAGNOSIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, pray + Compose my spirits' strife: + O what may be my chances, say, + Of living all my life? + + "For lately I have dreamed of high + And hempen dissolution! + O doctor, doctor, how can I + Amend my constitution?" + + The learned leech replied: "You're young + And beautiful and strong— + Permit me to inspect your tongue: + H'm, ah, ahem!—'tis long." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0219" id="link2H_4_0219"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FALLEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, hadst thou died when thou wert great, + When at thy feet a nation knelt + To sob the gratitude it felt + And thank the Saviour of the State, + Gods might have envied thee thy fate! + + Then was the laurel round thy brow, + And friend and foe spoke praise of thee, + While all our hearts sang victory. + Alas! thou art too base to bow + To hide the shame that brands it now. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0220" id="link2H_4_0220"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIES IRAE. + </h2> + <p> + A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing + translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches + into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me to + undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to attempt + that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have attempted + before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me to hope + that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The fault of + previous translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. Dix, has been, + I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the delicate irony + and subtle humor of the immortal poem—though doubtless these + admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators—have + been utterly sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions + that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of + insincerity pervading the whole prayer,—the cool effrontery of the + suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of + salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission to the + punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing characteristics of + this amusing work, being most imperfectly conveyed. By permitting myself a + reasonable freedom of rendering—in many cases boldly supplying that + "missing link" between the sublime and the ridiculous which the author, + writing for the acute monkish apprehension of the 13th century, did not + deem it necessary to insert—I have hoped at least partially to + liberate the lurking devil of humor from his fetters, letting him caper, + not, certainly, as he does in the Latin, but as he probably would have + done had his creator written in English. In preserving the metre and + double rhymes of the original, I have acted from the same reverent regard + for the music with which, in the liturgy of the Church, the verses have + become inseparably wedded that inspired Gen. Dix; seeking rather to + surmount the obstacles to success by honest effort, than to avoid them by + the adoption of an easier versification which would have deprived my + version of all utility in religious service. + </p> + <p> + I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the + first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been + purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the very boundary + of the alluring domain. I have got over the inhibition—somehow—but + David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me if they find themselves + represented merely by the names of those conspicuous personal qualities to + which they probably owed, respectively, their powers of prophecy, as + Samson's strength lay in his hair. + </p> + <h3> + DIES IRAE. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dies irae! dies ilia! + Solvet saeclum in favilla + Teste David cum Sibylla. + + Quantus tremor est futurus, + Quando Judex est venturus. + Cuncta stricte discussurus. + + Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchra regionem, + Coget omnes ante thronum. + + Mors stupebit, et Natura, + Quum resurget creatura + Judicanti responsura. + + Liber scriptus proferetur, + In quo totum continetur, + Unde mundus judicetur. + + Judex ergo quum sedebit, + Quicquid latet apparebit, + Nil inultum remanebit. + + Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, + Quem patronem rogaturus, + Quum vix justus sit securus? + + Rex tremendae majestatis, + Qui salvandos salvas gratis; + Salva me, Fons pietatis + + Recordare, Jesu pie + Quod sum causa tuae viae; + Ne me perdas illa die. + + Quarens me sedisti lassus + Redimisti crucem passus, + Tantus labor non sit cassus. + + Juste Judex ultionis, + Donum fac remissionis + Ante diem rationis. + + Ingemisco tanquam reus, + Culpa rubet vultus meus; + Supplicanti parce, Deus. + + Qui Mariam absolvisti + Et latronem exaudisti, + Mihi quoque spem dedisti. + + Preces meae non sunt dignae, + Sed tu bonus fac benigne + Ne perenni cremer igne. + + Inter oves locum praesta. + Et ab haedis me sequestra, + Statuens in parte dextra. + + Confutatis maledictis, + Flammis acribus addictis, + Voca me cum benedictis. + + Oro supplex et acclinis, + Cor contritum quasi cinis; + Gere curam mei finis. + + Lacrymosa dies illa + Qua resurgent et favilla, + Judicandus homo reus + Huic ergo parce, Deus! +</pre> + <h3> + THE DAY OF WRATH. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Day of Satan's painful duty! + Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; + So says Virtue, so says Beauty. + + Ah! what terror shall be shaping + When the Judge the truth's undraping! + Cats from every bag escaping! + + Now the trumpet's invocation + Calls the dead to condemnation; + All receive an invitation. + + Death and Nature now are quaking, + And the late lamented, waking, + In their breezy shrouds are shaking. + + Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, + And the Clerk, to them referring, + Makes it awkward for the erring. + + When the Judge appears in session, + We shall all attend confession, + Loudly preaching non-suppression. + + How shall I then make romances + Mitigating circumstances? + Even the just must take their chances. + + King whose majesty amazes. + Save thou him who sings thy praises; + Fountain, quench my private blazes. + + Pray remember, sacred Savior, + Mine the playful hand that gave your + Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. + + Seeking me fatigue assailed thee, + Calvary's outlook naught availed thee: + Now 't were cruel if I failed thee. + + Righteous judge and learned brother, + Pray thy prejudices smother + Ere we meet to try each other. + + Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, + And my face vermilion flushes; + Spare me for my pretty blushes. + + Thief and harlot, when repenting, + Thou forgav'st—be complimenting + Me with sign of like relenting. + + If too bold is my petition + I'll receive with due submission + My dismissal—from perdition. + + When thy sheep thou hast selected + From the goats, may I, respected, + Stand amongst them undetected. + + When offenders are indicted, + And with trial-flames ignited, + Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. + + Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful, + When of death I see the air full, + Lest I perish, too, be careful. + + On that day of lamentation, + When, to enjoy the conflagration. + Men come forth, O, be not cruel. + Spare me, Lord—make them thy fuel. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0221" id="link2H_4_0221"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed + For revolution! + To foil their villainous crusade + Unsheathe again the sacred blade + Of persecution. + + What though through long disuse 't is grown + A trifle rusty? + 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone + Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, + It still is trusty. + + Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, + Unapprehensive, + Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; + Our zealots chiefly to the nose + Assume the offensive. + + Then wield the blade their necks to hack, + Nor ever spare one. + Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, + But see that every martyr lack + The head to wear one. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0222" id="link2H_4_0222"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull: + There's nothing happening at all—a lull + After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife + Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. + A fire on Blank Street and some babies—one, + Two, three or four, I don't remember, done + To quite a delicate and lovely brown. + A husband shot by woman of the town— + The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. + The crew, all saved—or lost. Uncommon drouth + Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud— + Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. + 'T is feared some bank will burst—or else it won't + They always burst, I fancy—or they don't; + Who cares a cent?—the banker pays his coin + And takes his chances: bullet in the groin— + But that's another item—suicide— + Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. + Heigh-ho! there's noth—Jerusalem! what's this: + Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss + Of ruin!—owes me seven hundred clear! + Was ever such a damned disastrous year! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0223" id="link2H_4_0223"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN THE BINNACLE. + </h2> + <p> + [The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly + and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.—<i>Religious + Weekly.</i>] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Church's compass, if you please, + Has two or three (or more) degrees + Of variation; + And many a soul has gone to grief + On this or that or t'other reef + Through faith unreckoning or brief + Miscalculation. + Misguidance is of perils chief + To navigation. + + The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark, + Obeisance through a little arc + Of declination; + For Satan, fearing witches, drew + From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe, + And nailed it to his door to undo + Their machination. + Since then the needle dips to woo + His habitation. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0224" id="link2H_4_0224"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HUMILITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great poets fire the world with fagots big + That make a crackling racket, + But I'm content with but a whispering twig + To warm some single jacket. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0225" id="link2H_4_0225"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE PRESIDENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child— + Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild." + + "What are they that way for, father?" "Last fall, + 'Our candidate's better,' they said, 'than all!'" + + "What did they say he was, father?" "A man + Built on a straight incorruptible plan— + Believing that none for an office would do + Unless he were honest and capable too." + + "Poor gentlemen—<i>so</i> disappointed!" "Yes, lad, + That is the feeling that's driving them mad; + They're weeping and wailing and gnashing because + They find that he's all that they said that he was." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0226" id="link2H_4_0226"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BRIDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse + I made a second marriage in my house— + Divorced old barren Reason from my bed + And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse." + + So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam + Of light that made her like an angel seem, + The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myself + Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0227" id="link2H_4_0227"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STRAINED RELATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Says England to Germany: "Africa's ours." + Says Germany: "Ours, I opine." + Says Africa: "Tell me, delectable Pow'rs, + What is it that ought to be mine?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0228" id="link2H_4_0228"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN BORN BLIND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A man born blind received his sight + By a painful operation; + And these are things he saw in the light + Of an infant observation. + + He saw a merchant, good and wise. + And greatly, too, respected, + Who looked, to those imperfect eyes, + Like a swindler undetected. + + He saw a patriot address + A noisy public meeting. + And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess. + That for the teat is bleating." + + A doctor stood beside a bed + And shook his summit sadly. + "O see that foul assassin!" said + The man who saw so badly. + + He saw a lawyer pleading for + A thief whom they'd been jailing, + And said: "That's an accomplice, or + My sight again is failing." + + Upon the Bench a Justice sat, + With nothing to restrain him; + "'Tis strange," said the observer, "that + They ventured to unchain him." + + With theologic works supplied, + He saw a solemn preacher; + "A burglar with his kit," he cried, + "To rob a fellow creature." + + A bluff old farmer next he saw + Sell produce in a village, + And said: "What, what! is there no law + To punish men for pillage?" + + A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed, + Who many charms united; + He thanked his stars his lot was cast + Where sepulchers were whited. + + He saw a soldier stiff and stern, + "Full of strange oaths" and toddy; + But was unable to discern + A wound upon his body. + + Ten square leagues of rolling ground + To one great man belonging, + Looked like one little grassy mound + With worms beneath it thronging. + + A palace's well-carven stones, + Where Dives dwelt contented, + Seemed built throughout of human bones + With human blood cemented. + + He watched the yellow shining thread + A silk-worm was a-spinning; + "That creature's coining gold." he said, + "To pay some girl for sinning." + + His eyes were so untrained and dim + All politics, religions, + Arts, sciences, appeared to him + But modes of plucking pigeons. + + And so he drew his final breath, + And thought he saw with sorrow + Some persons weeping for his death + Who'd be all smiles to-morrow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0229" id="link2H_4_0229"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A NIGHTMARE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by: + The world forgot that such a man as I + Had ever lived and written: other names + Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die. + + Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew. + Its roots transpierced my body, through and through, + My substance fed its growth. From many lands + Men came in troops that giant tree to view. + + 'T was sacred to my memory and fame— + My monument. But Allen Forman came, + Filled with the fervor of a new untruth, + And carved upon the trunk his odious name! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0230" id="link2H_4_0230"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WET SEASON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Horas non numero nisi serenas. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth, + And man's in danger. + O that my mother at my birth + Had borne a stranger! + The flooded ground is all around. + The depth uncommon. + How blest I'd be if only she + Had borne a salmon. + + If still denied the solar glow + 'T were bliss ecstatic + To be amphibious—but O, + To be aquatic! + We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they + That faith are firm of. + O, then, be just: show me some dust + To be a worm of. + + The pines are chanting overhead + A psalm uncheering. + It's O, to have been for ages dead + And hard of hearing! + Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours + The dial reckoned; + 'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime— + Rameses II. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0231" id="link2H_4_0231"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tut-tut! give back the flags—how can you care + You veterans and heroes? + Why should you at a kind intention swear + Like twenty Neroes? + + Suppose the act was not so overwise— + Suppose it was illegal— + Is 't well on such a question to arise + And pinch the Eagle? + + Nay, let's economize his breath to scold + And terrify the alien + Who tackles him, as Hercules of old + The bird Stymphalian. + + Among the rebels when we made a breach + Was it to get their banners? + That was but incidental—'t was to teach + Them better manners. + + They know the lesson well enough to-day; + Now, let us try to show them + That we 're not only stronger far than they. + (How we did mow them!) + + But more magnanimous. You see, my lads, + 'T was an uncommon riot; + The warlike tribes of Europe fight for "fads," + We fought for quiet. + + If we were victors, then we all must live + With the same flag above us; + 'Twas all in vain unless we now forgive + And make them love us. + + Let kings keep trophies to display above + Their doors like any savage; + The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love, + Despite war's ravage. + + "Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll find + You can't, in right and reason, + While "Washington" and "treason" are combined— + "Hugo" and "treason." + + All human governments must take the chance + And hazard of sedition. + O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advance + To blind submission. + + It may be wrong, it may be right, to rise + In warlike insurrection: + The loyalty that fools so dearly prize + May mean subjection. + + Be loyal to your country, yes—but how + If tyrants hold dominion? + The South believed they did; can't you allow + For that opinion? + + He who will never rise though rulers plods + His liberties despising + How is he manlier than the <i>sans culottes</i> + Who's always rising? + + Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fell + Too valiant to forsake them. + Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well, + I helped to take them. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0232" id="link2H_4_0232"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAEC FABULA DOCET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A rat who'd gorged a box of bane + And suffered an internal pain, + Came from his hole to die (the label + Required it if the rat were able) + And found outside his habitat + A limpid stream. Of bane and rat + 'T was all unconscious; in the sun + It ran and prattled just for fun. + Keen to allay his inward throes, + The beast immersed his filthy nose + And drank—then, bloated by the stream, + And filled with superheated steam, + Exploded with a rascal smell, + Remarking, as his fragments fell + Astonished in the brook: "I'm thinking + This water's damned unwholesome drinking!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0233" id="link2H_4_0233"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EXONERATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When men at candidacy don't connive, + From that suspicion if their friends would free 'em, + The teeth and nails with which they did not strive + Should be exhibited in a museum. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0234" id="link2H_4_0234"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AZRAEL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The moon in the field of the keel-plowed main + Was watching the growing tide: + A luminous peasant was driving his wain, + And he offered my soul a ride. + + But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall, + And I fixed him fast with mine eye. + "O, peasant," I sang with a dying fall, + "Go leave me to sing and die." + + The water was weltering round my feet, + As prone on the beach they lay. + I chanted my death-song loud and sweet; + "Kioodle, ioodle, iay!" + + Then I heard the swish of erecting ears + Which caught that enchanted strain. + The ocean was swollen with storms of tears + That fell from the shining swain. + + "O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand, + "That ravishing song would make + The devil a saint." He held out his hand + And solemnly added: "Shake." + + We shook. "I crave a victim, you see," + He said—"you came hither to die." + The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he! + And the victim he crove was I! + + 'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard; + And he knocked me on the head. + O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard, + For I didn't want to be dead. + + "You'll sing no worser for that," said he, + And he drove with my soul away, + O, death-song singers, be warned by me, + Kioodle, ioodle, iay! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0235" id="link2H_4_0235"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AGAIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, I've met her again—at the Mission. + She'd told me to see her no more; + It was not a command—a petition; + I'd granted it once before. + + Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. + Repenting her virtuous freak— + Subdued myself daily and nightly + For the better part of a week. + + And then ('twas my duty to spare her + The shame of recalling me) I + Just sought her again to prepare her + For an everlasting good-bye. + + O, that evening of bliss—shall I ever + Forget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe! + She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never + To see me again. And now go." + + As we parted with kisses 'twas human + And natural for me to smile + As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: + She'll send for me after a while." + + But she didn't; and so—well, the Mission + Is fine, picturesque and gray; + It's an excellent place for contrition— + And sometimes she passes that way. + + That's how it occurred that I met her, + And that's ah there is to tell— + Except that I'd like to forget her + Calm way of remarking: "I'm well." + + It was hardly worth while, all this keying + My soul to such tensions and stirs + To learn that her food was agreeing + With that little stomach of hers. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0236" id="link2H_4_0236"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOMO PODUNKENSIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As the poor ass that from his paddock strays + Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, + Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, + Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, + Mistaking for the world's assent the clang + Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; + So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, + Visits the city on the ocean's marge, + Expands his eyes and marvels to remark + Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; + Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares + That native merchants sell imported wares, + Nor comprehends how in his very view + A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; + Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, + Swears it superior to aught on earth, + Sighs for the temples locally renowned— + The village school-house and the village pound— + And chalks upon the palaces of Rome + The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0237" id="link2H_4_0237"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SOCIAL CALL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you, + With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue? + Less redness in the nose—nay, even some blue + Would not, I think, particularly hurt you. + When seen close to, not mounted in your car, + You look the drunkard and the pig you are. + + No matter, sit you down, for I am not + In a gray study, as you sometimes find me. + Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot, + But there's another year of pain behind me. + That's something to be thankful for: the more + There are behind, the fewer are before. + + I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp, + But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation + With an affinity to every tramp + That walks the world and steals its admiration. + For admiration is like linen left + Upon the line—got easiest by theft. + + Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood, + With brains and honesty, some five-and-twenty + Long years as champion of all that's good, + And taken on the mazzard thwacks a-plenty. + Yet now whose praises do the people bawl? + Those of the fellows whom I live to maul! + + Why, this is odd!—the more I try to talk + Of you the more my tongue grows egotistic + To prattle of myself! I'll try to balk + Its waywardness and be more altruistic. + So let us speak of others—how they sin, + And what a devil of a state they 're in! + + That's all I have to say. Good-bye, old man. + Next year you possibly may find me scolding— + Or miss me altogether: Nature's plan + Includes, as I suppose, a final folding + Of these poor empty hands. Then drop a tear + To think they'll never box another ear. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + <div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 12658 ***</div> +</body> +</html> diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..8e61613 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #12658 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12658) diff --git a/old/12658-8.txt b/old/12658-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bcc8e27 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/12658-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9942 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Shapes of Clay + +Author: Ambrose Bierce + +Release Date: June 19, 2004 [EBook #12658] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES OF CLAY *** + + + + +Produced by Rick Niles, Kat Jeter, John Hagerson and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + + +[Illustration: Ambrose Bierce.] + +SHAPES OF CLAY + +BY + +AMBROSE BIERCE + +AUTHOR OF "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE," "CAN SUCH THINGS BE?" "BLACK BEETLES +IN AMBER," AND "FANTASTIC FABLES" + +1903 + + + + +DEDICATION. + +WITH PRIDE IN THEIR WORK, FAITH IN THEIR FUTURE AND AFFECTION FOR +THEMSELVES, AN OLD WRITER DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS AND +PUPILS, GEORGE STERLING AND HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. A.B. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that +part the names of real persons being used without their assent, it seems +fit that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems +well to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface +of another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its +character. I quote from "Black Beetles in Amber:" + +"Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable +alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in +now republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, +except with reference to those who since my first censure of them have +passed away. To one having only a reader's interest in the matter it may +easily seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been +omitted from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any +considerable part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth +which by this attempt to preserve some of it I have assumed, their +permanent suppression is impossible, and it is only a question of when +and by whom they will be republished. Some one will surely search them +out and put them in circulation. + +"I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work +collected in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one +whose work, necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed +to challenge as unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined +before time has effaced the evidence. For the death of a man of whom +I have written what I may venture to think worthy to live I am no way +responsible; and however sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent +that it shall affect my literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not +accept the remarkable doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should +spare the sinner, were bound to let the life of his work be coterminous +with that of his subject his were a lot of peculiar hardship. + +"Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint +even certain 'epitaphs' which, once of the living, are now of the dead, +as all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms +of applied satire--my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at +least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of +matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown +by abundant instance and example." + +In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless +to classify them according to character, as "Serious," "Comic," +"Sentimental," "Satirical," and so forth. I do the reader the honor to +think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; +and I entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without +disappointment to that of his author. + +AMBROSE BIERCE. + + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + THE PASSING SHOW + + ELIXIR VITAE + + CONVALESCENT + + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS + + NOVUM ORGANUM + + GEOTHEOS + + YORICK + + A VISION OF DOOM + + POLITICS + + POESY + + IN DEFENSE + + AN INVOCATION + + RELIGION + + A MORNING FANCY + + VISIONS OF SIN + + THE TOWN OF DAE + + AN ANARCHIST + + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + + ARMA VIRUMQUE + + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY + + A DEMAND + + THE WEATHER WIGHT + + T.A.H. + + MY MONUMENT + + MAD + + HOSPITALITY + + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC + + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS + + MAGNANIMITY + + TO HER + + TO A SUMMER POET + + ARTHUR MCEWEN + + CHARLES AND PETER + + CONTEMPLATION + + CREATION + + BUSINESS + + A POSSIBILITY + + TO A CENSOR + + THE HESITATING VETERAN + + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES + + INSPIRATION + + TO-DAY + + AN ALIBI + + REBUKE + + J.F.B. + + THE DYING STATESMAN + + THE DEATH OF GRANT + + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED + + LAUS LUCIS + + NANINE + + TECHNOLOGY + + A REPLY TO A LETTER + + TO OSCAR WILDE + + PRAYER + + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN" + + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE + + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS + + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT + + AN EPITAPH + + THE POLITICIAN + + AN INSCRIPTION + + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS + + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON" + + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT + + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES + + IN MEMORIAM + + THE STATESMEN + + THE BROTHERS + + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + + CORRECTED NEWS + + AN EXPLANATION + + JUSTICE + + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY + + TO MY LAUNDRESS + + FAME + + OMNES VANITAS + + ASPIRATION + + DEMOCRACY + + THE NEW "ULALUME" + + CONSOLATION + + FATE + + PHILOSOPHER BIMM + + REMINDED + + SALVINI IN AMERICA + + ANOTHER WAY + + ART + + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER + + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY + + THE DEBTOR ABROAD + + FORESIGHT + + A FAIR DIVISION + + GENESIS + + LIBERTY + + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD + + TO MAUDE + + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE + + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN + + THE SCURRIL PRESS + + STANLEY + + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX + + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN + + A LACKING FACTOR + + THE ROYAL JESTER + + A CAREER IN LETTERS + + THE FOLLOWING PAIR + + POLITICAL ECONOMY + + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW + + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN + + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT + + TEMPORA MUTANTUR + + CONTENTMENT + + THE NEW ENOCH + + DISAVOWAL + + AN AVERAGE + + WOMAN + + INCURABLE + + THE PUN + + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST + + TO NANINE + + VICE VERSA + + A BLACK-LIST + + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC + + AUTHORITY + + THE PSORIAD + + ONEIROMANCY + + PEACE + + THANKSGIVING + + L'AUDACE + + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT + + THE AESTHETES + + JULY FOURTH + + WITH MINE OWN PETARD + + CONSTANCY + + SIRES AND SONS + + A CHALLENGE + + TWO SHOWS + + A POET'S HOPE + + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL + + TWO ROGUES + + BEECHER + + NOT GUILTY + + PRESENTIMENT + + A STUDY IN GRAY + + A PARADOX + + FOR MERIT + + A BIT OF SCIENCE + + THE TABLES TURNED + + TO A DEJECTED POET + + A FOOL + + THE HUMORIST + + MONTEFIORE + + A WARNING + + DISCRETION + + AN EXILE + + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT + + PSYCHOGRAPHS + + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST + + FOR WOUNDS + + ELECTION DAY + + THE MILITIAMAN + + A LITERARY METHOD + + A WELCOME + + A SERENADE + + THE WISE AND GOOD + + THE LOST COLONEL + + FOR TAT + + A DILEMMA + + METEMPSYCHOSIS + + THE SAINT AND THE MONK + + THE OPPOSING SEX + + A WHIPPER-IN + + JUDGMENT + + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN + + IN HIGH LIFE + + A BUBBLE + + A RENDEZVOUS + + FRANCINE + + AN EXAMPLE + + REVENGE + + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT + + IN CONTUMACIAM + + RE-EDIFIED + + A BULLETIN + + FROM THE MINUTES + + WOMAN IN POLITICS + + TO AN ASPIRANT + + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE + + A BUILDER + + AN AUGURY + + LUSUS POLITICUS + + BEREAVEMENT + + AN INSCRIPTION + + A PICKBRAIN + + CONVALESCENT + + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR + + DETECTED + + BIMETALISM + + THE RICH TESTATOR + + TWO METHODS + + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + + IN IMPOSTER + + UNEXPOUNDED + + FRANCE + + THE EASTERN QUESTION + + A GUEST + + A FALSE PROPHECY + + TWO TYPES + + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS + + A HYMN OF THE MANY + + ONE MORNING + + AN ERROR + + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT" + + THE KING OF BORES + + HISTORY + + THE HERMIT + + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON + + THE YEARLY LIE + + CO-OPERATION + + AN APOLOGUE + + DIAGNOSIS + + FALLEN + + DIES IRAE + + THE DAY OF WRATH + + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION + + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS + + IN THE BINNACLE + + HUMILITY + + ONE PRESIDENT + + THE BRIDE + + STRAINED RELATIONS + + THE MAN BORN BLIND + + A NIGHTMARE + + A WET SEASON + + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS + + HAEC FARULA DOCET + + EXONERATION + + AZRAEL + + AGAIN + + HOMO PODUNKENSIS + + A SOCIAL CALL + + + + + + SHAPES OF CLAY + + + + + THE PASSING SHOW. + + I. + + + I know not if it was a dream. I viewed + A city where the restless multitude, + Between the eastern and the western deep + Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude. + + Colossal palaces crowned every height; + Towers from valleys climbed into the light; + O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes + Hung in the blue, barbarically bright. + + But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day + Touched the black masses with a grace of gray, + Dim spires of temples to the nation's God + Studding high spaces of the wide survey. + + Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep + Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, + Yet whispered of an hour-when sleepers wake, + The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep. + + The gardens greened upon the builded hills + Above the tethered thunders of the mills + With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet ++ By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills. + + A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space, + Looked on the builder's blocks about his base + And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: + "Strike! 't is my destiny to lodge your race. + + "'T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed + Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed + Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness, + While on their foeman's offal they caroused." + + Ships from afar afforested the bay. + Within their huge and chambered bodies lay + The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed + The hardy argosies to far Cathay. + + Beside the city of the living spread-- + Strange fellowship!--the city of the dead; + And much I wondered what its humble folk, + To see how bravely they were housed, had said. + + Noting how firm their habitations stood, + Broad-based and free of perishable wood-- + How deep in granite and how high in brass + The names were wrought of eminent and good, + + I said: "When gold or power is their aim, + The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, + Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare + When they would conquer an abiding fame." + + From the red East the sun--a solemn rite-- + Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height + Above the dead; and then with all his strength + Struck the great city all aroar with light! + + + II. + + I know not if it was a dream. I came + Unto a land where something seemed the same + That I had known as 't were but yesterday, + But what it was I could not rightly name. + + It was a strange and melancholy land. + Silent and desolate. On either hand + Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, + And dead above it seemed the hills to stand, + + Grayed all with age, those lonely hills--ah me, + How worn and weary they appeared to be! + Between their feet long dusty fissures clove + The plain in aimless windings to the sea. + + One hill there was which, parted from the rest, + Stood where the eastern water curved a-west. + Silent and passionless it stood. I thought + I saw a scar upon its giant breast. + + The sun with sullen and portentous gleam + Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; + Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars + Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam. + + It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, + That desert in its cold, uncanny light; + No soul but I alone to mark the fear + And imminence of everlasting night! + + All presages and prophecies of doom + Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, + And in the midst of that accursèd scene + A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb. + + + + + ELIXER VITAE. + + + Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep + (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) + Sealed upon my senses with so deep + A stupefaction that men thought me dead. + The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, + Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; + I saw mankind in dim procession sweep + Through life, oblivion at each extreme. + Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, + Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing. + + The generations came with dance and song, + And each observed me curiously there. + Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng + Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." + Some said I was a saint, and some a bear-- + These all were women. So the young and gay, + Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, + Doddered at last on failing limbs away; + Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, + Fell into its abysses and were strangled. + + At last a generation came that walked + More slowly forward to the common tomb, + Then altogether stopped. The women talked + Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom + Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; + And one cried out: "We are immortal now-- + How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, + Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, + And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, + Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!" + + So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped + From its fair shoulders, and but men alone + Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped, + Enough of room remained in every zone, + And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne. + Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks + Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped) + 'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe. + Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking, + And crumbled all to powder in the waking. + + + + + CONVALESCENT. + + + What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame + Or canting Pharisee no more defame? + Will Treachery caress my hand no more, + Nor Hatred He alurk about my door?-- + Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed, + Not close the loaded palm to make a fist? + Will Envy henceforth not retaliate + For virtues it were vain to emulate? + Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout, + Not understanding what 'tis all about, + Yet feeling in its light so mean and small + That all his little soul is turned to gall? + + What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed? + Greed from exaction magically charmed? + Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets, + Like horses fugitive in crowded streets? + The Bigot, with his candle, book and bell, + Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well? + The Critic righteously to justice haled, + His own ear to the post securely nailed-- + What most he dreads unable to inflict, + And powerless to hawk the faults he's picked? + The liar choked upon his choicest lie, + And impotent alike to villify + Or flatter for the gold of thrifty men + Who hate his person but employ his pen-- + Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt + Belonging to his character and shirt? + + What! "Out of danger?"--Nature's minions all, + Like hounds returning to the huntsman's call, + Obedient to the unwelcome note + That stays them from the quarry's bursting throat?-- + Famine and Pestilence and Earthquake dire, + Torrent and Tempest, Lightning, Frost and Fire, + The soulless Tiger and the mindless Snake, + The noxious Insect from the stagnant lake + (Automaton malevolences wrought + Out of the substance of Creative Thought)-- + These from their immemorial prey restrained, + Their fury baffled and their power chained? + + I'm safe? Is that what the physician said? + What! "Out of danger?" Then, by Heaven, I'm dead! + + + + + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. + + + 'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning, + All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect; + And in a jeremaid of objurgatory warning + He lifted up his _jodel_ to the following effect: + + O ye sanguinary statesmen, intermit your verbal tussles + O ye editors and orators, consent to hear my lay! + And a little while the digital and maxillary muscles + And attend to what a Venerable Person has to say. + + Cease your writing, cease your shouting, cease your wild unearthly lying; + Cease to bandy such expressions as are never, never found + In the letter of a lover; cease "exposing" and "replying"-- + Let there be abated fury and a decrement of sound. + + For to-morrow will be Monday and the fifth day of November-- + Only day of opportunity before the final rush. + _Carpe diem!_ go conciliate each person who's a member + Of the other party--do it while you can without a blush. + + "Lo! the time is close upon you when the madness of the season + Having howled itself to silence, like a Minnesota 'clone, + Will at last be superseded by the still, small voice of reason, + When the whelpage of your folly you would willingly disown. + + "Ah, 'tis mournful to consider what remorses will be thronging, + With a consciousness of having been so ghastly indiscreet, + When by accident untoward two ex-gentlemen belonging + To the opposite political denominations meet! + + "Yes, 'tis melancholy, truly, to forecast the fierce, unruly + Supersurging of their blushes, like the flushes upon high + When Aurora Borealis lights her circumpolar palace + And in customary manner sets her banner in the sky. + + "Each will think: 'This falsifier knows that I too am a liar. + Curse him for a son of Satan, all unholily compound! + Curse my leader for another! Curse that pelican, my mother! + Would to God that I when little in my victual had been drowned!'" + + Then that Venerable Person went away without returning + And, the madness of the season having also taken flight, + All the people soon were blushing like the skies to crimson burning + When Aurora Borealis fires her premises by night. + + + + + NOVUM ORGANUM. + + + In Bacon see the culminating prime + Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crime. + He dies and Nature, settling his affairs, + Parts his endowments among us, his heirs: + To every one a pinch of brain for seed, + And, to develop it, a pinch of greed. + Each thrifty heir, to make the gift suffice, + Buries the talent to manure the vice. + + + + + GEOTHEOS. + + + As sweet as the look of a lover + Saluting the eyes of a maid, + That blossom to blue as the maid + Is ablush to the glances above her, + The sunshine is gilding the glade + And lifting the lark out of shade. + + Sing therefore high praises, and therefore + Sing songs that are ancient as gold, + Of Earth in her garments of gold; + Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore + They charm as of yore, for behold! + The Earth is as fair as of old. + + Sing songs of the pride of the mountains, + And songs of the strength of the seas, + And the fountains that fall to the seas + From the hands of the hills, and the fountains + That shine in the temples of trees, + In valleys of roses and bees. + + Sing songs that are dreamy and tender, + Of slender Arabian palms, + And shadows that circle the palms, + Where caravans, veiled from the splendor, + Are kneeling in blossoms and balms, + In islands of infinite calms. + + Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing + When mountains were stained as with wine + By the dawning of Time, and as wine + Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning, + Achant in the gusty pine + And the pulse of the poet's line. + + + + + YORICK. + + + Hard by an excavated street one sat + In solitary session on the sand; + And ever and anon he spake and spat + And spake again--a yellow skull in hand, + To which that retrospective Pioneer + Addressed the few remarks that follow here: + + "Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,' + Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49 + Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross + From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine? + Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way + From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?--say! + + "Was you in Frisco when the water came + Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind + The time when Peters run the faro game-- + Jim Peters from old Mississip--behind + Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust + By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust? + + "I wonder was you here when Casey shot + James King o' William? And did you attend + The neck-tie dance ensuin'? _I_ did not, + But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend + Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved + In sech diversions not to be involved. + + "Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed + Your face afore. I don't forget a face, + But names I disremember--I'm that breed + Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space + An' maybe my remarks is too derned free, + Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me. + + "Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed + Nigh onto every dern galoot in town. + That was as late as '50. Now she's growed + Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown, + Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss + We didn't know, the cause was--he knowed us. + + "Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine + Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you + To which Long Mary took a mighty shine, + An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo? + I guess if she could see ye now she'd take + Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake. + + "You ain't so purty now as you was then: + Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes, + An' women which are hitched to better men + Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls, + As Lengthie did. By G----! I _hope_ it's you, + For" _(kicks the skull)_ "I'm Jake the Kangaroo." + + + + + A VISION OF DOOM. + + + I stood upon a hill. The setting sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom-- + The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled, + And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All + These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear + Had ever heard, some spiritual sense + Interpreted, though brokenly; for I + Was haunted by a consciousness of crime, + Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All + These things malign, by sight and sound revealed, + Were sin-begotten; that I knew--no more-- + And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams + The sleepy senses babble to the brain + Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice, + But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud + Some words to me in a forgotten tongue, + Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn, + Returned from the illimited inane. + Again, but in a language that I knew, + As in reply to something which in me + Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words, + It spake from the dread mystery about: + "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul + That perished with eternity, attend. + What thou beholdest is as void as thou: + The shadow of a poet's dream--himself + As thou, his soul as thine, long dead, + But not like thine outlasted by its shade. + His dreams alone survive eternity + As pictures in the unsubstantial void. + Excepting thee and me (and we because + The poet wove us in his thought) remains + Of nature and the universe no part + Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread, + Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all + Its desolation and its terrors--lo! + 'T is but a phantom world. So long ago + That God and all the angels since have died + That poet lived--yourself long dead--his mind + Filled with the light of a prophetic fire, + And standing by the Western sea, above + The youngest, fairest city in the world, + Named in another tongue than his for one + Ensainted, saw its populous domain + Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there + Red-handed murder rioted; and there + The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose + The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat, + But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed: + 'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law + Look to the matter.' But the Law did not. + And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain + Within its mother's breast and the same grave + Held babe and mother; and the people smiled, + Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,' + Then the great poet, touched upon the lips + With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised + His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom-- + Sang of the time to be, when God should lean + Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand, + And that foul city be no more!--a tale, + A dream, a desolation and a curse! + No vestige of its glory should survive + In fact or memory: its people dead, + Its site forgotten, and its very name + Disputed." + + "Was the prophecy fulfilled?" + The sullen disc of the declining sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom. + But not to me came any voice again; + And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, + I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God! + + + + + POLITICS. + + + That land full surely hastens to its end + Where public sycophants in homage bend + The populace to flatter, and repeat + The doubled echoes of its loud conceit. + Lowly their attitude but high their aim, + They creep to eminence through paths of shame, + Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r, + The dupes they flattered they at last devour. + + + + + POESY. + + + Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire + That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire. + The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, + And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk. + So die ingloriously Fame's _élite_, + But dams of dunces keep the line complete. + + + + + IN DEFENSE. + + + You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls + Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; + But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle + Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile. + + Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, + Are popular here because popular there; + And for them our ladies persistently go + Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know. + + Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess + The effort's attended with easy success; + And--pardon the freedom--'tis thought, over here, + 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer. + + It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade + Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid, + But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose + No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose. + + Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street + (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!) + 'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say + The men from politeness go seldom astray. + + Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot + Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!) + Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure, + And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure. + + "'Tis nothing but money?" "Your nobles are bought?" + As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought + That England's a country not specially free + Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae. + + You've many a widow and many a girl + With money to purchase a duke or an earl. + 'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, + When goods import buyers from over the sea. + + Alas for the woman of Albion's isle! + She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; + She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose-- + But my lord of the future will talk through his nose. + + + + + AN INVOCATION. + + [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San + Francisco, in 1888.] + + + Goddess of Liberty! O thou + Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, + And look unmoved upon the slain, + Eternal peace upon thy brow,-- + + Before thy shrine the races press, + Thy perfect favor to implore-- + The proudest tyrant asks no more, + The ironed anarchist no less. + + Thine altar-coals that touch the lips + Of prophets kindle, too, the brand + By Discord flung with wanton hand + Among the houses and the ships. + + Upon thy tranquil front the star + Burns bleak and passionless and white, + Its cold inclemency of light + More dreadful than the shadows are. + + Thy name we do not here invoke + Our civic rites to sanctify: + Enthroned in thy remoter sky, + Thou heedest not our broken yoke. + + Thou carest not for such as we: + Our millions die to serve the still + And secret purpose of thy will. + They perish--what is that to thee? + + The light that fills the patriot's tomb + Is not of thee. The shining crown + Compassionately offered down + To those who falter in the gloom, + + And fall, and call upon thy name, + And die desiring--'tis the sign + Of a diviner love than thine, + Rewarding with a richer fame. + + To him alone let freemen cry + Who hears alike the victor's shout, + The song of faith, the moan of doubt, + And bends him from his nearer sky. + + God of my country and my race! + So greater than the gods of old-- + So fairer than the prophets told + Who dimly saw and feared thy face,-- + + Who didst but half reveal thy will + And gracious ends to their desire, + Behind the dawn's advancing fire + Thy tender day-beam veiling still,-- + + To whom the unceasing suns belong, + And cause is one with consequence,-- + To whose divine, inclusive sense + The moan is blended with the song,-- + + Whose laws, imperfect and unjust, + Thy just and perfect purpose serve: + The needle, howsoe'er it swerve, + Still warranting the sailor's trust,-- + + God, lift thy hand and make us free + To crown the work thou hast designed. + O, strike away the chains that bind + Our souls to one idolatry! + + The liberty thy love hath given + We thank thee for. We thank thee for + Our great dead fathers' holy war + Wherein our manacles were riven. + + We thank thee for the stronger stroke + Ourselves delivered and incurred + When--thine incitement half unheard-- + The chains we riveted we broke. + + We thank thee that beyond the sea + The people, growing ever wise, + Turn to the west their serious eyes + And dumbly strive to be as we. + + As when the sun's returning flame + Upon the Nileside statue shone, + And struck from the enchanted stone + The music of a mighty fame, + + Let Man salute the rising day + Of Liberty, but not adore. + 'Tis Opportunity--no more-- + A useful, not a sacred, ray. + + It bringeth good, it bringeth ill, + As he possessing shall elect. + He maketh it of none effect + Who walketh not within thy will. + + Give thou or more or less, as we + Shall serve the right or serve the wrong. + Confirm our freedom but so long + As we are worthy to be free. + + But when (O, distant be the time!) + Majorities in passion draw + Insurgent swords to murder Law, + And all the land is red with crime; + + Or--nearer menace!--when the band + Of feeble spirits cringe and plead + To the gigantic strength of Greed, + And fawn upon his iron hand;-- + + Nay, when the steps to state are worn + In hollows by the feet of thieves, + And Mammon sits among the sheaves + And chuckles while the reapers mourn; + + Then stay thy miracle!--replace + The broken throne, repair the chain, + Restore the interrupted reign + And veil again thy patient face. + + Lo! here upon the world's extreme + We stand with lifted arms and dare + By thine eternal name to swear + Our country, which so fair we deem-- + + Upon whose hills, a bannered throng, + The spirits of the sun display + Their flashing lances day by day + And hear the sea's pacific song-- + + Shall be so ruled in right and grace + That men shall say: "O, drive afield + The lawless eagle from the shield, + And call an angel to the place!" + + + + + RELIGION. + + + Hassan Bedreddin, clad in rags, ill-shod, + Sought the great temple of the living God. + The worshippers arose and drove him forth, + And one in power beat him with a rod. + + "Allah," he cried, "thou seest what I got; + Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot." + "Be comforted," the Holy One replied; + "It is the only place where I am not." + + + + + A MORNING FANCY. + + + I drifted (or I seemed to) in a boat + Upon the surface of a shoreless sea + Whereon no ship nor anything did float, + Save only the frail bark supporting me; + And that--it was so shadowy--seemed to be + Almost from out the very vapors wrought + Of the great ocean underneath its keel; + And all that blue profound appeared as naught + But thicker sky, translucent to reveal, + Miles down, whatever through its spaces glided, + Or at the bottom traveled or abided. + + Great cities there I saw--of rich and poor, + The palace and the hovel; mountains, vales, + Forest and field, the desert and the moor, + Tombs of the good and wise who'd lived in jails, + And seas of denser fluid, white with sails + Pushed at by currents moving here and there + And sensible to sight above the flat + Of that opaquer deep. Ah, strange and fair + The nether world that I was gazing at + With beating heart from that exalted level, + And--lest I founder--trembling like the devil! + + The cities all were populous: men swarmed + In public places--chattered, laughed and wept; + And savages their shining bodies warmed + At fires in primal woods. The wild beast leapt + Upon its prey and slew it as it slept. + Armies went forth to battle on the plain + So far, far down in that unfathomed deep + The living seemed as silent as the slain, + Nor even the widows could be heard to weep. + One might have thought their shaking was but laughter; + And, truly, most were married shortly after. + + Above the wreckage of that silent fray + Strange fishes swam in circles, round and round-- + Black, double-finned; and once a little way + A bubble rose and burst without a sound + And a man tumbled out upon the ground. + Lord! 'twas an eerie thing to drift apace + On that pellucid sea, beneath black skies + And o'er the heads of an undrowning race; + And when I woke I said--to her surprise + Who came with chocolate, for me to drink it: + "The atmosphere is deeper than you think it." + + + + + VISIONS OF SIN. + + KRASLAJORSK, SIBERIA, March 29. + + "My eyes are better, and I shall travel slowly toward home." + DANENHOWER. + + + From the regions of the Night, + Coming with recovered sight-- + From the spell of darkness free, + What will Danenhower see? + + He will see when he arrives, + Doctors taking human lives. + He will see a learned judge + Whose decision will not budge + Till both litigants are fleeced + And his palm is duly greased. + Lawyers he will see who fight + Day by day and night by night; + Never both upon a side, + Though their fees they still divide. + Preachers he will see who teach + That it is divine to preach-- + That they fan a sacred fire + And are worthy of their hire. + He will see a trusted wife + + (Pride of some good husband's life) + Enter at a certain door + And--but he will see no more. + He will see Good Templars reel-- + See a prosecutor steal, + And a father beat his child. + He'll perhaps see Oscar Wilde. + + From the regions of the Night + Coming with recovered sight-- + From the bliss of blindness free, + That's what Danenhower'll see. + + 1882. + + + + + THE TOWN OF DAE. + + + _Swains and maidens, young and old, + You to me this tale have told._ + + Where the squalid town of Dae + Irks the comfortable sea, + Spreading webs to gather fish, + As for wealth we set a wish, + Dwelt a king by right divine, + Sprung from Adam's royal line, + Town of Dae by the sea, + Divers kinds of kings there be. + + Name nor fame had Picklepip: + Ne'er a soldier nor a ship + Bore his banners in the sun; + Naught knew he of kingly sport, + And he held his royal court + Under an inverted tun. + Love and roses, ages through, + Bloom where cot and trellis stand; + Never yet these blossoms grew-- + Never yet was room for two-- + In a cask upon the strand. + + So it happened, as it ought, + That his simple schemes he wrought + Through the lagging summer's day + In a solitary way. + So it happened, as was best, + That he took his nightly rest + With no dreadful incubus + This way eyed and that way tressed, + Featured thus, and thus, and thus, + Lying lead-like on a breast + By cares of State enough oppressed. + Yet in dreams his fancies rude + Claimed a lordly latitude. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Dreamers mate above their state + And waken back to their degree. + + Once to cask himself away + He prepared at close of day. + As he tugged with swelling throat + At a most unkingly coat-- + Not to get it off, but on, + For the serving sun was gone-- + Passed a silk-appareled sprite + Toward her castle on the height, + Seized and set the garment right. + Turned the startled Picklepip-- + Splendid crimson cheek and lip! + Turned again to sneak away, + + But she bade the villain stay, + Bade him thank her, which he did + With a speech that slipped and slid, + Sprawled and stumbled in its gait + As a dancer tries to skate. + Town of Dae by the sea, + In the face of silk and lace + Rags too bold should never be. + + Lady Minnow cocked her head: + "Mister Picklepip," she said, + "Do you ever think to wed?" + Town of Dae by the sea, + No fair lady ever made a + Wicked speech like that to me! + + Wretched little Picklepip + Said he hadn't any ship, + Any flocks at his command, + Nor to feed them any land; + Said he never in his life + Owned a mine to keep a wife. + But the guilty stammer so + That his meaning wouldn't flow; + So he thought his aim to reach + By some figurative speech: + Said his Fate had been unkind + Had pursued him from behind + (How the mischief could it else?) + + Came upon him unaware, + Caught him by the collar--there + Gushed the little lady's glee + Like a gush of golden bells: + "Picklepip, why, that is _me_!" + Town of Dae by the sea, + Grammar's for great scholars--she + Loved the summer and the lea. + + Stupid little Picklepip + Allowed the subtle hint to slip-- + Maundered on about the ship + That he did not chance to own; + Told this grievance o'er and o'er, + Knowing that she knew before; + Told her how he dwelt alone. + Lady Minnow, for reply, + Cut him off with "So do I!" + But she reddened at the fib; + Servitors had she, _ad lib._ + Town of Dae by the sea, + In her youth who speaks no truth + Ne'er shall young and honest be. + + Witless little Picklepip + Manned again his mental ship + And veered her with a sudden shift. + Painted to the lady's thought + How he wrestled and he wrought + + Stoutly with the swimming drift + By the kindly river brought + From the mountain to the sea, + Fuel for the town of Dae. + Tedious tale for lady's ear: + From her castle on the height, + She had watched her water-knight + Through the seasons of a year, + Challenge more than met his view + And conquer better than he knew. + Now she shook her pretty pate + And stamped her foot--'t was growing late: + "Mister Picklepip, when I + Drifting seaward pass you by; + When the waves my forehead kiss + And my tresses float above-- + Dead and drowned for lack of love-- + You'll be sorry, sir, for this!" + And the silly creature cried-- + Feared, perchance, the rising tide. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Madam Adam, when she had 'em, + May have been as bad as she. + + _Fiat lux!_ Love's lumination + Fell in floods of revelation! + Blinded brain by world aglare, + Sense of pulses in the air, + + Sense of swooning and the beating + Of a voice somewhere repeating + Something indistinctly heard! + And the soul of Picklepip + Sprang upon his trembling lip, + But he spake no further word + Of the wealth he did not own; + In that moment had outgrown + Ship and mine and flock and land-- + Even his cask upon the strand. + Dropped a stricken star to earth, + Type of wealth and worldly worth. + Clomb the moon into the sky, + Type of love's immensity! + Shaking silver seemed the sea, + Throne of God the town of Dae! + Town of Dae by the sea, + From above there cometh love, + Blessing all good souls that be. + + + + + AN ANARCHIST. + + + False to his art and to the high command + God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand + Beats all in vain the harp he touched before: + It yields a jingle and it yields no more. + No more the strings beneath his finger-tips + Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips, + Touched with a living coal from sacred fires, + Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires. + The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak; + They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek! + The more the wayward, disobedient song + Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong, + More diligently still the singer strums, + To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs. + Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean + Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene, + And Israfel, "whose heart-strings are a lute," + Though now compassion makes their music mute, + Among the weeping company appears, + Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears. + + + + + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. + + + Once I "dipt into the future far as human eye could see," + And saw--it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she-- + The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran + Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man. + But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set, + And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet. + Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart + All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart. + Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search: + "In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch! + Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes + I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes. + Now without a mate of any kind where am I?--that's to say, + Where shall I be to-morrow?--where exert my rightful sway + And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind? + Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined? + Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance-- + From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance-- + Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return + To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn. + But I fancy I detected--though I pray it wasn't that-- + A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat. + So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year, + Till I'm what you now behold me--or would if you were here-- + A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud + An Independent Entity appropriately loud! + Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!) + Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate-- + To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man + Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van. + O the horrible dilemma!--to be odiously linked + With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!" + + As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air, + Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare-- + Plato's Man!--bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump, + Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump. + First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms + It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms. + Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head, + And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said: + "My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw + Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw + To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth; + And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth. + I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl-- + I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!" + + From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then + Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen. + + + + + ARMA VIRUMQUE. + + + "Ours is a Christian Army"; so he said + A regiment of bangomen who led. + "And ours a Christian Navy," added he + Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea. + Better they know than men unwarlike do + What is an army and a navy, too. + Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by + The knowledge what a Christian is, and why. + For somewhat lamely the conception runs + Of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns. + + + + + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. + + + When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf + Between two cities, some ambitious fool, + Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave + To push his clumsy feet upon the span, + That men in after years may single him, + Saying: "Behold the fool who first went o'er!" + So be it when, as now the promise is, + Next summer sees the edifice complete + Which some do name a crematorium, + Within the vantage of whose greater maw's + Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm + And circumvent the handed mole who loves, + With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, + To mine our mortal parts in all their dips + And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth + To link his name with this fair enterprise, + As first decarcassed by the flame. And if + With rival greedings for the fiery fame + They push in clamoring multitudes, or if + With unaccustomed modesty they all + Hold off, being something loth to qualify, + Let me select the fittest for the rite. + By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise + And excellent censure of their true deserts, + And such a searching canvass of their claims, + That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice + Upon the main and general of those + Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, + Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn + God's gracious images, designed to rot, + And bellowed for the right of way for each + Distempered carrion through the water pipes. + With such a sturdy, boisterous exclaim + They did discharge themselves from their own throats + Against the splintered gates of audience + 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth + Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible + And seasoned substances--trunks, legs and arms, + Blent indistinguishable in a mass, + Like winter-woven serpents in a pit-- + None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point + Of precedence, and all alive--shall serve + As fueling to fervor the retort + For after cineration of true men. + + + + + A DEMAND. + + + You promised to paint me a picture, + Dear Mat, + And I was to pay you in rhyme. + Although I am loth to inflict your + Most easy of consciences, I'm + Of opinion that fibbing is awful, + And breaking a contract unlawful, + Indictable, too, as a crime, + A slight and all that. + + If, Lady Unbountiful, any + Of that + By mortals called pity has part + In your obdurate soul--if a penny + You care for the health of my heart, + By performing your undertaking + You'll succor that organ from breaking-- + And spare it for some new smart, + As puss does a rat. + + Do you think it is very becoming, + Dear Mat, + To deny me my rights evermore + And--bless you! if I begin summing + Your sins they will make a long score! + You never were generous, madam, + If you had been Eve and I Adam + You'd have given me naught but the core, + And little of that. + + Had I been content with a Titian, + A cat + By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, + No doubt I'd have had your permission + To take it--by purchase abroad. + But why should I sail o'er the ocean + For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion + All's bad that the critics belaud. + I wanted a Mat. + + Presumption's a sin, and I suffer + For that: + But still you _did_ say that sometime, + If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher-- + That's more than enough) of rhyme + You'd paint me a picture. I pay you + Hereby in advance; and I pray you + Condone, while you can, your crime, + And send me a Mat. + + But if you don't do it I warn you, + Dear Mat, + I'll raise such a clamor and cry + On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you + As mocker of poets and fly + With bitter complaints to Apollo: + "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, + Her beauty"--they'll hardly deny, + On second thought, _that_! + + + + + THE WEATHER WIGHT. + + + The way was long, the hill was steep, + My footing scarcely I could keep. + + The night enshrouded me in gloom, + I heard the ocean's distant boom-- + + The trampling of the surges vast + Was borne upon the rising blast. + + "God help the mariner," I cried, + "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" + + Then from the impenetrable dark + A solemn voice made this remark: + + "For this locality--warm, bright; + Barometer unchanged; breeze light." + + "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, + "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, + + "Thanks--but my care is somewhat less + For Jack's, than for my own, distress. + + "Could I but find a friendly roof, + Small odds what weather were aloof. + + "For he whose comfort is secure + Another's woes can well endure." + + "The latch-string's out," the voice replied, + "And so's the door--jes' step inside." + + Then through the darkness I discerned + A hovel, into which I turned. + + Groping about beneath its thatch, + I struck my head and then a match. + + A candle by that gleam betrayed + Soon lent paraffinaceous aid. + + A pallid, bald and thin old man + I saw, who this complaint began: + + "Through summer suns and winter snows + I sets observin' of my toes. + + "I rambles with increasin' pain + The path of duty, but in vain. + + "Rewards and honors pass me by-- + No Congress hears this raven cry!" + + Filled with astonishment, I spoke: + "Thou ancient raven, why this croak? + + "With observation of your toes + What Congress has to do, Heaven knows! + + "And swallow me if e'er I knew + That one could sit and ramble too!" + + To answer me that ancient swain + Took up his parable again: + + "Through winter snows and summer suns + A Weather Bureau here I runs. + + "I calls the turn, and can declare + Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair. + + "Three times a day I sings out clear + The probs to all which wants to hear. + + "Some weather stations run with light + Frivolity is seldom right. + + "A scientist from times remote, + In Scienceville my birth is wrote. + + "And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign + Jes' take your clo'es in off the line." + + "Not mine, O marvelous old man, + The methods of your art to scan, + + "Yet here no instruments there be-- + Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see. + + "Did you (if questions you permit) + At the asylum leave your kit?" + + That strange old man with motion rude + Grew to surprising altitude. + + "Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns-- + I tells the weather by my corns. + + "No doors and windows here you see-- + The wind and m'isture enters free. + + "No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur + Here falsifies the tempercher. + + "My corns unleathered I expose + To feel the rain's foretellin' throes. + + "No stockin' from their ears keeps out + The comin' tempest's warnin' shout. + + "Sich delicacy some has got + They know next summer's to be hot. + + "This here one says (for that he's best): + 'Storm center passin' to the west.' + + "This feller's vitals is transfixed + With frost for Janawary sixt'. + + "One chap jes' now is occy'pied + In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide. + + "I've shaved this cuss so thin and true + He'll spot a fog in South Peru. + + "Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell + Observatory can excel. + + "By long a-studyin' their throbs + I catches onto all the probs." + + Much more, no doubt, he would have said, + But suddenly he turned and fled; + + For in mine eye's indignant green + Lay storms that he had not foreseen, + + Till all at once, with silent squeals, + His toes "caught on" and told his heels. + + + + + T.A.H. + + + Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer-- + Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; + Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. + And had whatever's needful for a fall. + As rough inflections on a planet merge + In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, + Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, + So in the survey of his worth the small + Asperities of spirit disappear, + Lost in the grander curves of character. + He lately was hit hard: none knew but I + The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke-- + Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, + But set his teeth and made a revelry; + Drank like a devil--staining sometimes red + The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, + Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke + His welcome in a tongue so long forgot + That even his ancient guest remembered not + What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend + Still conjugating with each failing sense + The verb "to die" in every mood and tense, + Pursued his awful humor to the end. + When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke + From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, + And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. + + + + + MY MONUMENT. + + + It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink + A-drying along my paper, + That a monument fine will surely be mine + When death has extinguished my taper. + + From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe + Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, + A pebble will mark his respect for the stark + Stiff body that's under the barrow. + + By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone + Will make my celebrity deathless. + O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink, + They'd wait till my carcass is breathless. + + + + + MAD. + + + O ye who push and fight + To hear a wanton sing-- + Who utter the delight + That has the bogus ring,-- + + O men mature in years, + In understanding young, + The membranes of whose ears + She tickles with her tongue,-- + + O wives and daughters sweet, + Who call it love of art + To kiss a woman's feet + That crush a woman's heart,-- + + O prudent dams and sires, + Your docile young who bring + To see how man admires + A sinner if she sing,-- + + O husbands who impart + To each assenting spouse + The lesson that shall start + The buds upon your brows,-- + + All whose applauding hands + Assist to rear the fame + That throws o'er all the lands + The shadow of its shame,-- + + Go drag her car!--the mud + Through which its axle rolls + Is partly human blood + And partly human souls. + + Mad, mad!--your senses whirl + Like devils dancing free, + Because a strolling girl + Can hold the note high C. + + For this the avenging rod + Of Heaven ye dare defy, + And tear the law that God + Thundered from Sinai! + + + + + HOSPITALITY. + + + Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine + (Unless to praise your rascal wine) + Yet never ask some luckless sinner + Who needs, as I do not, a dinner? + + + + + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. + + + Let lowly themes engage my humble pen-- + Stupidities of critics, not of men. + Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace + Of the expounders' self-directed race-- + Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, + Of diligent vacuity the sign. + Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse + The moral meaning of the random verse + That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen + To be half-blotted by ambitious men + Who hope with his their meaner names to link + By writing o'er it in another ink + The thoughts unreal which they think they think, + Until the mental eye in vain inspects + The hateful palimpsest to find the text. + + The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long + Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. + The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, + Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: + Explains its principles, design--in brief, + Pronounces it a parable of grief! + + The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh + With pollen from a hollyhock near by, + Declares he never heard in terms so just + The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! + The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle + To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!" + Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing + And innocently asks: "What!--did I sing?" + + O literary parasites! who thrive + Upon the fame of better men, derive + Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, + And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,-- + Who find it half is profit, half delight, + To write about what you could never write,-- + Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes + Of famine and discomfiture in those + You write of if they had been critics, too, + And doomed to write of nothing but of you! + + Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, + To see the lion resolutely bent! + The prosing showman who the beast displays + Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. + But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, + The lion owned the show and showed the showman? + + + + + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. + + + Every religion is important. When men rise above existing + conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better + than the old one.--_Professor Howison_. + + + Professor dear, I think it queer + That all these good religions + ('Twixt you and me, some two or three + Are schemes for plucking pigeons)-- + + I mean 'tis strange that every change + Our poor minds to unfetter + Entails a new religion--true + As t' other one, and better. + + From each in turn the truth we learn, + That wood or flesh or spirit + May justly boast it rules the roast + Until we cease to fear it. + + Nay, once upon a time long gone + Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: + His God he'd find in any kind + Of beast, from a to izzard. + + When risen above his early love + Of dirt and blood and slumber, + He pulled down these vain deities, + And made one out of lumber. + + "Far better that than even a cat," + The Howisons all shouted; + "When God is wood religion's good!" + But one poor cynic doubted. + + "A timber God--that's very odd!" + Said Progress, and invented + The simple plan to worship Man, + Who, kindly soul! consented. + + But soon our eye we lift asky, + Our vows all unregarded, + And find (at least so says the priest) + The Truth--and Man's discarded. + + Along our line of march recline + Dead gods devoid of feeling; + And thick about each sun-cracked lout + Dried Howisons are kneeling. + + + + + MAGNANIMITY. + + + "To the will of the people we loyally bow!" + That's the minority shibboleth now. + O noble antagonists, answer me flat-- + What would you do if you didn't do that? + + + + + TO HER. + + + O, Sinner A, to me unknown + Be such a conscience as your own! + To ease it you to Sinner B + Confess the sins of Sinner C. + + + + + TO A SUMMER POET. + + + Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, + With a him. + And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, + On the limb; + Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking + And the dudelet is a-smoking + Cigarettes; + And the hackman is a-hacking + And the showman is a-cracking + Up his pets; + Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore + And the snapdog--we have heard it o'er and o'er; + Yes, my poet, + Well we know it-- + Know the spooners how they spoon + In the bright + Dollar light + Of the country tavern moon; + Yes, the caterpillars fall + From the trees (we know it all), + And with beetles all the shelves + Are alive. + + Please unbuttonhole us--O, + Have the grace to let us go, + For we know + How you Summer poets thrive, + By the recapitulation + And insistent iteration + Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among + Ourselves! + So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. + For you, poor human linnet, + There's a half a living in it, + But there's not a copper cent in it for us! + + + + + ARTHUR McEWEN. + + + Posterity with all its eyes + Will come and view him where he lies. + Then, turning from the scene away + With a concerted shrug, will say: + "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus-- + What interest has that to us? + We can't admire at all, at all, + A tumble-bug without its ball." + And then a sage will rise and say: + "Good friends, you err--turn back, I pray: + This freak that you unwisely shun + Is bug and ball rolled into one." + + + + + CHARLES AND PETER. + + + Ere Gabriel's note to silence died + All graves of men were gaping wide. + + Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," + Rose slowly from the deepest one. + + "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," + Quoth he--"ick, bick, ban, doe,--I'm It!" + + (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, + Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe": + + Of beating Nick the subtle art + Was part of his immortal part.) + + Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, + Arriving at the Gates of Light. + + There Warden Peter, in the throes + Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. + + "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried-- + "I've an engagement there inside." + + The Saint arose and scratched his head. + "I recollect your face," he said. + + "(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), + But----" Dana handed him a card. + + "Ah, yes, I now remember--bless + My soul, how dull I am I--yes, yes, + + "We've nothing better here than bliss. + Walk in. But I must tell you this: + + "We've rest and comfort, though, and peace." + "H'm--puddles," Dana said, "for geese. + + "Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no," + Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below. + + "'T is not included in our scheme-- + 'T is but a preacher's idle dream." + + The great man slowly moved away. + "I'll call," he said, "another day. + + "On earth I played it, o'er and o'er, + And Heaven without it were a bore." + + "O, stuff!--come in. You'll make," said Pete, + "A hell where'er you set your feet." + + 1885. + + + + + CONTEMPLATION. + + + I muse upon the distant town + In many a dreamy mood. + Above my head the sunbeams crown + The graveyard's giant rood. + The lupin blooms among the tombs. + The quail recalls her brood. + + Ah, good it is to sit and trace + The shadow of the cross; + It moves so still from place to place + O'er marble, bronze and moss; + With graves to mark upon its arc + Our time's eternal loss. + + And sweet it is to watch the bee + That reve's in the rose, + And sense the fragrance floating free + On every breeze that blows + O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, + Mine enemies repose. + + + + + CREATION. + + + God dreamed--the suns sprang flaming into place, + And sailing worlds with many a venturous race! + He woke--His smile alone illumined space. + + + + + BUSINESS. + + + Two villains of the highest rank + Set out one night to rob a bank. + They found the building, looked it o'er, + Each window noted, tried each door, + Scanned carefully the lidded hole + For minstrels to cascade the coal-- + In short, examined five-and-twenty + Good paths from poverty to plenty. + But all were sealed, they saw full soon, + Against the minions of the moon. + "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied." + The other, smiling fair and wide, + Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you: + No burglar ever can get through. + Fate surely prospers our design-- + The booty all is yours and mine." + So, full of hope, the following day + To the exchange they took their way + And bought, with manner free and frank, + Some stock of that devoted bank; + And they became, inside the year, + One President and one Cashier. + + Their crime I can no further trace-- + The means of safety to embrace, + I overdrew and left the place. + + + + + A POSSIBILITY. + + + If the wicked gods were willing + (Pray it never may be true!) + That a universal chilling + Should ensue + Of the sentiment of loving,-- + If they made a great undoing + Of the plan of turtle-doving, + Then farewell all poet-lore, + Evermore. + If there were no more of billing + There would be no more of cooing + And we all should be but owls-- + Lonely fowls + Blinking wonderfully wise, + With our great round eyes-- + Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two, + As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo; + With regard to being mated, + Asking still with aggravated + Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?" + + + + + TO A CENSOR. + + "The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of + our judges is responsible for half the murders."--_Daily Newspaper_. + + + Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend, + Impeach Delay and you will make an end. + Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot + For doing all the things that it should not. + Put not good-natured judges under bond, + But make Delay in damages respond. + Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled + Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold-- + Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled + To "lash the rascals naked through the world." + The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing + Above whose back your knotted scourges sing. + _Your_ satire, truly, like a razor keen, + "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;" + For naught that you assail with falchion free + Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see. + Against abstractions evermore you charge + You hack no helmet and you need no targe. + That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice, + That wrong's not right and foulness never nice, + Fearless affirm. All consequences dare: + Smite the offense and the offender spare. + When Ananias and Sapphira lied + Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died. + When money-changers in the Temple sat, + At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat" + (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen) + And all the brokers would have cried amen! + + Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame + Have you no courage, or has he no name? + Upon his method will you wreak your wrath, + Himself all unmolested in his path? + Fall to! fall to!--your club no longer draw + To beat the air or flail a man of straw. + Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall + Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall. + Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal-- + Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel! + + We know that judges are corrupt. We know + That crimes are lively and that laws are slow. + We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay; + That priests and preachers are but birds of pray; + That merchants cheat and journalists for gold + Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold. + 'Tis all familiar as the simple lore + That two policemen and two thieves make four. + + But since, while some are wicked, some are good, + (As trees may differ though they all are wood) + Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit, + The bad would sentence and the good acquit. + In sparing everybody none you spare: + Rebukes most personal are least unfair. + To fire at random if you still prefer, + And swear at Dog but never kick a cur, + Permit me yet one ultimate appeal + To something that you understand and feel: + Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade-- + You might be read if you would learn your trade. + + Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed + Not one of you but all are here addressed) + Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart + Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart + Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green, + Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen. + + + + + THE HESITATING VETERAN. + + + + When I was young and full of faith + And other fads that youngsters cherish + A cry rose as of one that saith + With unction: "Help me or I perish!" + 'Twas heard in all the land, and men + The sound were each to each repeating. + It made my heart beat faster then + Than any heart can now be beating. + + For the world is old and the world is gray-- + Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. + She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, + And doesn't now go in for Pity. + Besides, the melancholy cry + Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, + Whose plight no one beneath the sky + Felt half so poignantly as he did. + + Moreover, he was black. And yet + That sentimental generation + With an austere compassion set + Its face and faith to the occasion. + Then there were hate and strife to spare, + And various hard knocks a-plenty; + And I ('twas more than my true share, + I must confess) took five-and-twenty. + + That all is over now--the reign + Of love and trade stills all dissensions, + And the clear heavens arch again + Above a land of peace and pensions. + The black chap--at the last we gave + Him everything that he had cried for, + Though many white chaps in the grave + 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for. + + I hope he's better off--I trust + That his society and his master's + Are worth the price we paid, and must + Continue paying, in disasters; + But sometimes doubts press thronging round + ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) + If war for union was a sound + And profitable undertaking. + + 'Tis said they mean to take away + The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. + 'Tis true he sits in darkness day + And night, as formerly, when fettered; + But pray observe--howe'er he vote + To whatsoever party turning, + He'll be with gentlemen of note + And wealth and consequence and learning. + With Hales and Morgans on each side, + How could a fool through lack of knowledge, + Vote wrong? If learning is no guide + Why ought one to have been in college? + O Son of Day, O Son of Night! + What are your preferences made of? + I know not which of you is right, + Nor which to be the more afraid of. + + The world is old and the world is bad, + And creaks and grinds upon its axis; + And man's an ape and the gods are mad!-- + There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. + No mortal man can Truth restore, + Or say where she is to be sought for. + I know what uniform I wore-- + O, that I knew which side I fought for! + + + + + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. + + + Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, + Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, + Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed + The river to join the loved and lost. + In the space of a year their spirits fled, + Silent and white, to the camp of the dead. + + One after one, they fall asleep + And the pension agents awake to weep, + And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail + As the souls flit by on the evening gale. + O Father of Battles, pray give us release + From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace! + + + + + INSPIRATION. + + + + O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: + I fain would view the lettered stone. + What carvest thou?--perchance some grand + And solemn fancy all thine own. + For oft to know the fitting word + Some humble worker God permits. + "Jain Ann Meginnis, + Agid 3rd. + He givith His beluved fits." + + + + + TO-DAY. + + + I saw a man who knelt in prayer, + And heard him say: + "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare + To-day. + + "Lord, for to-morrow and its need + I do not pray; + Let me upon my neighbor feed + To-day. + + "Let me my duty duly shirk + And run away + From any form or phase of work + To-day. + + "From Thy commands exempted still + Let me obey + The promptings of my private will + To-day. + + "Let me no word profane, no lie + Unthinking say + If anyone is standing by + To-day. + + "My secret sins and vices grave + Let none betray; + The scoffer's jeers I do not crave + To-day. + + "And if to-day my fortune all + Should ebb away, + Help me on other men's to fall + To-day. + + "So, for to-morrow and its mite + I do not pray; + Just give me everything in sight + To-day." + + I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran + Like oil away. + I said: "I've seen an honest man + To-day." + + + + + AN ALIBI. + + + A famous journalist, who long + Had told the great unheaded throng + Whate'er they thought, by day or night. + Was true as Holy Writ, and right, + Was caught in--well, on second thought, + It is enough that he was caught, + And being thrown in jail became + The fuel of a public flame. + + "_Vox populi vox Dei_," said + The jailer. Inxling bent his head + Without remark: that motto good + In bold-faced type had always stood + Above the columns where his pen + Had rioted in praise of men + And all they said--provided he + Was sure they mostly did agree. + Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife + To take, or save, the culprit's life + Or liberty (which, I suppose, + Was much the same to him) arose + Outside. The journal that his pen + Adorned denounced his crime--but then + Its editor in secret tried + To have the indictment set aside. + The opposition papers swore + His father was a rogue before, + And all his wife's relations were + Like him and similar to her. + They begged their readers to subscribe + A dollar each to make a bribe + That any Judge would feel was large + Enough to prove the gravest charge-- + Unless, it might be, the defense + Put up superior evidence. + The law's traditional delay + Was all too short: the trial day + Dawned red and menacing. The Judge + Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, + And all the motions counsel made + Could not move _him_--and there he stayed. + "The case must now proceed," he said, + "While I am just in heart and head, + It happens--as, indeed, it ought-- + Both sides with equal sums have bought + My favor: I can try the cause + Impartially." (Prolonged applause.) + + The prisoner was now arraigned + And said that he was greatly pained + To be suspected--_he_, whose pen + Had charged so many other men + With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," + He said, a tear in either eye, + "If men who live by crying out + 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt + Of their integrity exempt, + Let all forego the vain attempt + To make a reputation! Sir, + I'm innocent, and I demur." + Whereat a thousand voices cried + Amain he manifestly lied-- + _Vox populi_ as loudly roared + As bull by _picadores_ gored, + In his own coin receiving pay + To make a Spanish holiday. + + The jury--twelve good men and true-- + Were then sworn in to see it through, + And each made solemn oath that he + As any babe unborn was free + From prejudice, opinion, thought, + Respectability, brains--aught + That could disqualify; and some + Explained that they were deaf and dumb. + A better twelve, his Honor said, + Was rare, except among the dead. + The witnesses were called and sworn. + The tales they told made angels mourn, + And the Good Book they'd kissed became + Red with the consciousness of shame. + + Whenever one of them approached + The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, + Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. + "Strike out his testimony," quoth + The learned judge: "This Court denies + Its ear to stories which surprise. + I hold that witnesses exempt + From coaching all are in contempt." + Both Prosecution and Defense + Applauded the judicial sense, + And the spectators all averred + Such wisdom they had never heard: + 'Twas plain the prisoner would be + Found guilty in the first degree. + Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed + The nameless terrors in his breast. + He felt remorseful, too, because + He wasn't half they said he was. + "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused + On opportunities unused, + "I might have easily become + As wealthy as Methusalum." + This journalist adorned, alas, + The middle, not the Bible, class. + + With equal skill the lawyers' pleas + Attested their divided fees. + Each gave the other one the lie, + Then helped him frame a sharp reply. + + Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, + And lasted all the day and night. + When once or oftener the roar + Had silenced the judicial snore + The speaker suffered for the sport + By fining for contempt of court. + Twelve jurors' noses good and true + Unceasing sang the trial through, + And even _vox populi_ was spent + In rattles through a nasal vent. + Clerk, bailiff, constables and all + Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call + To arms--his arms--and all fell in + Save counsel for the Man of Sin. + That thaumaturgist stood and swayed + The wand their faculties obeyed-- + That magic wand which, like a flame. + Leapt, wavered, quivered and became + A wonder-worker--known among + The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue. + + How long, O Lord, how long my verse + Runs on for better or for worse + In meter which o'ermasters me, + Octosyllabically free!-- + A meter which, the poets say, + No power of restraint can stay;-- + A hard-mouthed meter, suited well + To him who, having naught to tell, + Must hold attention as a trout + Is held, by paying out and out + The slender line which else would break + Should one attempt the fish to take. + Thus tavern guides who've naught to show + But some adjacent curio + By devious trails their patrons lead + And make them think 't is far indeed. + Where was I? + + While the lawyer talked + The rogue took up his feet and walked: + While all about him, roaring, slept, + Into the street he calmly stepped. + In very truth, the man who thought + The people's voice from heaven had caught + God's inspiration took a change + Of venue--it was passing strange! + Straight to his editor he went + And that ingenious person sent + A Negro to impersonate + The fugitive. In adequate + Disguise he took his vacant place + And buried in his arms his face. + When all was done the lawyer stopped + And silence like a bombshell dropped + Upon the Court: judge, jury, all + Within that venerable hall + (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, + And one or two whom death had freed) + Awoke and tried to look as though + Slumber was all they did not know. + + And now that tireless lawyer-man + Took breath, and then again began: + "Your Honor, if you did attend + To what I've urged (my learned friend + Nodded concurrence) to support + The motion I have made, this court + May soon adjourn. With your assent + I've shown abundant precedent + For introducing now, though late, + New evidence to exculpate + My client. So, if you'll allow, + I'll prove an _alibi_!" "What?--how?" + Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't + Deny your showing, and I grant + The motion. Do I understand + You undertake to prove--good land!-- + That when the crime--you mean to show + Your client wasn't _there_?" "O, no, + I cannot quite do that, I find: + My _alibi's_ another kind + Of _alibi_,--I'll make it clear, + Your Honor, that he isn't _here_." + The Darky here upreared his head, + Tranquillity affrighted fled + And consternation reigned instead! + + + + + REBUKE. + + + When Admonition's hand essays + Our greed to curse, + Its lifted finger oft displays + Our missing purse. + + + + + J.F.B. + + + How well this man unfolded to our view + The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell-- + This man whose own convictions none could tell, + Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. + Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew + The fair philosophies of doubt so well + That while we listened to his words there fell + Some that were strangely comforting, though true. + Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt, + We said: "If so, by groping in the night, + He can proclaim some certain paths of trust, + How great our profit if he saw about + His feet the highways leading to the light." + Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust! + + + + + THE DYING STATESMAN. + + + It is a politician man-- + He draweth near his end, + And friends weep round that partisan, + Of every man the friend. + + Between the Known and the Unknown + He lieth on the strand; + The light upon the sea is thrown + That lay upon the land. + + It shineth in his glazing eye, + It burneth on his face; + God send that when we come to die + We know that sign of grace! + + Upon his lips his blessed sprite + Poiseth her joyous wing. + "How is it with thee, child of light? + Dost hear the angels sing?" + + "The song I hear, the crown I see, + And know that God is love. + Farewell, dark world--I go to be + A postmaster above!" + + For him no monumental arch, + But, O, 'tis good and brave + To see the Grand Old Party march + To office o'er his grave! + + + + + THE DEATH OF GRANT. + + + Father! whose hard and cruel law + Is part of thy compassion's plan, + Thy works presumptuously we scan + For what the prophets say they saw. + + Unbidden still the awful slope + Walling us in we climb to gain + Assurance of the shining plain + That faith has certified to hope. + + In vain!--beyond the circling hill + The shadow and the cloud abide. + Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide + To trust the Record and be still. + + To trust it loyally as he + Who, heedful of his high design, + Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, + But wrought thy will unconsciously, + + Disputing not of chance or fate, + Nor questioning of cause or creed; + For anything but duty's deed + Too simply wise, too humbly great. + + The cannon syllabled his name; + His shadow shifted o'er the land, + Portentous, as at his command + Successive cities sprang to flame! + + He fringed the continent with fire, + The rivers ran in lines of light! + Thy will be done on earth--if right + Or wrong he cared not to inquire. + + His was the heavy hand, and his + The service of the despot blade; + His the soft answer that allayed + War's giant animosities. + + Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, + Fill, Father, with another light, + That we may see with clearer sight + Thy servant's soul in Paradise. + + + + + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. + + + Of Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + The Muse of History records + That he'd get drunk as twenty lords. + + He'd get so truly drunk that men + Stood by to marvel at him when + His slow advance along the street + Was but a vain cycloidal feat. + + And when 'twas fated that he fall + With a wide geographical sprawl, + They signified assent by sounds + Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds. + + And yet this Mr. Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes + When it was red or otherwise. + + All malt, or spirituous, tope + He loathed as cats dissent from soap; + And cider, if it touched his lip, + Evoked a groan at every sip. + + But still, as heretofore explained, + He not infrequently was grained. + (I'm not of those who call it "corned." + Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.) + + Though truth to say, and that's but right, + Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) + Was what had put him in the mud, + The only kind he used was blood! + + Alas, that an immortal soul + Addicted to the flowing bowl, + The emptied flagon should again + Replenish from a neighbor's vein. + + But, Mr. Shanahan was so + Constructed, and his taste that low. + Nor more deplorable was he + In kind of thirst than in degree; + + For sometimes fifty souls would pay + The debt of nature in a day + To free him from the shame and pain + Of dread Sobriety's misreign. + + His native land, proud of its sense + Of his unique inabstinence, + Abated something of its pride + At thought of his unfilled inside. + + And some the boldness had to say + 'Twere well if he were called away + To slake his thirst forevermore + In oceans of celestial gore. + + But Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Knew that his thirst was mortal; so + Remained unsainted here below-- + + Unsainted and unsaintly, for + He neither went to glory nor + To abdicate his power deigned + Where, under Providence, he reigned, + + But kept his Boss's power accurst + To serve his wild uncommon thirst. + Which now had grown so truly great + It was a drain upon the State. + + Soon, soon there came a time, alas! + When he turned down an empty glass-- + All practicable means were vain + His special wassail to obtain. + + In vain poor Decimation tried + To furnish forth the needful tide; + And Civil War as vainly shed + Her niggard offering of red. + + Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased + Until he wished himself deceased, + Invoked the firearm and the knife, + But could not die to save his life! + + He was so dry his own veins made + No answer to the seeking blade; + So parched that when he would have passed + Away he could not breathe his last. + + 'Twas then, when almost in despair, + (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) + He saw as in a dream a way + To wet afresh his mortal clay. + + Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Saw freedom, and with joy and pride + "Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried. + + Straight to the Aldermen went he, + With many a "pull" and many a fee, + And many a most corrupt "combine" + (The Press for twenty cents a line + + Held out and fought him--O, God, bless + Forevermore the holy Press!) + Till he had franchises complete + For trolley lines on every street! + + The cars were builded and, they say, + Were run on rails laid every way-- + Rhomboidal roads, and circular, + And oval--everywhere a car-- + + Square, dodecagonal (in great + Esteem the shape called Figure 8) + And many other kinds of shapes + As various as tails of apes. + + No other group of men's abodes + E'er had such odd electric roads, + That winding in and winding out, + Began and ended all about. + + No city had, unless in Mars, + That city's wealth of trolley cars. + They ran by day, they flew by night, + And O, the sorry, sorry sight! + + And Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Incessantly, the Muse records, + Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords! + + + + + LAUS LUCIS. + + Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the + Mysteries of Antiquity."--_Vide the Newspapers, passim_. + + + Each to his taste: some men prefer to play + At mystery, as others at piquet. + Some sit in mystic meditation; some + Parade the street with tambourine and drum. + One studies to decipher ancient lore + Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; + Another swears that learning is but good + To darken things already understood, + Then writes upon Simplicity so well + That none agree on what he wants to tell, + And future ages will declare his pen + Inspired by gods with messages to men. + To found an ancient order those devote + Their time--with ritual, regalia, goat, + Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease + And all the modern inconveniences; + These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites + And go to church for rational delights. + So all are suited, shallow and profound, + The prophets prosper and the world goes round. + For me--unread in the occult, I'm fain + To damn all mysteries alike as vain, + Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon + The Revelations of the good St. John. + + 1897. + + + + + NANINE. + + + We heard a song-bird trilling-- + 'T was but a night ago. + Such rapture he was rilling + As only we could know. + + This morning he is flinging + His music from the tree, + But something in the singing + Is not the same to me. + + His inspiration fails him, + Or he has lost his skill. + Nanine, Nanine, what ails him + That he should sing so ill? + + Nanine is not replying-- + She hears no earthly song. + The sun and bird are lying + And the night is, O, so long! + + + + + TECHNOLOGY. + + + 'Twas a serious person with locks of gray + And a figure like a crescent; + His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, + But his smile was evanescent. + + He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and + With (likewise) a high falsetto; + And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand + As if it had been a stiletto. + + His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, + Came out of his head unblended, + And the wonderful altitude of some + Was exceptionally splendid. + + While executing a shake of the head, + With the hand, as it were, of a master, + This agonizing old gentleman said: + "'Twas a truly sad disaster! + + "Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, + Went down"--he paused and snuffled. + A single tear was observed to fall, + And the old man's drum was muffled. + + "A very calamitous year," he said. + And again his head-piece hoary + He shook, and another pearl he shed, + As if he wept _con amore._ + + "O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why + Should these failures so affect you? + With speculators in stocks no eye + That's normal would ever connect you." + + He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled + In a sinister sort of manner. + "Young man," he said, "your words are wild: + I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.' + + "For she has went down in a howlin' squall, + And my heart is nigh to breakin'-- + Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all + Will never need undertakin'! + + "I'm in the business myself," said he, + "And you've mistook my expression; + For I uses the technical terms, you see, + Employed in my perfession." + + That old undertaker has joined the throng + On the other side of the River, + But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long," + And a tape-line makes me shiver. + + + + + A REPLY TO A LETTER. + + + O nonsense, parson--tell me not they thrive + And jubilate who follow your dictation. + The good are the unhappiest lot alive-- + I know they are from careful observation. + If freedom from the terrors of damnation + Lengthens the visage like a telescope, + And lacrymation is a sign of hope, + Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, + To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope + Contentedly without your lantern's light; + And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, + Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap. + + You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, + With many a million others of my kidney. + Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed + With sinners--worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney + And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss + To simulate respect for Genesis-- + Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, + But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, + And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss. + + Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, + Must go to--beg your pardon, sir--perdition, + The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, + But count it sin of the sort called omission + The groan to smother or the tear to stay + Or fail to--what is that they live by?--pray. + So down they flop, and the whole serious race is + Put by divine compassion on a praying basis. + + Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet + Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, + You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, + And you look down upon us out of Heaven. + In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades + Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades + Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, + Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound, + Dash downward through the glimmering profound, + Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out! + + Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs + To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs + Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, + With less of ink than incoherence fraught + Befits the folly that it tries to utter. + Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: + You suffer from impediment of thought. + + When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: + Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where! + Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, + Bears witness how my anger I can tame: + I've called you everything except your hateful name! + + + + + TO OSCAR WILDE. + + + Because from Folly's lips you got + Some babbled mandate to subdue + The realm of Common Sense, and you + Made promise and considered not-- + + Because you strike a random blow + At what you do not understand, + And beckon with a friendly hand + To something that you do not know, + + I hold no speech of your desert, + Nor answer with porrected shield + The wooden weapon that you wield, + But meet you with a cast of dirt. + + Dispute with such a thing as you-- + Twin show to the two-headed calf? + Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, + 'T is more than half the world can do. + + 1882. + + + + + PRAYER. + + + Fear not in any tongue to call + Upon the Lord--He's skilled in all. + But if He answereth my plea + He speaketh one unknown to me. + + + + + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." + + + Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh + Is a statesman of world-wide fame, + With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh + To glorify somebody's name-- + Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters + To succor the country from divers disasters + Portentous to Mr. Mahosh. + + Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee + Is in the political swim. + He cares not a button for men, not he: + Great principles captivate him-- + Principles cleverly cut out and fitted + To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, + And fought for by Mr. Cabee. + + Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse + Holds office the most of his life. + For men nor for principles cares he a curse, + But much for his neighbor's wife. + The Ship of State leaks, but _he_ doesn't pump any, + Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company + Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse. + + + + + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. + + + O Liberty, God-gifted-- + Young and immortal maid-- + In your high hand uplifted; + The torch declares your trade. + + Its crimson menace, flaming + Upon the sea and shore, + Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming + That Law shall be no more. + + Austere incendiary, + We're blinking in the light; + Where is your customary + Grenade of dynamite? + + Where are your staves and switches + For men of gentle birth? + Your mask and dirk for riches? + Your chains for wit and worth? + + Perhaps, you've brought the halters + You used in the old days, + When round religion's altars + You stabled Cromwell's bays? + + Behind you, unsuspected, + Have you the axe, fair wench, + Wherewith you once collected + A poll-tax from the French? + + America salutes you-- + Preparing to disgorge. + Take everything that suits you, + And marry Henry George. + + 1894 + + + + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. + + + Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. + One place it never comes, and that is here. + Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, + No well-worn greetings tediously ring-- + For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: + The hollower they are they ring the more. + Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, + Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, + No trinket-laden vegetable come, + No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. + No shrilling children shall their voices rear. + Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer! + + No presents, if you please--I know too well + What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell + (I know not if he did) yet might have told + Of present-giving in the days of old, + When Early Man with gifts propitiated + The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, + Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude + Advantage from the taker's gratitude. + Since thus the Gift its origin derives + (How much of its first character survives + You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, + My pocket buttoned--with my soul inside. + I save my money and I save my pride. + + Dinner? Yes; thank you--just a human body + Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy + To give me appetite; and as for drink, + About a half a jug of blood, I think, + Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, + Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine + Fretting the satin surface of its flood. + O tope of kings--divine Falernian--blood! + + Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, + The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! + Has not a pagan rights to be regarded-- + His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded + With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan + Even in his demonium would ban? + + No, friends--no Christmas here, for I have sworn + To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. + Enough you have of jester, player, priest: + I as the skeleton attend your feast, + In the mad revelry to make a lull + With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. + However you my services may flout, + Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, + I mean to hold in customary state, + My dismal revelry and celebrate + My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, + Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom + And cultivate an oasis of gloom. + + + + + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. + + + Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes + Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; + Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown + Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; + Justice denied, authority abused, + And the one honest person the accused-- + Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, + Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears. + + + + + AN EPITAPH. + + + Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse-- + So small a tenant of so big a house! + He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist + Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) + And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, + His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,-- + What poetry he'd written but for lack + Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! + Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep + To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! + To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs + And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. + No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, + Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" + The genius of his purse no longer draws + The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. + All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, + Though riddances of worms improve his brains. + All his no talents to the earth revert, + And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!" + + + + + THE POLITICIAN. + + + "Let Glory's sons manipulate + The tiller of the Ship of State. + Be mine the humble, useful toil + To work the tiller of the soil." + + + + + AN INSCRIPTION + + For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him who + Made it Beautiful. + + + Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dear + Good folk he lived and moved among in peace-- + Guarded on either hand by the police, + With soldiers in his front and in his rear. + + + + + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. + + + The polecat, sovereign of its native wood, + Dashes damnation upon bad and good; + The health of all the upas trees impairs + By exhalations deadlier than theirs; + Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad-- + The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode! + She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking dale + The horrid aspergillus of her tail! + From every saturated hair, till dry, + The spargent fragrances divergent fly, + Deafen the earth and scream along the sky! + + Removed to alien scenes, amid the strife + Of urban odors to ungladden life-- + Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspire + The flesh to torture and the soul to fire-- + Where all the "well defined and several stinks" + Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks-- + Humbled in spirit, smitten with a sense + Of lost distinction, leveled eminence, + She suddenly resigns her baleful trust, + Nor ever lays again our mortal dust. + Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk, + She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk. + + + + + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." + + + "O, I'm the Unaverage Man, + But you never have heard of me, + For my brother, the Average Man, outran + My fame with rapiditee, + And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea, + But my bully big brother the world can span + With his wide notorietee. + I do everything that I can + To make 'em attend to me, + But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man + With a weird uniformitee." + + So sang with a dolorous note + A voice that I heard from the beach; + On the sable waters it seemed to float + Like a mortal part of speech. + The sea was Oblivion's sea, + And I cried as I plunged to swim: + "The Unaverage Man shall reside with me." + But he didn't--I stayed with him! + + + + + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. + + + Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spice + And shells and corals, brought for my inspection + From the fair tropics--paid a Christian price + And was content in my fool's paradise, + Where never had been heard the word "Protection." + + 'T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone-- + No customs-house, collector nor collection, + But a man came, who, in a pious tone + Condoled with me that I had never known + The manifest advantage of Protection. + + So, when the trading-boat arrived one day, + He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section. + The traders paddled for their lives away, + Nor came again into that haunted bay, + The blessed home thereafter of Protection. + + Then down he sat, that philanthropic man, + And spat upon some mud of his selection, + And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan, + To shapes of shells and coral things, and span + A thread of song in glory of Protection. + + He baked them in the sun. His air devout + Enchanted me. I made a genuflexion: + "God help you, gentle sir," I said. "No doubt," + He answered gravely, "I'll get on without + Assistance now that we have got Protection." + + Thenceforth I bought his wares--at what a price + For shells and corals of such imperfection! + "Ah, now," said he, "your lot is truly nice." + But still in all that isle there was no spice + To season to my taste that dish, Protection. + + + + + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. + + + I died. As meekly in the earth I lay, + With shriveled fingers reverently folded, + The worm--uncivil engineer!--my clay + Tunneled industriously, and the mole did. + My body could not dodge them, but my soul did; + For that had flown from this terrestrial ball + And I was rid of it for good and all. + + So there I lay, debating what to do-- + What measures might most usefully be taken + To circumvent the subterranean crew + Of anthropophagi and save my bacon. + My fortitude was all this while unshaken, + But any gentleman, of course, protests + Against receiving uninvited guests. + + However proud he might be of his meats, + Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus, + Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets; + "_Aut Caesar_," say judicious hosts, "_aut nullus_." + And though when Marcius came unbidden Tullus + Aufidius feasted him because he starved, + Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved. + + We feed the hungry, as the book commands + (For men might question else our orthodoxy) + But do not care to see the outstretched hands, + And so we minister to them by proxy. + When Want, in his improper person, knocks he + Finds we're engaged. The graveworm's very fresh + To think we like his presence in the flesh. + + So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in all + That underworld no judges could determine + My rights. When Death approaches them they fall, + And falling, naturally soil their ermine. + And still below ground, as above, the vermin + That work by dark and silent methods win + The case--the burial case that one is in. + + Cases at law so slowly get ahead, + Even when the right is visibly unclouded, + That if all men are classed as quick and dead, + The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded. + Pray Jove that when they're actually crowded + On Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight, + His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite. + + Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begot + A race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourish + And woman to caress, the muse had not + Lamented the decay of virtues currish, + And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish, + For barking, biting, kissing to employ + Canine repeaters were indeed a joy. + + Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I, + Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping, + By moles and worms and such familiar fry + Run through and through, am singing still and harping + Of mundane matters--flatting, too, and sharping. + I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup: + So I'm for getting--and for shutting--up. + + + + + IN MEMORIAM + + + Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid + Of many things in the world afraid. + She wasn't a maid who turned and fled + At sight of a mouse, alive or dead. + She wasn't a maid a man could "shoo" + By shouting, however abruptly, "Boo!" + She wasn't a maid who'd run and hide + If her face and figure you idly eyed. + She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shake + When asked what part of the fowl she'd take. + (I blush myself to confess she preferred, + And commonly got, the most of the bird.) + She wasn't a maid to simper because + She was asked to sing--if she ever was. + + In short, if the truth must be displayed + _In puris_--Beauty wasn't a maid. + Beauty, furry and fine and fat, + Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that, + Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat! + + I loved her well, and I'm proud that she + Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me; + In fact I have sometimes gone so far + (You know, mesdames, how silly men are) + As to think she preferred--excuse the conceit-- + _My_ legs upon which to sharpen her feet. + Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much, + But I started and thrilled beneath her touch! + + Ah, well, that's ancient history now: + The fingers of Time have touched my brow, + And I hear with never a start to-day + That Beauty has passed from the earth away. + Gone!--her death-song (it killed her) sung. + Gone!--her fiddlestrings all unstrung. + Gone to the bliss of a new _régime_ + Of turkey smothered in seas of cream; + Of roasted mice (a superior breed, + To science unknown and the coarser need + Of the living cat) cooked by the flame + Of the dainty soul of an erring dame + Who gave to purity all her care, + Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,-- + Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice + By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise; + A very digestible sort of mice. + + Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold + That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold, + To eat and eat, forever and aye, + On a velvet rug from a golden tray. + But the human spirit--that is my creed-- + Rots in the ground like a barren seed. + That is my creed, abhorred by Man + But approved by Cat since time began. + Till Death shall kick at me, thundering "Scat!" + I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that. + + + + + THE STATESMEN. + + + How blest the land that counts among + Her sons so many good and wise, + To execute great feats of tongue + When troubles rise. + + Behold them mounting every stump + Our liberty by speech to guard. + Observe their courage:--see them jump + And come down hard! + + "Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud, + "And learn from me what you must do + To turn aside the thunder cloud, + The earthquake too. + + "Beware the wiles of yonder quack + Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. + I--I alone can show that black + Is white as grass." + + They shout through all the day and break + The silence of the night as well. + They'd make--I wish they'd _go_ and make-- + Of Heaven a Hell. + + A advocates free silver, B + Free trade and C free banking laws. + Free board, clothes, lodging would from me + Win warm applause. + + Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see + The single tax on land would fall + On all alike." More evenly + No tax at all. + + "With paper money" bellows E + "We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt-- + And richest of the lot will be + The chap without. + + As many "cures" as addle wits + Who know not what the ailment is! + Meanwhile the patient foams and spits + Like a gin fizz. + + Alas, poor Body Politic, + Your fate is all too clearly read: + To be not altogether quick, + Nor very dead. + + You take your exercise in squirms, + Your rest in fainting fits between. + 'T is plain that your disorder's worms-- + Worms fat and lean. + + Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell + Within your maw and muscle's scope. + Their quarrels make your life a Hell, + Your death a hope. + + God send you find not such an end + To ills however sharp and huge! + God send you convalesce! God send + You vermifuge. + + + + + THE BROTHERS. + + + Scene--_A lawyer's dreadful den. + Enter stall-fed citizen._ + + LAWYER.--'Mornin'. How-de-do? + + CITIZEN.--Sir, same to you. + Called as counsel to retain you + In a case that I'll explain you. + Sad, _so_ sad! Heart almost broke. + Hang it! where's my kerchief? Smoke? + Brother, sir, and I, of late, + Came into a large estate. + Brother's--h'm, ha,--rather queer + Sometimes _(tapping forehead) _here. + What he needs--you know--a "writ"-- + Something, eh? that will permit + Me to manage, sir, in fine, + His estate, as well as mine. + 'Course he'll _kick_; 't will break, I fear, + His loving heart--excuse this tear. + + LAWYER.--Have you nothing more? + All of this you said before-- + When last night I took your case. + + CITIZEN.--Why, sir, your face + Ne'er before has met my view! + + LAWYER.--Eh? The devil! True: + My mistake--it was your brother. + But you're very like each other. + + + + + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + + + In that fair city, Ispahan, + There dwelt a problematic man, + Whose angel never was released, + Who never once let out his beast, + But kept, through all the seasons' round, + Silence unbroken and profound. + No Prophecy, with ear applied + To key-hole of the future, tried + Successfully to catch a hint + Of what he'd do nor when begin 't; + As sternly did his past defy + Mild Retrospection's backward eye. + Though all admired his silent ways, + The women loudest were in praise: + For ladies love those men the most + Who never, never, never boast-- + Who ne'er disclose their aims and ends + To naughty, naughty, naughty friends. + + Yet, sooth to say, the fame outran + The merit of this doubtful man, + For taciturnity in him, + Though not a mere caprice or whim, + Was not a virtue, such as truth, + High birth, or beauty, wealth or youth. + + 'Twas known, indeed, throughout the span + Of Ispahan, of Gulistan-- + These utmost limits of the earth + Knew that the man was dumb from birth. + + Unto the Sun with deep salaams + The Parsee spreads his morning palms + (A beacon blazing on a height + Warms o'er his piety by night.) + The Moslem deprecates the deed, + Cuts off the head that holds the creed, + Then reverently goes to grass, + Muttering thanks to Balaam's Ass + For faith and learning to refute + Idolatry so dissolute! + But should a maniac dash past, + With straws in beard and hands upcast, + To him (through whom, whene'er inclined + To preach a bit to Madmankind, + The Holy Prophet speaks his mind) + Our True Believer lifts his eyes + Devoutly and his prayer applies; + But next to Solyman the Great + Reveres the idiot's sacred state. + Small wonder then, our worthy mute + Was held in popular repute. + Had he been blind as well as mum, + Been lame as well as blind and dumb, + No bard that ever sang or soared + Could say how he had been adored. + More meagerly endowed, he drew + An homage less prodigious. True, + No soul his praises but did utter-- + All plied him with devotion's butter, + But none had out--'t was to their credit-- + The proselyting sword to spread it. + I state these truths, exactly why + The reader knows as well as I; + They've nothing in the world to do + With what I hope we're coming to + If Pegasus be good enough + To move when he has stood enough. + Egad! his ribs I would examine + Had I a sharper spur than famine, + Or even with that if 'twould incline + To examine his instead of mine. + Where was I? Ah, that silent man + Who dwelt one time in Ispahan-- + He had a name--was known to all + As Meerza Solyman Zingall. + + There lived afar in Astrabad, + A man the world agreed was mad, + So wickedly he broke his joke + Upon the heads of duller folk, + So miserly, from day to day, + He gathered up and hid away + In vaults obscure and cellars haunted + What many worthy people wanted, + A stingy man!--the tradesmen's palms + Were spread in vain: "I give no alms + Without inquiry"--so he'd say, + And beat the needy duns away. + The bastinado did, 'tis true, + Persuade him, now and then, a few + Odd tens of thousands to disburse + To glut the taxman's hungry purse, + But still, so rich he grew, his fear + Was constant that the Shah might hear. + (The Shah had heard it long ago, + And asked the taxman if 'twere so, + Who promptly answered, rather airish, + The man had long been on the parish.) + The more he feared, the more he grew + A cynic and a miser, too, + Until his bitterness and pelf + Made him a terror to himself; + Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke, + He tartly cut his final joke. + So perished, not an hour too soon, + The wicked Muley Ben Maroon. + + From Astrabad to Ispahan + At camel speed the rumor ran + That, breaking through tradition hoar, + And throwing all his kinsmen o'er, + The miser'd left his mighty store + Of gold--his palaces and lands-- + To needy and deserving hands + (Except a penny here and there + To pay the dervishes for prayer.) + 'Twas known indeed throughout the span + Of earth, and into Hindostan, + That our beloved mute was the + Residuary legatee. + The people said 'twas very well, + And each man had a tale to tell + Of how he'd had a finger in 't + By dropping many a friendly hint + At Astrabad, you see. But ah, + They feared the news might reach the Shah! + To prove the will the lawyers bore 't + Before the Kadi's awful court, + Who nodded, when he heard it read, + Confirmingly his drowsy head, + Nor thought, his sleepiness so great, + Himself to gobble the estate. + "I give," the dead had writ, "my all + To Meerza Solyman Zingall + Of Ispahan. With this estate + I might quite easily create + Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun + Temptation and create but one, + In whom the whole unthankful crew + The rich man's air that ever drew + To fat their pauper lungs I fire + Vicarious with vain desire! + From foul Ingratitude's base rout + I pick this hapless devil out, + Bestowing on him all my lands, + My treasures, camels, slaves and bands + Of wives--I give him all this loot, + And throw my blessing in to boot. + Behold, O man, in this bequest + Philanthropy's long wrongs redressed: + To speak me ill that man I dower + With fiercest will who lacks the power. + Allah il Allah! now let him bloat + With rancor till his heart's afloat, + Unable to discharge the wave + Upon his benefactor's grave!" + + Forth in their wrath the people came + And swore it was a sin and shame + To trick their blessed mute; and each + Protested, serious of speech, + That though _he'd_ long foreseen the worst + He'd been against it from the first. + By various means they vainly tried + The testament to set aside, + Each ready with his empty purse + To take upon himself the curse; + For _they_ had powers of invective + Enough to make it ineffective. + The ingrates mustered, every man, + And marched in force to Ispahan + (Which had not quite accommodation) + And held a camp of indignation. + + The man, this while, who never spoke-- + On whom had fallen this thunder-stroke + Of fortune, gave no feeling vent + Nor dropped a clue to his intent. + Whereas no power to him came + His benefactor to defame, + Some (such a length had slander gone to) + Even whispered that he didn't want to! + But none his secret could divine; + If suffering he made no sign, + Until one night as winter neared + From all his haunts he disappeared-- + Evanished in a doubtful blank + Like little crayfish in a bank, + Their heads retracting for a spell, + And pulling in their holes as well. + + All through the land of Gul, the stout + Young Spring is kicking Winter out. + The grass sneaks in upon the scene, + Defacing it with bottle-green. + + The stumbling lamb arrives to ply + His restless tail in every eye, + Eats nasty mint to spoil his meat + And make himself unfit to eat. + Madly his throat the bulbul tears-- + In every grove blasphemes and swears + As the immodest rose displays + Her shameless charms a dozen ways. + Lo! now, throughout the utmost span + Of Ispahan--of Gulistan-- + A big new book's displayed in all + The shops and cumbers every stall. + The price is low--the dealers say 'tis-- + And the rich are treated to it gratis. + Engraven on its foremost page + These title-words the eye engage: + "The Life of Muley Ben Maroon, + Of Astrabad--Rogue, Thief, Buffoon + And Miser--Liver by the Sweat + Of Better Men: A Lamponette + Composed in Rhyme and Written all + By Meerza Solyman Zingall!" + + + + + CORRECTED NEWS. + + + 'T was a maiden lady (the newspapers say) + Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray. + She slept like an angel, holy and white, + Till ten o' the clock in the shank o' the night + (When men and other wild animals prey) + And then she cried in the viewless gloom: + "There's a man in the room, a man in the room!" + And this maiden lady (they make it appear) + Leapt out of the window, five fathom sheer! + + Alas, that lying is such a sin + When newspaper men need bread and gin + And none can be had for less than a lie! + For the maiden lady a bit gone-gray + Saw the man in the room from across the way, + And leapt, not out of the window but in-- + _Ten_ fathom sheer, as I hope to die! + + + + + AN EXPLANATION. + + + "I never yet exactly could determine + Just how it is that the judicial ermine + Is kept so safely from predacious vermin." + + "It is not so, my friend: though in a garret + 'Tis kept in camphor, and you often air it, + The vermin will get into it and wear it." + + + + + JUSTICE. + + + Jack Doe met Dick Roe, whose wife he loved, + And said: "I will get the best of him." + So pulling a knife from his boot, he shoved + It up to the hilt in the breast of him. + + Then he moved that weapon forth and back, + Enlarging the hole he had made with it, + Till the smoking liver fell out, and Jack + Merrily, merrily played with it. + + Then he reached within and he seized the slack + Of the lesser bowel, and, traveling + Hither and thither, looked idly back + On that small intestine, raveling. + + The wretched Richard, with many a grin + Laid on with exceeding suavity, + Curled up and died, and they ran John in + And charged him with sins of gravity. + + The case was tried and a verdict found: + The jury, with great humanity, + Acquitted the prisoner on the ground + Of extemporary insanity. + + + + + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. + + + Of a person known as Peters I will humbly crave your leave + An unusual adventure into narrative to weave-- + Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel, + A public educator and an orator as well. + Mr. Peters had a weakness which, 'tis painful to relate, + Was a strong predisposition to the pleasures of debate. + He would foster disputation wheresoever he might be; + In polygonal contention none so happy was as he. + 'Twas observable, however, that the exercises ran + Into monologue by Peters, that rhetorical young man. + And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show, + By involuntary silence testified their overthrow-- + Mr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief, + Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief. + O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold + As to entertain opinions that he didn't care to hold. + + One day--'t was in pursuance of a pedagogic plan + For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man-- + Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained + That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained) + Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate + Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate + On the question, "Which is better, as a serviceable gift, + Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?" + The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met + At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet, + They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove, + And the non-committal "barkeep" on their differences throve. + And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way: + You'll have the more to back your word the less you have to say. + Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink + Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think. + + On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel + Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well-- + All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear. + Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear, + And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn't lift + The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift. + The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled, + The question he proceeded _in extenso_ to unfold: + "_Resolved_--The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach + Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech." + This simple proposition he expounded, word by word, + Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard. + Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain-- + The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain. + Beginning at a period before Creation's morn, + He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn. + As down the early centuries of pre-historic time + He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme, + And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay, + Had risen and like an earthquake, "reeled unheededly away," + And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve, + Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve, + A noise arose outside--the door was opened with a bang + And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating "G'lang!" + Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink + An ancient ass--the property it was of Mr. Fink. + Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread, + Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped! + It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown + Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone. + Then spake old Ebenezer: "Gents, I heern o' this debate + On w'ether v'ice or y'ears is best the mind to elevate. + Now 'yer's a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme: + He has 'em both, I'm free to say, oncommonly extreme. + He wa'n't invited for to speak, but he will not refuse + (If t'other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views." + + Ere merriment or anger o'er amazement could prevail; + He cut the string that held the stone on that canary's tail. + Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight, + Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite. + With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid, + Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then--to put it mildly--brayed! + He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills, + And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills. + 'T is said that awful bugle-blast--to make the story brief-- + Wafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf! + + Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred + 'Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard + That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel, + A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel, + Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well. + + + + + TO MY LAUNDRESS. + + + Saponacea, wert thou not so fair + I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins-- + For sending home my clothes all full of pins-- + A shirt occasionally that's a snare + And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where, + The Lord knows why--a sock whose outs and ins + None know, nor where it ends nor where begins, + And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share. + But when I mark thy lilies how they grow, + And the red roses of thy ripening charms, + I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming. + I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go + Into the magic circle of thine arms, + Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming. + + + + + FAME. + + + One thousand years I slept beneath the sod, + My sleep in 1901 beginning, + Then, by the action of some scurvy god + Who happened then to recollect my sinning, + I was revived and given another inning. + On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd-- + A formless multitude of men and women, + Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud + I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in; + And, pointing at me, one said: "Let's put _him_ in." + Then each turned on me with an evil look, + As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook. + + "Nay, good Posterity," I cried, "forbear! + If that's a jail I fain would be remaining + Outside, for truly I should little care + To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining + The life lost long ago by my disdaining + To take precautions against draughts like those + That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting + Old structure." Then an aged wight arose + From a chair of state in which he had been sitting, + And with preliminary coughing, spitting + And wheezing, said: "'T is not a jail, we're sure, + Whate'er it may have been when it was newer. + + "'T was found two centuries ago, o'ergrown + With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated; + And in restoring it we found a stone + Set here and there in the dilapidated + And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated + Big characters, with certain uncouth names, + Which we conclude were borne of old by awful + Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games-- + Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful, + And orators less sensible than jawful. + So each ten years we add to the long row + A name, the most unworthy that we know." + + "But why," I asked, "put _me_ in?" He replied: + "You look it"--and the judgment pained me greatly; + Right gladly would I then and there have died, + But that I'd risen from the grave so lately. + But on examining that solemn, stately + Old ruin I remarked: "My friend, you err-- + The truth of this is just what I expected. + This building in its time made quite a stir. + I lived (was famous, too) when 't was erected. + The names here first inscribed were much respected. + This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork, + And this goat pasture once was called New York." + + + + + OMNES VANITAS. + + + Alas for ambition's possessor! + Alas for the famous and proud! + The Isle of Manhattan's best dresser + Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud. + + The world has forgotten his glory; + The wagoner sings on his wain, + And Chauncey Depew tells a story, + And jackasses laugh in the lane. + + + + + ASPIRATION. + + No man can truthfully say that he would not like to + be President.--_William C. Whitney._ + + + Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the pride + Of qualities to meaner beasts denied, + Surveys the ass with reverence and fear, + Adoring his superior length of ear, + And says: "No living creature, lean or fat, + But wishes in his heart to be like That!" + + + + + DEMOCRACY. + + + Let slaves and subjects with unvaried psalms + Before their sovereign execute salaams; + The freeman scorns one idol to adore-- + Tom, Dick and Harry and himself are four. + + + + + THE NEW "ULALUME." + + + The skies they were ashen and sober, + The leaves they were crisped and sere,-- + " " " withering " " + It was night in the lonesome October + Of my most immemorial year; + It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,-- + " " down " " dark tarn " " + In the misty mid region of Weir,-- + " " ghoul-haunted woodland " " + + + + + CONSOLATION. + + + Little's the good to sit and grieve + Because the serpent tempted Eve. + Better to wipe your eyes and take + A club and go out and kill a snake. + + What do you gain by cursing Nick + For playing her such a scurvy trick? + Better go out and some villain find + Who serves the devil, and beat him blind. + + But if you prefer, as I suspect, + To philosophize, why, then, reflect: + If the cunning rascal upon the limb + Hadn't tempted her she'd have tempted him. + + + + + FATE. + + + Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide!-- + He turned from the beaten trail aside, + Wandered bewildered, lay down and died. + + O grim is the Irony of Fate: + It switches the man of low estate + And loosens the dogs upon the great. + + It lights the fireman to roast the cook; + The fisherman squirms upon the hook, + And the flirt is slain with a tender look. + + The undertaker it overtakes; + It saddles the cavalier, and makes + The haughtiest butcher into steaks. + + Assist me, gods, to balk the decree! + Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be, + In order that nothing be done to me. + + + + + PHILOSOPHER BIMM. + + + Republicans think Jonas Bimm + A Democrat gone mad, + And Democrats consider him + Republican and bad. + + The Tough reviles him as a Dude + And gives it him right hot; + The Dude condemns his crassitude + And calls him _sans culottes._ + + Derided as an Anglophile + By Anglophobes, forsooth, + As Anglophobe he feels, the while, + The Anglophilic tooth. + + The Churchman calls him Atheist; + The Atheists, rough-shod, + Have ridden o'er him long and hissed + "The wretch believes in God!" + + The Saints whom clergymen we call + Would kill him if they could; + The Sinners (scientists and all) + Complain that he is good. + + All men deplore the difference + Between themselves and him, + And all devise expedients + For paining Jonas Bimm. + + I too, with wild demoniac glee, + Would put out both his eyes; + For Mr. Bimm appears to me + Insufferably wise! + + + + + REMINDED. + + + Beneath my window twilight made + Familiar mysteries of shade. + Faint voices from the darkening down + Were calling vaguely to the town. + Intent upon a low, far gleam + That burned upon the world's extreme, + I sat, with short reprieve from grief, + And turned the volume, leaf by leaf, + Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought + A million miracles of thought. + My fingers carelessly unclung + The lettered pages, and among + Them wandered witless, nor divined + The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. + The soul that should have led their quest + Was dreaming in the level west, + Where a tall tower, stark and still, + Uplifted on a distant hill, + Stood lone and passionless to claim + Its guardian star's returning flame. + + I know not how my dream was broke, + But suddenly my spirit woke + Filled with a foolish fear to look + Upon the hand that clove the book, + Significantly pointing; next + I bent attentive to the text, + And read--and as I read grew old-- + The mindless words: "Poor Tom's a-cold!" + + Ah me! to what a subtle touch + The brimming cup resigns its clutch + Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ + That hearts their overburden bear + Of bitterness though thou permit + The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks, + And striking coward blows from books, + And dead hands reaching everywhere? + + + + + SALVINI IN AMERICA. + + + Come, gentlemen--your gold. + Thanks: welcome to the show. + To hear a story told + In words you do not know. + + Now, great Salvini, rise + And thunder through your tears, + Aha! friends, let your eyes + Interpret to your ears. + + Gods! 't is a goodly game. + Observe his stride--how grand! + When legs like his declaim + Who can misunderstand? + + See how that arm goes round. + It says, as plain as day: + "I love," "The lost is found," + "Well met, sir," or, "Away!" + + And mark the drawing down + Of brows. How accurate + The language of that frown: + Pain, gentlemen--or hate. + + Those of the critic trade + Swear it is all as clear + As if his tongue were made + To fit an English ear. + + Hear that Italian phrase! + Greek to your sense, 't is true; + But shrug, expression, gaze-- + Well, they are Grecian too. + + But it is Art! God wot + Its tongue to all is known. + Faith! he to whom 't were not + Would better hold his own. + + Shakespeare says act and word + Must match together true. + From what you've seen and heard, + How can you doubt they do? + + Enchanting drama! Mark + The crowd "from pit to dome", + One box alone is dark-- + The prompter stays at home. + + Stupendous artist! You + Are lord of joy and woe: + We thrill if you say "Boo," + And thrill if you say "Bo." + + + + + ANOTHER WAY. + + + I lay in silence, dead. A woman came + And laid a rose upon my breast and said: + "May God be merciful." She spoke my name, + And added: "It is strange to think him dead. + + "He loved me well enough, but 't was his way + To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath: + "Besides"--I knew what further she would say, + But then a footfall broke my dream of death. + + To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose + Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem + It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows + I had more pleasure in the other dream. + + + + + ART. + + + For Gladstone's portrait five thousand pounds + Were paid, 't is said, to Sir John Millais. + I cannot help thinking that such fine pay + Transcended reason's uttermost bounds. + + For it seems to me uncommonly queer + That a painted British stateman's price + Exceeds the established value thrice + Of a living statesman over here. + + + + + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. + + + A is defrauded of his land by B, + Who's driven from the premises by C. + D buys the place with coin of plundered E. + "That A's an Anarchist!" says F to G. + + + + + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. + + + When at your window radiant you've stood + I've sometimes thought--forgive me if I've erred-- + That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred + Your heart to beat less gently than it should. + I know you beautiful; that you are good + I hope--or fear--I cannot choose the word, + Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard + Reason at love's dictation never could. + Blindly to this dilemma so I grope, + As one whose every pathway has a snare: + If you are minded in the saintly fashion + Of your pure face my passion's without hope; + If not, alas! I equally despair, + For what to me were hope without the passion? + + + + + THE DEBTOR ABROAD. + + + Grief for an absent lover, husband, friend, + Is barely felt before it comes to end: + A score of early consolations serve + To modify its mouth's dejected curve. + But woes of creditors when debtors flee + Forever swell the separating sea. + When standing on an alien shore you mark + The steady course of some intrepid bark, + How sweet to think a tear for you abides, + Not all unuseful, in the wave she rides!-- + That sighs for you commingle in the gale + Beneficently bellying her sail! + + + + + FORESIGHT. + + + An "actors' cemetery"! Sure + The devil never tires + Of planning places to procure + The sticks to feed his fires. + + + + + A FAIR DIVISION. + + + Another Irish landlord gone to grass, + Slain by the bullets of the tenant class! + Pray, good agrarians, what wrong requires + Such foul redress? Between you and the squires + All Ireland's parted with an even hand-- + For you have all the ire, they all the land. + + + + + GENESIS. + + + God said: "Let there be Man," and from the clay + Adam came forth and, thoughtful, walked away. + The matrix whence his body was obtained, + An empty, man-shaped cavity, remained + All unregarded from that early time + Till in a recent storm it filled with slime. + Now Satan, envying the Master's power + To make the meat himself could but devour, + Strolled to the place and, standing by the pool, + Exerted all his will to make a fool. + A miracle!--from out that ancient hole + Rose Morehouse, lacking nothing but a soul. + "To give him that I've not the power divine," + Said Satan, sadly, "but I'll lend him mine." + He breathed it into him, a vapor black, + And to this day has never got it back. + + + + + LIBERTY. + + + "'Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo! + The red skies all were luminous. The glow + Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks + One hundred and eleven years ago!" + + So sang a patriot whom once I saw + Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe + I noted that he shone with sacred light, + Like Moses with the tables of the Law. + + One hundred and eleven years? O small + And paltry period compared with all + The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed + To etch Yosemite's divided wall! + + Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young + Whose harps are in your adoration strung + (Each swears you are his countrywoman, too, + And speak no language but his mother tongue). + + And truly, lass, although with shout and horn + Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn, + I cannot think you old--I think, indeed, + You are by twenty centuries unborn. + + 1886. + + + + + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. + + + The sullen church-bell's intermittent moan, + The dirge's melancholy monotone, + The measured march, the drooping flags, attest + A great man's progress to his place of rest. + Along broad avenues himself decreed + To serve his fellow men's disputed need-- + Past parks he raped away from robbers' thrift + And gave to poverty, wherein to lift + Its voice to curse the giver and the gift-- + Past noble structures that he reared for men + To meet in and revile him, tongue and pen, + Draws the long retinue of death to show + The fit credentials of a proper woe. + + "Boss" Shepherd, you are dead. Your hand no more + Throws largess to the mobs that ramp and roar + For blood of benefactors who disdain + Their purity of purpose to explain, + Their righteous motive and their scorn of gain. + Your period of dream--'twas but a breath-- + Is closed in the indifference of death. + Sealed in your silences, to you alike + If hands are lifted to applaud or strike. + No more to your dull, inattentive ear + Praise of to-day than curse of yesteryear. + From the same lips the honied phrases fall + That still are bitter from cascades of gall. + We note the shame; you in your depth of dark + The red-writ testimony cannot mark + On every honest cheek; your senses all + Locked, _incommunicado_, in your pall, + Know not who sit and blush, who stand and bawl. + + "Seven Grecian cities claim great Homer dead, + Through which the living Homer begged his + bread." + So sang, as if the thought had been his own, + An unknown bard, improving on a known. + "Neglected genius!"--that is sad indeed, + But malice better would ignore than heed, + And Shepherd's soul, we rightly may suspect, + Prayed often for the mercy of neglect + When hardly did he dare to leave his door + Without a guard behind him and before + To save him from the gentlemen that now + In cheap and easy reparation bow + Their corrigible heads above his corse + To counterfeit a grief that's half remorse. + + The pageant passes and the exile sleeps, + And well his tongue the solemn secret keeps + Of the great peace he found afar, until, + Death's writ of extradition to fulfill, + They brought him, helpless, from that friendly zone + To be a show and pastime in his own-- + A final opportunity to those + Who fling with equal aim the stone and rose; + That at the living till his soul is freed, + This at the body to conceal the deed! + + Lone on his hill he's lying to await + What added honors may befit his state-- + The monument, the statue, or the arch + (Where knaves may come to weep and dupes to march) + Builded by clowns to brutalize the scenes + His genius beautified. To get the means, + His newly good traducers all are dunned + For contributions to the conscience fund. + If each subscribe (and pay) one cent 'twill rear + A structure taller than their tallest ear. + + Washington, May 4, 1903. + + + + + TO MAUDE. + + + Not as two errant spheres together grind + With monstrous ruin in the vast of space, + Destruction born of that malign embrace, + Their hapless peoples all to death consigned-- + Not so when our intangible worlds of mind, + Even mine and yours, each with its spirit race + Of beings shadowy in form and face, + Shall drift together on some blessed wind. + No, in that marriage of gloom and light + All miracles of beauty shall be wrought, + Attesting a diviner faith than man's; + For all my sad-eyed daughters of the night + Shall smile on your sweet seraphim of thought, + Nor any jealous god forbid the banns. + + + + + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. + + + When, long ago, the young world circling flew + Through wider reaches of a richer blue, + New-eyed, the men and maids saw, manifest, + The thoughts untold in one another's breast: + Each wish displayed, and every passion learned-- + A look revealed them as a look discerned. + But sating Time with clouds o'ercast their eyes; + Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies. + A goddess then, emerging from the dust, + Fair Virtue rose, the daughter of Distrust. + + + + + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. + + + The Seraphs came to Christ, and said: "Behold! + The man, presumptuous and overbold, + Who boasted that his mercy could excel + Thine own, is dead and on his way to Hell." + + Gravely the Saviour asked: "What did he do + To make his impious assertion true?" + + "He was a Governor, releasing all + The vilest felons ever held in thrall. + No other mortal, since the dawn of time, + Has ever pardoned such a mass of crime!" + + Christ smiled benignly on the Seraphim: + "Yet I am victor, for I pardon _him_." + + + + + THE SCURRIL PRESS. + + TOM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I've slept right through + The night--a rather clever thing to do. + How soundly women sleep _(looks at his wife.)_ + They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life + Is woman when she lies with folded tongue, + Its toil completed and its day-song sung. + (_Thump_) That's the morning paper. What a bore + That it should be delivered at the door. + There ought to be some expeditious way + To get it _to_ one. By this long delay + The fizz gets off the news _(a rap is heard)_. + That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird; + She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul. + _(Gets up and takes it in.)_ Upon the whole + The system's not so bad a one. What's here? + Gad, if they've not got after--listen dear + _(To sleeping wife)_--young Gastrotheos! Well, + If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell + She'll shriek again--with laughter--seeing how + They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow + 'T is right if he goes dining at The Pup + With Mrs. Thing. + + WIFE _(briskly, waking up)_: + With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right. + + JONESMITH (_continuing to "seek the light"_): + What's this about old Impycu? That's good! + Grip--that's the funny man--says Impy should + Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps. + I knew old Impy when he had the "stamps" + To buy us all out, and he wasn't then + So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen + Is just a tickler!--and the world, no doubt, + Is better with it than it was without. + What? thirteen ladies--Jumping Jove! we know + Them nearly all!--who gamble at a low + And very shocking game of cards called "draw"! + O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw! + Let's see what else (_wife snores_). Well, I'll be blest! + A woman doesn't understand a jest. + Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds + To take a fling at _me_, condemn him! (_reads_): + Tom Jonesmith--my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!--_Of + the new Shavings Bank_--the man's gone mad! + That's libelous; I'll have him up for that--_Has + had his corns cut_. Devil take the rat! + What business is 't of his, I'd like to know? + He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low + And scurril things our papers have become! + You skim their contents and you get but scum. + Here, Mary, (_waking wife_) I've been attacked + In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact! + + WIFE (_reading it_): How wicked! Who do you + Suppose 't was wrote it? + + JONESMITH: Who? why, who + But Grip, the so-called funny man--he wrote + Me up because I'd not discount his note. + (_Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie-- + He'll think of one that's better by and by-- + Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads + A lively measure on it--kicks the shreds + And patches all about the room, and still + Performs his jig with unabated will._) + + WIFE (_warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn_): + Dear, do be careful of that second corn. + + STANLEY. + Noting some great man's composition vile: + A head of wisdom and a heart of guile, + A will to conquer and a soul to dare, + Joined to the manners of a dancing bear, + Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey + Of various Nature's compensating sway, + Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff, + To praise the one and at the other laugh, + Yearn all in vain and impotently seek + Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak + The sycophantic worship of the weak. + Not so the wise, from superstition free, + Who find small pleasure in the bended knee; + Quick to discriminate 'twixt good and bad, + And willing in the king to find the cad-- + No reason seen why genius and conceit, + The power to dazzle and the will to cheat, + The love of daring and the love of gin, + Should not dwell, peaceful, in a single skin. + To such, great Stanley, you're a hero still, + Despite your cradling in a tub for swill. + Your peasant manners can't efface the mark + Of light you drew across the Land of Dark. + + In you the extremes of character are wed, + To serve the quick and villify the dead. + Hero and clown! O, man of many sides, + The Muse of Truth adores you and derides, + And sheds, impartial, the revealing ray + Upon your head of gold and feet of clay. + + + + + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. + + + She stood at the ticket-seller's + Serenely removing her glove, + While hundreds of strugglers and yellers, + And some that were good at a shove, + Were clustered behind her like bats in + a cave and unwilling to speak their love. + + At night she still stood at that window + Endeavoring her money to reach; + The crowds right and left, how they sinned--O, + How dreadfully sinned in their speech! + Ten miles either way they extended + their lines, the historians teach. + + She stands there to-day--legislation + Has failed to remove her. The trains + No longer pull up at that station; + And over the ghastly remains + Of the army that waited and died of + old age fall the snows and the rains. + + + + + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. + + + Upon this quarter-eagle's leveled face, + The Lord's Prayer, legibly inscribed, I trace. + "Our Father which"--the pronoun there is funny, + And shows the scribe to have addressed the money-- + "Which art in Heaven"--an error this, no doubt: + The preposition should be stricken out. + Needless to quote; I only have designed + To praise the frankness of the pious mind + Which thought it natural and right to join, + With rare significancy, prayer and coin. + + + + + A LACKING FACTOR. + + + "You acted unwisely," I cried, "as you see + By the outcome." He calmly eyed me: + "When choosing the course of my action," said he, + "I had not the outcome to guide me." + + + + + THE ROYAL JESTER. + + + Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, + There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. + So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: + He was a hero, even to his queen, + In whose respect he held so high a place + That none was higher,--nay, not even the ace. + He was so just his Parliament declared + Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; + So wise that none of the debating throng + Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; + So good that Crime his anger never feared, + And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; + So brave that if his army got a beating + None dared to face him when he was retreating. + This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, + And loved him tenderly despite his worth. + Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, + He called the Fool before the throne one day + And to that jester seriously said: + "I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, + While I, attired in motley, will make sport + To entertain your Majesty and Court." + + 'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed + The time of harvest and the time of seed; + Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, + And had a famine every second year; + Altered the calendar to suit his freak, + Ordaining six whole holidays a week; + Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; + Made war when angry and made peace when scared. + New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; + Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, + In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not + Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot + Made the whole country with his praises ring, + Declaring he was every inch a king; + And the High Priest averred 't was very odd + If one so competent were not a god. + + Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, + Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, + That some condoled with him as with a brother + Who, having lost a wife, had got another. + Others, mistaking his profession, often + Approached him to be measured for a coffin. + For years this highborn jester never broke + The silence--he was pondering a joke. + At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, + He strode into the Council and displayed + A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom + Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. + Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, + To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, + He brought it down with peremptory stroke + And simultaneously cracked his joke! + + I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school + Myself to quote from any other fool: + A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start + My tears; if better, it would break my heart. + So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state + That royal Jester's melancholy fate. + + The insulted nation, so the story goes, + Rose as one man--the very dead arose, + Springing indignant from the riven tomb, + And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! + All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, + By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. + In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, + The tools of legislation were displayed, + And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, + Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. + Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas + Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, + Royal approval--and the same in stacks + Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; + Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; + With mucilage convenient to extend them; + Scissors for limiting their application, + And acids to repeal all legislation-- + These, flung as missiles till the air was dense, + Were most offensive weapons of offense, + And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. + They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. + Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, + His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, + His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, + His fertile head by scissors made to yield + Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, + In every wrinkle and on every welt, + Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills + And thickly studded with a pride of quills, + The royal Jester in the dreadful strife + Was made (in short) an editor for life! + + An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks + In this as plainly as in greater works. + I shall not give it birth: one moral here + Would die of loneliness within a year. + + + + + A CAREER IN LETTERS. + + + When Liberverm resigned the chair + Of This or That in college, where + For two decades he'd gorged his brain + With more than it could well contain, + In order to relieve the stress + He took to writing for the press. + Then Pondronummus said, "I'll help + This mine of talent to devel'p;" + And straightway bought with coin and credit + The _Thundergust_ for him to edit. + + The great man seized the pen and ink + And wrote so hard he couldn't think; + Ideas grew beneath his fist + And flew like falcons from his wrist. + His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways + Till all the rivers were ablaze, + And where the coruscations fell + Men uttered words I dare not spell. + + Eftsoons with corrugated brow, + Wet towels bound about his pow, + Locked legs and failing appetite, + He thought so hard he couldn't write. + His soaring fancies, chickenwise, + Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. + With dimmer light and milder heat + His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, + Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came-- + He couldn't even write his name. + The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks + Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. + Said Pondronummus, "How unjust! + The storm I raised has laid my dust!" + + When, Moneybagger, you have aught + Invested in a vein of thought, + Be sure you've purchased not, instead, + That salted claim, a bookworm's head. + + + + + THE FOLLOWING PAIR. + + + O very remarkable mortal, + What food is engaging your jaws + And staining with amber their portal? + "It's 'baccy I chaws." + + And why do you sway in your walking, + To right and left many degrees, + And hitch up your trousers when talking? + "I follers the seas." + + Great indolent shark in the rollers, + Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?-- + You, too, display maculate molars. + "I dines upon salts." + + Strange diet!--intestinal pain it + Is commonly given to nip. + And how can you ever obtain it? + "I follers the ship." + + + + + POLITICAL ECONOMY. + + + "I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, + As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, + "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds + As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, + Increase of life's comforts the general sum-- + Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come," + The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, + How that is of any advantage to geese." + "What, what!" said the man--"you are very obtuse! + Consumption no profit to those who produce? + No good to accrue to Supply from a grand + Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand? + Luxurious habits no benefit bring + To those who purvey the luxurious thing? + Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth + Of luxury promises--" "Promises," quoth + The sufferer, "what?--to what course is it pledged + To pay me for being so often defledged?" + "Accustomed"--this notion the plucker expressed + As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast-- + "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn + For others and ever for others in turn; + And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, + His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, + His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage + By dining on goose with a dressing of sage." + + + + + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. + + + "I've found the secret of your charm," I said, + Expounding with complacency my guess. + Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, + For all its secret was unconsciousness. + + + + + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. + + + I reckon that ye never knew, + That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, + He had a touch as light an' free + As that of any honey-bee; + But where it lit there wasn't much + To jestify another touch. + O, what a Sunday-school it was + To watch him puttin' up his paws + An' roominate upon their heft-- + Particular his holy left! + Tom was my style--that's all I say; + Some others may be equal gay. + What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure-- + He's dead--which make his fate obscure. + I only started in to clear + One vital p'int in his career, + Which is to say--afore he died + He soiled his erming mighty snide. + Ye see he took to politics + And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; + Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, + Just like he was the President; + Went to the Legislator; spoke + Right out agin the British yoke-- + But that was right. He let his hair + Grow long to qualify for Mayor, + An' once or twice he poked his snoot + In Congress like a low galoot! + It had to come--no gent can hope + To wrastle God agin the rope. + Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, + I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, + For sech inikities as flow + From politics ain't fit to know; + But, if you think it's actin' white + To tell it--Thomas throwed a fight! + + + + + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. + + + As time rolled on the whole world came to be + A desolation and a darksome curse; + And some one said: "The changes that you see + In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, + Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer + Because the moon assisted with her shimmer. + + "Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, + Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, + He called her 'scab,' and meanly would retard + Her rising: and at last the villain hurled + A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion + Into the nebula of great O'Ryan. + + "The planets all had struck some time before, + Demanding what they said were equal rights: + Some pointing out that others had far more + That a fair dividend of satellites. + So all went out--though those the best provided, + If they had dared, would rather have abided. + + "The stars struck too--I think it was because + The comets had more liberty than they, + And were not bound by any hampering laws, + While _they_ were fixed; and there are those who say + The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, + An aged orb that hasn't any hair. + + "The earth's the only one that isn't in + The movement--I suppose because she's watched + With horror and disgust how her fair skin + Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched + With blood and grease in every labor riot, + When seeing any purse or throat to fly at." + + + + + TEMPORA MUTANTUR. + + + "The world is dull," I cried in my despair: + "Its myths and fables are no longer fair. + + "Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time. + To Greece transport me in her golden prime. + + "Give back the beautiful old Gods again-- + The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad's jocund train, + + "Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades, + The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas. + + "Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I'll dare + To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair + + "(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate, + That stiffen men into a stony state) + + "And die--erecting, as my soul goes hence, + A statue of myself, without expense." + + Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate: + "Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait." + + Raising my eyes, I saw Medusa stand, + Stheno, Euryale, on either hand. + + I gazed unpetrified and unappalled-- + The girls had aged and were entirely bald! + + + + + CONTENTMENT. + + + Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed + Long years had circled since my life had fled. + The world was different, and all things seemed + Remote and strange, like noises to the dead. + And one great Voice there was; and something said: + "Posterity is speaking--rightly deemed + Infallible:" and so I gave attention, + Hoping Posterity my name would mention. + + "Illustrious Spirit," said the Voice, "appear! + While we confirm eternally thy fame, + Before our dread tribunal answer, here, + Why do no statues celebrate thy name, + No monuments thy services proclaim? + Why did not thy contemporaries rear + To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? + It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge." + + Up spake I hotly: "That is where you err!" + But some one thundered in my ear: "You shan't + Be interrupting these proceedings, sir; + The question was addressed to General Grant." + Some other things were spoken which I can't + Distinctly now recall, but I infer, + By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead, + Posterity's environment is torrid. + + Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark) + Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong, + As Grant's great shade, replying from the dark, + Said in a tone that rang the earth along, + And thrilled the senses of the Judges' throng: + "I'd rather you would question why, in park + And street, my monuments were not erected + Than why they were." Then, waking, I reflected. + + + + + THE NEW ENOCH. + + + Enoch Arden was an able + Seaman; hear of his mishap-- + Not in wild mendacious fable, + As 't was told by t' other chap; + + For I hold it is a youthful + Indiscretion to tell lies, + And the writer that is truthful + Has the reader that is wise. + + Enoch Arden, able seaman, + On an isle was cast away, + And before he was a freeman + Time had touched him up with gray. + + Long he searched the fair horizon, + Seated on a mountain top; + Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on + That would undertake to stop. + + Seeing that his sight was growing + Dim and dimmer, day by day, + Enoch said he must be going. + So he rose and went away-- + + Went away and so continued + Till he lost his lonely isle: + Mr. Arden was so sinewed + He could row for many a mile. + + Compass he had not, nor sextant, + To direct him o'er the sea: + Ere 't was known that he was extant, + At his widow's home was he. + + When he saw the hills and hollows + And the streets he could but know, + He gave utterance as follows + To the sentiments below: + + "Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver, + Too, my timbers!) but, I say, + W'at a larruk to diskiver, + I have lost me blessid way! + + "W'at, alas, would be my bloomin' + Fate if Philip now I see, + Which I lammed?--or my old 'oman, + Which has frequent basted _me_?" + + Scenes of childhood swam around him + At the thought of such a lot: + In a swoon his Annie found him + And conveyed him to her cot. + + 'T was the very house, the garden, + Where their honeymoon was passed: + 'T was the place where Mrs. Arden + Would have mourned him to the last. + + Ah, what grief she'd known without him! + Now what tears of joy she shed! + Enoch Arden looked about him: + "Shanghaied!"--that was all he said. + + + + + DISAVOWAL. + + + Two bodies are lying in Phoenix Park, + Grim and bloody and stiff and stark, + And a Land League man with averted eye + Crosses himself as he hurries by. + And he says to his conscience under his breath: + "I have had no hand in this deed of death!" + + A Fenian, making a circuit wide + And passing them by on the other side, + Shudders and crosses himself and cries: + "Who says that I did it, he lies, he lies!" + + Gingerly stepping across the gore, + Pat Satan comes after the two before, + Makes, in a solemnly comical way, + The sign of the cross and is heard to say: + "O dear, what a terrible sight to see, + For babes like them and a saint like me!" + + 1882. + + + + + AN AVERAGE. + + + I ne'er could be entirely fond + Of any maiden who's a blonde, + And no brunette that e'er I saw + Had charms my heart's whole + warmth to draw. + + Yet sure no girl was ever made + Just half of light and half of shade. + And so, this happy mean to get, + I love a blonde and a brunette. + + + + + WOMAN. + + + Study good women and ignore the rest, + For he best knows the sex who knows the best. + + + + + INCURABLE. + + + From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy-- + From any kind of vice, or folly, + Bias, propensity or passion + That is in prevalence and fashion, + Save one, the sufferer or lover + May, by the grace of God, recover: + Alone that spiritual tetter, + The zeal to make creation better, + Glows still immedicably warmer. + Who knows of a reformed reformer? + + + + + THE PUN. + + + Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, + Most rare and excellent bequest + Of dying idiot to the wit + He died of, rat-like, in a pit! + + Thyself disguised, in many a way + Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, + Adorning all where'er it turns, + As the revealing bull's-eye burns, + Of the dim thief, and plays its trick + Upon the lock he means to pick. + + Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear + As boldly as a brigadier + Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, + Of rank, brigade, division, corps, + To show by every means he can + An officer is not a man; + Or naked, with a lordly swagger, + Proud as a cur without a wagger, + Who says: "See simple worth prevail-- + All dog, sir--not a bit of tail!" + + 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, + As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. + + O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace + Of skeleton clock without a case-- + With all its boweling displayed, + And all its organs on parade. + + Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, + Where _Punch_ and I can meet and kiss; + Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r-- + No higher his does ever soar. + + + + + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. + + + O statesmen, what would you be at, + With torches, flags and bands? + You make me first throw up my hat, + And then my hands. + + + + + TO NANINE. + + + Dear, if I never saw your face again; + If all the music of your voice were mute + As that of a forlorn and broken lute; + If only in my dreams I might attain + The benediction of your touch, how vain + Were Faith to justify the old pursuit + Of happiness, or Reason to confute + The pessimist philosophy of pain. + Yet Love not altogether is unwise, + For still the wind would murmur in the corn, + And still the sun would splendor all the mere; + And I--I could not, dearest, choose but hear + Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes + Shine in the glory of the summer morn. + + + + + VICE VERSA. + + + Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, + A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, + Married a soldier--though the good Lord knows + That very common act scarce calls for mention. + What makes it worthy to be writ and read-- + The man she married had been nine hours dead! + + Now, marrying a corpse is not an act + Familiar to our daily observation, + And so I crave her pardon if the fact + Suggests this interesting speculation: + Should some mischance restore the man to life + Would she be then a widow, or a wife? + + Let casuists contest the point; I'm not + Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. + 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot + And drive me staring mad as any hatter-- + Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, + Sane, and all other human beings cracked. + + Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; + Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; + In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, + And think it of the Devil's own invention. + Enough of joy to know though when I wed + I _must_ be married, yet I _may_ be dead. + + + + + A BLACK-LIST. + + + "Resolved that we will post," the tradesmen say, + "All names of debtors who do never pay." + "Whose shall be first?" inquires the ready scribe-- + "Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?" + Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain, + Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane! + Within that temple all the names are scrolled + Of village bards upon a slab of gold; + To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire, + And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. + Yet not to total shame those names devote, + But add in mercy this explaining note: + "These cheat because the law makes theft a crime, + And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme." + + + + + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. + + + "Let music flourish!" So he said and died. + Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins: + The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide, + Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide-- + The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins! + + + + + AUTHORITY. + + + "Authority, authority!" they shout + Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt, + Some chance opinion ever entertain, + By dogma billeted upon their brain. + "Ha!" they exclaim with choreatic glee, + "Here's Dabster if you won't give in to me-- + Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look + With reverence!" The fellow wrote a book. + It matters not that many another wight + Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write + On t' other side--that you yourself possess + Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. + God help you if ambitious to persuade + The fools who take opinion ready-made + And "recognize authorities." Be sure + No tittle of their folly they'll abjure + For all that you can say. But write it down, + Publish and die and get a great renown-- + Faith! how they'll snap it up, misread, misquote, + Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote, + And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat! + + + + + THE PSORIAD. + + + The King of Scotland, years and years ago, + Convened his courtiers in a gallant row + And thus addressed them: + + "Gentle sirs, from you + Abundant counsel I have had, and true: + What laws to make to serve the public weal; + What laws of Nature's making to repeal; + What old religion is the only true one, + And what the greater merit of some new one; + What friends of yours my favor have forgot; + Which of your enemies against me plot. + In harvests ample to augment my treasures, + Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! + The punctual planets, to their periods just, + Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. + Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: + The grateful placemen bless their useful king! + But while you quaff the nectar of my favor + I mean somewhat to modify its flavor + By just infusing a peculiar dash + Of tonic bitter in the calabash. + And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, + Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it! + + "You know, you dogs, your master long has felt + A keen distemper in the royal pelt-- + A testy, superficial irritation, + Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. + For this a thousand simples you've prescribed-- + Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. + You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas + You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, + To brew me remedies which, in probation, + Were sovereign only in their application. + In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied + Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: + Physic and hope have been my daily food-- + I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood! + + "Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year + And tame the seasons in their mad career, + When set to higher purposes has failed me + And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. + Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech + His rivals' skill has labored to impeach + By hints equivocal in secret speech. + For years, to conquer our respective broils, + We've plied each other with pacific oils. + In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, + My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; + My life so wretched from your strife to save it + That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. + With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, + My subjects muster in contending ranks. + Those fling their banners to the startled breeze + To champion some royal ointment; these + The standard of some royal purge display + And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! + Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, + Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea! + My people perish in their martial fear, + And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear! + + "Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour + Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! + Behold this lotion, carefully compound + Of all the poisons you for me have found-- + Of biting washes such as tan the skin, + And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. + What aggravates an ailment will produce-- + I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! + Divided counsels you no more shall hatch-- + At last you shall unanimously scratch. + Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts--God bless us! + They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!" + + The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke, + From Arthur's Seat[1] confirming thunders broke. + The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned, + Sank to their knees, all piously inclined. + This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats, + The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes. + Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts + Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts, + Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses, + Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes. + The king advanced--then cursing fled amain + Dashing the phial to the stony plain + (Where't straight became a fountain brimming o'er, + Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store) + For lo! already on each back _sans_ stitch + The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch! + + [Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking Edinburgh.] + + + + + ONEIROMANCY. + + + I fell asleep and dreamed that I + Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky; + Like him was lamed--another part: + His leg was crippled and my heart. + I woke in time to see my love + Conceal a letter in her glove. + + + + + PEACE. + + + When lion and lamb have together lain down + Spectators cry out, all in chorus; + "The lamb doesn't shrink nor the lion frown-- + A miracle's working before us!" + + But 't is patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in, + And Faint-heart her terror and loathing; + For the one's but an ass in a lion's skin, + The other a wolf in sheep's clothing. + + + + + THANKSGIVING. + + + _The Superintendent of an Almshouse. A Pauper._ + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + So _you're_ unthankful--you'll not eat the bird? + You sit about the place all day and gird. + I understand you'll not attend the ball + That's to be given to-night in Pauper Hall. + + PAUPER: + + Why, that is true, precisely as you've heard: + I have no teeth and I will eat no bird. + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + Ah! see how good is Providence. Because + Of teeth He has denuded both your jaws + The fowl's made tender; you can overcome it + By suction; or at least--well, you can gum it, + Attesting thus the dictum of the preachers + That Providence is good to all His creatures-- + Turkeys excepted. Come, ungrateful friend, + If our Thanksgiving dinner you'll attend + You shall say grace--ask God to bless at least + The soft and liquid portions of the feast. + + PAUPER. + + Without those teeth my speech is rather thick-- + He'll hardly understand Gum Arabic. + No, I'll not dine to-day. As to the ball, + 'Tis known to you that I've no legs at all. + I had the gout--hereditary; so, + As it could not be cornered in my toe + They cut my legs off in the fond belief + That shortening me would make my anguish brief. + Lacking my legs I could not prosecute + With any good advantage a pursuit; + And so, because my father chose to court + Heaven's favor with his ortolans and Port + (Thanksgiving every day!) the Lord supplied + Saws for my legs, an almshouse for my pride + And, once a year, a bird for my inside. + No, I'll not dance--my light fantastic toe + Took to its heels some twenty years ago. + Some small repairs would be required for putting + My feelings on a saltatory footing. + + _(Sings)_ + + O the legless man's an unhappy chap-- + _Tum-hi, tum-hi, tum-he o'haddy._ + The favors o' fortune fall not in his lap-- + _Tum-hi, tum-heedle-do hum._ + The plums of office avoid his plate + No matter how much he may stump the State-- + _Tum-hi, ho-heeee._ + The grass grows never beneath his feet, + But he cannot hope to make both ends meet-- + _Tum-hi._ + With a gleeless eye and a somber heart, + He plays the role of his mortal part: + Wholly himself he can never be. + O, a soleless corporation is he! + _Tum_. + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + The chapel bell is calling, thankless friend, + Balls you may not, but church you _shall_, attend. + Some recognition cannot be denied + To the great mercy that has turned aside + The sword of death from us and let it fall + Upon the people's necks in Montreal; + That spared our city, steeple, roof and dome, + And drowned the Texans out of house and home; + Blessed all our continent with peace, to flood + The Balkan with a cataclysm of blood. + Compared with blessings of so high degree, + Your private woes look mighty small--to me. + + + + + L'AUDACE. + + + Daughter of God! Audacity divine-- + Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign-- + Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool, + Not thine of idiots the vocal drool: + Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass, + Presumption, actuates the charging ass. + Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings + Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings; + The notes should mount on pinions true and strong, + For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song, + Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng! + Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails, + They (notes, not angels) drop and the hymn fails; + The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs + Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums. + Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand + For stronger voices and a harder hand: + Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire, + And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire! + + + + + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. + + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Betook him to the place where sat + With folded feet upon a mat + Of precious stones beneath a palm, + In sweet and everlasting calm, + That ancient and immortal gent, + The God of Rational Content. + As tranquil and unmoved as Fate, + The deity reposed in state, + With palm to palm and sole to sole, + And beaded breast and beetling jowl, + And belly spread upon his thighs, + And costly diamonds for eyes. + As Chunder Sen approached and knelt + To show the reverence he felt; + Then beat his head upon the sod + To prove his fealty to the god; + And then by gestures signified + The other sentiments inside; + The god's right eye (as Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Half-fancied) grew by just a thought + More narrow than it truly ought. + Yet still that prince of devotees, + Persistent upon bended knees + And elbows bored into the earth, + Declared the god's exceeding worth, + And begged his favor. Then at last, + Within that cavernous and vast + Thoracic space was heard a sound + Like that of water underground-- + A gurgling note that found a vent + At mouth of that Immortal Gent + In such a chuckle as no ear + Had e'er been privileged to hear! + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest, greatest, best of men, + Heard with a natural surprise + That mighty midriff improvise. + And greater yet the marvel was + When from between those massive jaws + Fell words to make the views more plain + The god was pleased to entertain: + "Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen," + So ran the rede in speech of men-- + "Foremost of mortals in assent + To creed of Rational Content, + Why come you here to impetrate + A blessing on your scurvy pate? + Can you not rationally be + Content without disturbing me? + Can you not take a hint--a wink-- + Of what of all this rot I think? + Is laughter lost upon you quite, + To check you in your pious rite? + What! know you not we gods protest + That all religion is a jest? + You take me seriously?--you + About me make a great ado + (When I but wish to be alone) + With attitudes supine and prone, + With genuflexions and with prayers, + And putting on of solemn airs, + To draw my mind from the survey + Of Rational Content away! + Learn once for all, if learn you can, + This truth, significant to man: + A pious person is by odds + The one most hateful to the gods." + Then stretching forth his great right hand, + Which shadowed all that sunny land, + That deity bestowed a touch + Which Chunder Sen not overmuch + Enjoyed--a touch divine that made + The sufferer hear stars! They played + And sang as on Creation's morn + When spheric harmony was born. + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The most astonished man of men, + Fell straight asleep, and when he woke + The deity nor moved nor spoke, + But sat beneath that ancient palm + In sweet and everlasting calm. + + + + + THE AESTHETES. + + + The lily cranks, the lily cranks, + The loppy, loony lasses! + They multiply in rising ranks + To execute their solemn pranks, + They moon along in masses. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + The maiden ass, the maiden ass, + The tall and tailless jenny! + In limp attire as green as grass, + She stands, a monumental brass, + The one of one too many. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + + + + JULY FOURTH. + + + God said: "Let there be noise." The dawning fire + Of Independence gilded every spire. + + + + + WITH MINE OWN PETARD. + + + Time was the local poets sang their songs + Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs + I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke + Bards, like the conies, are "a feeble folk," + Fearing all noises but the one they make + Themselves--at which all other mortals quake. + Now from their cracked and disobedient throats, + Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes + Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves, + If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves; + As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all + The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall. + A year's exemption from the critic's curse + Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse. + Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night, + Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight, + Or by the sudden plashing of a stone + From some adjacent cottage garden thrown, + But straight renew the song with double din + Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in. + Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched, + My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached) + Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass, + Accomplishing my body all in brass, + And arm in battle royal to oppose + A village poet singing through the nose, + Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums + With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs? + No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before + And stilled their songs--but, Satan! how they swore!-- + Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats + They cleared for action with their sweetest notes; + Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine) + And damned them roundly all along the line; + Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes, + A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes! + What gained I so? I feathered every curse + Launched at the village bards with lilting verse. + The town approved and christened me (to show its + High admiration) Chief of Local Poets! + + + + + CONSTANCY. + + + Dull were the days and sober, + The mountains were brown and bare, + For the season was sad October + And a dirge was in the air. + + The mated starlings flew over + To the isles of the southern sea. + She wept for her warrior lover-- + Wept and exclaimed: "Ah, me! + + "Long years have I mourned my darling + In his battle-bed at rest; + And it's O, to be a starling, + With a mate to share my nest!" + + The angels pitied her sorrow, + Restoring her warrior's life; + And he came to her arms on the morrow + To claim her and take her to wife. + + An aged lover--a portly, + Bald lover, a trifle too stiff, + With manners that would have been courtly, + And would have been graceful, if-- + + If the angels had only restored him + Without the additional years + That had passed since the enemy bored him + To death with their long, sharp spears. + + As it was, he bored her, and she rambled + Away with her father's young groom, + And the old lover smiled as he ambled + Contentedly back to the tomb. + + + + + SIRES AND SONS. + + + Wild wanton Luxury lays waste the land + With difficulty tilled by Thrift's hard hand! + Then dies the State!--and, in its carcass found, + The millionaires, all maggot-like, abound. + Alas! was it for this that Warren died, + And Arnold sold himself to t' other side, + Stark piled at Bennington his British dead, + And Gates at Camden, Lee at Monmouth, fled?-- + For this that Perry did the foeman fleece, + And Hull surrender to preserve the peace? + Degenerate countrymen, renounce, I pray, + The slothful ease, the luxury, the gay + And gallant trappings of this idle life, + And be more fit for one another's wife. + + + + + A CHALLENGE. + + + A bull imprisoned in a stall + Broke boldly the confining wall, + And found himself, when out of bounds, + Within a washerwoman's grounds. + Where, hanging on a line to dry, + A crimson skirt inflamed his eye. + With bellowings that woke the dead, + He bent his formidable head, + With pointed horns and gnarly forehead; + Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, + Began, with rage made half insane, + To paw the arid earth amain, + Flinging the dust upon his flanks + In desolating clouds and banks, + The while his eyes' uneasy white + Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright + Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight. + The garment, which, all undismayed, + Had never paled a single shade, + Now found a tongue--a dangling sock, + Left carelessly inside the smock: + "I must insist, my gracious liege, + That you'll be pleased to raise the siege: + My colors I will never strike. + I know your sex--you're all alike. + Some small experience I've had-- + You're not the first I've driven mad." + + + + + TWO SHOWS. + + + The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!) + Parades a "School of Educated Apes!" + Small education's needed, I opine, + Or native wit, to make a monkey shine; + The brute exhibited has naught to do + But ape the larger apes who come to view-- + The hoodlum with his horrible grimace, + Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace, + Significant reminders of the time + When hunters, not policemen, made him climb; + The lady loafer with her draggling "trail," + That free translation of an ancient tail; + The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit, + Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot; + The painted actress throwing down the gage + To elder artists of the sylvan stage, + Proving that in the time of Noah's flood + Two ape-skins held her whole profession's blood; + The critic waiting, like a hungry pup, + To write the school--perhaps to eat it--up, + As chance or luck occasion may reveal + To earn a dollar or maraud a meal. + To view the school of apes these creatures go, + Unconscious that themselves are half the show. + These, if the simian his course but trim + To copy them as they have copied him, + Will call him "educated." Of a verity + There's much to learn by study of posterity. + + + + + A POET'S HOPE. + + + 'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal + Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead. + He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding, + As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said. + + "Sacred stranger"--I addressed him with a reverence befitting + The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore; + 'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing + One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"-- + + "Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection, + But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread. + How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander + By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?" + + Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making, + Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye + On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy, + Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply: + + "O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit-- + I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head. + I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal + To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed. + + "Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me + And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more. + For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me, + Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'" + + Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection, + For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog. + So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman + Can appreciate the fashion of your merit--buy a dog." + + + + + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. + + + When Man and Woman had been made, + All but the disposition, + The Devil to the workshop strayed, + And somehow gained admission. + + The Master rested from his work, + For this was on a Sunday, + The man was snoring like a Turk, + Content to wait till Monday. + + "Too bad!" the Woman cried; "Oh, why, + Does slumber not benumb me? + A disposition! Oh, I die + To know if 'twill become me!" + + The Adversary said: "No doubt + 'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am, + Though sure 'tis long to be without-- + I beg to lend you mine, ma'am." + + The Devil's disposition when + She'd got, of course she wore it, + For she'd no disposition then, + Nor now has, to restore it. + + + + + TWO ROGUES. + + + Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost, + The sentry occupied his post, + To all the stirrings of the night + Alert of ear and sharp of sight. + A sudden something--sight or sound, + About, above, or underground, + He knew not what, nor where--ensued, + Thrilling the sleeping solitude. + The soldier cried: "Halt! Who goes there?" + The answer came: "Death--in the air." + "Advance, Death--give the countersign, + Or perish if you cross that line!" + To change his tone Death thought it wise-- + Reminded him they 'd been allies + Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk, + In many a bloody bit of work. + "In short," said he, "in every weather + We've soldiered, you and I, together." + The sentry would not let him pass. + "Go back," he growled, "you tiresome ass-- + Go back and rest till the next war, + Nor kill by methods all abhor: + Miasma, famine, filth and vice, + With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice, + Foul food, foul water, and foul gases, + Rank exhalations from morasses. + If you employ such low allies + This business you will vulgarize. + Renouncing then the field of fame + To wallow in a waste of shame, + I'll prostitute my strength and lurk + About the country doing work-- + These hands to labor I'll devote, + Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!" + + + + + BEECHER. + + + So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too-- + Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds + Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds + That man has ever taught and never knew. + + When on this mighty instrument He laid + His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan + Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone + Grew more vivacious when the Devil played. + + No more those luring harmonies we hear, + And lo! already men forget the sound. + They turn, retracing all the dubious ground + O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear. + + + + + NOT GUILTY. + + + "I saw your charms in another's arms," + Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil; + "And he kissed you fair as he held you there, + A willing bird in a serpent's coil!" + + The maid looked up from the cinctured cup + Wherein she was crushing the berries red, + Pain and surprise in her honest eyes-- + "It was only one o' those gods," she said. + + + + + PRESENTIMENT. + + + With saintly grace and reverent tread, + She walked among the graves with me; + Her every foot-fall seemed to be + A benediction on the dead. + + The guardian spirit of the place + She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn + Surprised in the untimely morn + She made with her resplendent face. + + Moved by some waywardness of will, + Three paces from the path apart + She stepped and stood--my prescient heart + Was stricken with a passing chill. + + The folk-lore of the years agone + Remembering, I smiled and thought: + "Who shudders suddenly at naught, + His grave is being trod upon." + + But now I know that it was more + Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, + I did not think such little feet + Could make a buried heart so sore! + + + + + A STUDY IN GRAY. + + + I step from the door with a shiver + (This fog is uncommonly cold) + And ask myself: What did I give her?-- + The maiden a trifle gone-old, + With the head of gray hair that was gold. + + Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, + And doubtless the change is correct, + Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller + Than what I'd a right to expect. + But you pay when you dine, I reflect. + + So I walk up the street--'twas a saunter + A score of years back, when I strolled + From this door; and our talk was all banter + Those days when her hair was of gold, + And the sea-fog less searching and cold. + + I button my coat (for I'm shaken, + And fevered a trifle, and flushed + With the wine that I ought to have taken,) + Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, + Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed. + + A score? Why, that isn't so very + Much time to have lost from a life. + There's reason enough to be merry: + I've not fallen down in the strife, + But marched with the drum and the fife. + + If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, + Had pushed at my shoulders instead, + And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, + Had laureled the worthiest head, + I could garland the years that are dead. + + Believe me, I've held my own, mostly + Through all of this wild masquerade; + But somehow the fog is more ghostly + To-night, and the skies are more grayed, + Like the locks of the restaurant maid. + + If ever I'd fainted and faltered + I'd fancy this did but appear; + But the climate, I'm certain, has altered-- + Grown colder and more austere + Than it was in that earlier year. + + The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, + That lead from the street to the quay. + I think they'll go out--and I'm ready + To follow. Out there in the sea + The fog-bell is calling to me. + + + + + A PARADOX. + + + "If life were not worth having," said the preacher, + "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature." + "An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: + What's not worth having cannot be worth taking." + + + + + FOR MERIT. + + + To Parmentier Parisians raise + A statue fine and large: + He cooked potatoes fifty ways, + Nor ever led a charge. + + "_Palmam qui meruit"_--the rest + You knew as well as I; + And best of all to him that best + Of sayings will apply. + + Let meaner men the poet's bays + Or warrior's medal wear; + Who cooks potatoes fifty ways + Shall bear the palm--de terre. + + + + + A BIT OF SCIENCE. + + + What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream + And he who dreams it is not overwise, + If colors are vibration they but seem, + And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, + Why, come, then--photograph my lady's eyes. + Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, + As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, + To naught but vibratory motion's due, + As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest. + How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making + In me so uncontrollable a shaking? + + + + THE TABLES TURNED. + + + Over the man the street car ran, + And the driver did never grin. + "O killer of men, pray tell me when + Your laughter means to begin. + + "Ten years to a day I've observed you slay, + And I never have missed before + Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels + Were spattered with human gore. + + "Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy, + And why do you make no sign + Of the merry mind that is dancing behind + A solemner face than mine?" + + The driver replied: "I would laugh till I cried + If I had bisected you; + But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain, + 'T is myself that I've cut in two." + + + + + TO A DEJECTED POET. + + + Thy gift, if that it be of God, + Thou hast no warrant to appraise, + Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways, + The road too stony to be trod." + + Not thine to call the labor hard + And the reward inadequate. + Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate + Is better bargainer than bard. + + What! count the effort labor lost + When thy good angel holds the reed? + It were a sorry thing indeed + To stay him till thy palm be crossed. + + "The laborer is worthy"--nay, + The sacred ministry of song + Is rapture!--'t were a grievous wrong + To fix a wages-rate for play. + + + + + A FOOL. + + + Says Anderson, Theosophist: + "Among the many that exist + In modern halls, + Some lived in ancient Egypt's clime + And in their childhood saw the prime + Of Karnak's walls." + + Ah, Anderson, if that is true + 'T is my conviction, sir, that you + Are one of those + That once resided by the Nile, + Peer to the sacred Crocodile, + Heir to his woes. + + My judgment is, the holy Cat + Mews through your larynx (and your hat) + These many years. + Through you the godlike Onion brings + Its melancholy sense of things, + And moves to tears. + + In you the Bull divine again + Bellows and paws the dusty plain, + To nature true. + I challenge not his ancient hate + But, lowering my knurly pate, + Lock horns with you. + + And though Reincarnation prove + A creed too stubborn to remove, + And all your school + Of Theosophs I cannot scare-- + All the more earnestly I swear + That you're a fool. + + You'll say that this is mere abuse + Without, in fraying you, a use. + That's plain to see + With only half an eye. Come, now, + Be fair, be fair,--consider how + It eases _me_! + + + + + THE HUMORIST. + + + "What is that, mother?" + "The funny man, child. + His hands are black, but his heart is mild." + + "May I touch him, mother?" + "'T were foolishly done: + He is slightly touched already, my son." + + "O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?" + "That's the outward sign of a joke within." + + "Will he crack it, mother?" + "Not so, my saint; + 'T is meant for the _Saturday Livercomplaint."_ + + "Does he suffer, mother?" + "God help him, yes!-- + A thousand and fifty kinds of distress." + + "What makes him sweat so?" + "The demons that lurk + In the fear of having to go to work." + + "Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?" + "Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope." + + + + + MONTEFIORE. + + + I saw--'twas in a dream, the other night-- + A man whose hair with age was thin and white: + One hundred years had bettered by his birth, + And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. + + Before him and about him pressed a crowd. + Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, + And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues + Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud. + + I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, + "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied + In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er + To want and worth had charity denied. + + So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan + He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan + A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, + And in a moment was a lonely man! + + + + + A WARNING. + + + Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!-- + The distance hither's brief indeed." + But Youth pressed on without delay-- + The shout had reached but half the way. + + + + + DISCRETION. + + + SHE: + + I'm told that men have sometimes got + Too confidential, and + Have said to one another what + They--well, you understand. + I hope I don't offend you, sweet, + But are you sure that _you're_ discreet? + + HE: + + 'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine + Their conquests _do_ recall, + But none can truly say that mine + Are known to him at all. + I never, never talk you o'er-- + In truth, I never get the floor. + + + + + AN EXILE. + + + 'Tis the census enumerator + A-singing all forlorn: + It's ho! for the tall potater, + And ho! for the clustered corn. + The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine + Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine. + + "Some there must be to till the soil + And the widow's weeds keep down. + I wasn't cut out for rural toil + But they _won't_ let me live in town! + They 're not so many by two or three, + As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me." + + Thus the census man, bowed down with care, + Warbled his wood-note high. + There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair, + But he had no blood in his eye. + + + + + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. + + + Baffled he stands upon the track-- + The automatic switches clack. + + Where'er he turns his solemn eyes + The interlocking signals rise. + + The trains, before his visage pale, + Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail. + + No splinter-spitted victim he + Hears uttering the note high C. + + In sorrow deep he hangs his head, + A-weary--would that he were dead. + + Now suddenly his spirits rise-- + A great thought kindles in his eyes. + + Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare, + Splendors the path of his despair. + + His genius shines, the clouds roll back-- + "I'll place obstructions on the track!" + + + + + PSYCHOGRAPHS. + + + Says Gerald Massey: "When I write, a band + Of souls of the departed guides my hand." + How strange that poems cumbering our shelves, + Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves! + + + + + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. + + + Newman, in you two parasites combine: + As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine. + When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt, + The pride of residence was all you felt + (What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knew + To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?) + And when the praises of the dead you've sung, + 'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue; + As ill-bred men when warming to their wine + Boast of its merit though it be but brine. + Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should-- + Even charity would shun you if she could. + You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole, + But what you get you take by way of toll. + Vain to resist you--vermifuge alone + Has power to push you from your robber throne. + When to escape you he's compelled to die + Hey! presto!--in the twinkling of an eye + You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear + As graveworm and resume your curst career. + As host no more, to satisfy your need + He serves as dinner your unaltered greed. + O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame, + Son of servility and priest of shame, + While naught your mad ambition can abate + To lick the spittle of the rich and great; + While still like smoke your eulogies arise + To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes; + While still with holy oil, like that which ran + Down Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man, + I cannot choose but think it very odd + It ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God. + + + + + FOR WOUNDS. + + + O bear me, gods, to some enchanted isle + Where woman's tears can antidote her smile. + + + + + ELECTION DAY. + + + Despots effete upon tottering thrones + Unsteadily poised upon dead men's bones, + Walk up! walk up! the circus is free, + And this wonderful spectacle you shall see: + Millions of voters who mostly are fools-- + Demagogues' dupes and candidates' tools, + Armies of uniformed mountebanks, + And braying disciples of brainless cranks. + Many a week they've bellowed like beeves, + Bitterly blackguarding, lying like thieves, + Libeling freely the quick and the dead + And painting the New Jerusalem red. + Tyrants monarchical--emperors, kings, + Princes and nobles and all such things-- + Noblemen, gentlemen, step this way: + There's nothing, the Devil excepted, to pay, + And the freaks and curios here to be seen + Are very uncommonly grand and serene. + + No more with vivacity they debate, + Nor cheerfully crack the illogical pate; + No longer, the dull understanding to aid, + The stomach accepts the instructive blade, + Nor the stubborn heart learns what is what + From a revelation of rabbit-shot; + And vilification's flames--behold! + Burn with a bickering faint and cold. + + Magnificent spectacle!--every tongue + Suddenly civil that yesterday rung + (Like a clapper beating a brazen bell) + Each fair reputation's eternal knell; + Hands no longer delivering blows, + And noses, for counting, arrayed in rows. + + Walk up, gentlemen--nothing to pay-- + The Devil goes back to Hell to-day. + + + + + THE MILITIAMAN. + + + "O warrior with the burnished arms-- + With bullion cord and tassel-- + Pray tell me of the lurid charms + Of service and the fierce alarms: + The storming of the castle, + The charge across the smoking field, + The rifles' busy rattle-- + What thoughts inspire the men who wield + The blade--their gallant souls how steeled + And fortified in battle." + + "Nay, man of peace, seek not to know + War's baleful fascination-- + The soldier's hunger for the foe, + His dread of safety, joy to go + To court annihilation. + Though calling bugles blow not now, + Nor drums begin to beat yet, + One fear unmans me, I'll allow, + And poisons all my pleasure: How + If I should get my feet wet!" + + + + + "A LITERARY METHOD." + + + His poems Riley says that he indites + Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers, + Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writes + Upon his empty stomach empties ours! + + + + + A WELCOME. + + + Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and + There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,-- + Because you thus by vain pretense degrade + To paltry purposes traditions grand,-- + + Because to cheat the ignorant you say + The thing that's not, elated still to sway + The crass credulity of gaping fools + And women by fantastical display,-- + + Because no sacred fires did ever warm + Your hearts, high knightly service to perform-- + A woman's breast or coffer of a man + The only citadel you dare to storm,-- + + Because while railing still at lord and peer, + At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer, + Each member of your order tries to graft + A peacock's tail upon his barren rear,-- + + Because that all these things are thus and so, + I bid you welcome to our city. Lo! + You're free to come, and free to stay, and free + As soon as it shall please you, sirs--to go. + + + + + A SERENADE. + + + "Sas agapo sas agapo," + He sang beneath her lattice. + "'Sas agapo'?" she murmured--"O, + I wonder, now, what _that_ is!" + + Was she less fair that she did bear + So light a load of knowledge? + Are loving looks got out of books, + Or kisses taught in college? + + Of woman's lore give me no more + Than how to love,--in many + A tongue men brawl: she speaks them all + Who says "I love," in any. + + + + + THE WISE AND GOOD. + + + "O father, I saw at the church as I passed + The populace gathered in numbers so vast + That they couldn't get in; and their voices were low, + And they looked as if suffering terrible woe." + + "'Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead + For whom the great heart of humanity bled." + + "What made it bleed, father, for every day + Somebody passes forever away? + Do the newspaper men print a column or more + Of every person whose troubles are o'er?" + + "O, no; they could never do that--and indeed, + Though printers might print it, no reader would read. + To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne, + But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn." + + "That's right, father dear, but how can our eyes + Distinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?" + + "That's easy enough to the stupidest mind: + They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind." + + "Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green? + And takest thy son for a gaping marine? + Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the Good + Who are poor and lamented to babes in the wood." + + And that horrible youth as I hastened away + Was building a wink that affronted the day. + + + + + THE LOST COLONEL. + + + "'Tis a woeful yarn," said the sailor man bold + Who had sailed the northern-lakes-- + "No woefuler one has ever been told + Exceptin' them called 'fakes.'" + + "Go on, thou son of the wind and fog, + For I burn to know the worst!" + But his silent lip in a glass of grog + Was dreamily immersed. + + Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said: + "It's never like that I drinks + But what of the gallant gent that's dead + I truly mournful thinks. + + "He was a soldier chap--leastways + As 'Colonel' he was knew; + An' he hailed from some'rs where they raise + A grass that's heavenly blue. + + "He sailed as a passenger aboard + The schooner 'Henery Jo.' + O wild the waves and galeses roared, + Like taggers in a show! + + "But he sat at table that calm an' mild + As if he never had let + His sperit know that the waves was wild + An' everlastin' wet!-- + + "Jest set with a bottle afore his nose, + As was labeled 'Total Eclipse' + (The bottle was) an' he frequent rose + A glass o' the same to his lips. + + "An' he says to me (for the steward slick + Of the 'Henery Jo' was I): + 'This sailor life's the very old Nick-- + On the lakes it's powerful dry!' + + "I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch. + I hopes you'll outlast the trip.' + But if I'd been him--an' I said as much-- + I'd 'a' took a faster ship. + + "His laughture, loud an' long an' free, + Rang out o'er the tempest's roar. + 'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he, + 'But it's powerful dry ashore!'" + + "O mariner man, why pause and don + A look of so deep concern? + Have another glass--go on, go on, + For to know the worst I burn." + + "One day he was leanin' over the rail, + When his footing some way slipped, + An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale), + He was accidental unshipped! + + "The empty boats was overboard hove, + As he swum in the 'Henery's wake'; + But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had drove + From sight on the ragin' lake!" + + "And so the poor gentleman was drowned-- + And now I'm apprised of the worst." + "What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found-- + In the yawl--stone dead o' thirst!" + + + + + FOR TAT. + + + O, heavenly powers! will wonders never cease?-- + Hair upon dogs and feathers upon geese! + The boys in mischief and the pigs in mire! + The drinking water wet! the coal on fire! + In meadows, rivulets surpassing fair, + Forever running, yet forever there! + A tail appended to the gray baboon! + A person coming out of a saloon! + Last, and of all most marvelous to see, + A female Yahoo flinging filth at me! + If 'twould but stick I'd bear upon my coat + May Little's proof that she is fit to vote. + + + + + A DILEMMA. + + + Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, + For years I criticised their prose and verges: + Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, + Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then + Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! + + They said: "That's all that he can do--just sneer, + And pull to pieces and be analytic. + Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear, + Publish a book or two, and so appear + As one who has the right to be a critic? + + "Let him who knows it all forbear to tell + How little others know, but show his learning." + The public added: "Who has written well + May censure freely"--quoting Pope. I fell + Into the trap and books began out-turning,-- + + Books by the score--fine prose and poems fair, + And not a book of them but was a terror, + They were so great and perfect; though I swear + I tried right hard to work in, here and there, + (My nature still forbade) a fault or error. + + 'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, + Professed to find--but that's a trifling matter. + Now, when the flood of noble books was out + I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout, + Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! + + (Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. + 'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em, + But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad + We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, + They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!) + + "Consistency, thou art a"--well, you're _paste_! + When next I felt my demon in possession, + And made the field of authorship a waste, + All said of me: "What execrable taste, + To rail at others of his own profession!" + + Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin + Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, + And hears a voice from Heaven say: "Pitch in"? + He finds himself--alas, poor son of sin-- + Between the devil and the deep blue ocean! + + + + + METEMPSYCHOSIS. + + + Once with Christ he entered Salem, + Once in Moab bullied Balaam, + Once by Apuleius staged + He the pious much enraged. + And, again, his head, as beaver, + Topped the neck of Nick the Weaver. + Omar saw him (minus tether-- + Free and wanton as the weather: + Knowing naught of bit or spur) + Stamping over Bahram-Gur. + Now, as Altgeld, see him joy + As Governor of Illinois! + + + + + THE SAINT AND THE MONK. + + + Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed + The tools and terrors of his awful trade; + The key, the frown as pitiless as night, + That slays intending trespassers at sight, + And, at his side in easy reach, the curled + Interrogation points all ready to be hurled. + + Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced + No others were about) a soul advanced-- + A fat, orbicular and jolly soul + With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl-- + A monk so prepossessing that the saint + Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint, + Forgot his frown and all his questions too, + Forgoing even the customary "Who?"-- + Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin, + Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in." + + The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please-- + Who's in there?" By insensible degrees + The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem, + As growing snores annihilate a dream. + The frown began to blacken on his brow, + His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?" + "O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained; + "I'm rather--well, particular. I've strained + A point in coming here at all; 'tis said + That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead + At last) and all her followers are here. + As company, they'd be--confess it--rather queer." + + The saint replied, his rising anger past: + "What can I do?--the law is hard-and-fast, + Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown-- + An oral order issued from the Throne. + By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred + God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd." + + That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile, + Said, slowly turning on his heel the while: + "Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar-- + I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are." + + 1895. + + + + + THE OPPOSING SEX. + + + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing: + "No longer the 'masher' + Sees Widows of Ashur!" + So each is a lasher + Of Man's smallest failing. + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing. + + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling-- + No wooing can gull 'em + In Cave of Adullam. + No angel can lull 'em + To cease their defiling + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling. + + At men they are cursing-- + The Widows of Ashur; + Themselves, too, for nursing + The men they are cursing. + The praise they're rehearsing + Of every slasher + At men. _They_ are cursing + The Widows of Ashur. + + + + +A WHIPPER-IN. + +[Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and +declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not +regularly attend.--_N.Y. World.]_ + + + Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note, + Worthy of honor from a feeble pen + Blunted in service of all true, good men, + You serve the Lord--in courses, _table d'hôte: + Au, naturel,_ as well as _à la Nick_-- + "Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick." + + O, truly pious caterer, forbear + To push the Saviour and Him crucified + _(Brochette_ you'd call it) into their inside + Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare. + The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion + Of aught that it has taken on compulsion. + + I search the Scriptures, but I do not find + That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings + For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings + To charm away the scruples of the mind. + It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"-- + Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell! + + Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true: + We cower timidly beneath the rod + Lifted in menace by an angry God, + But won't endure it from an ape like you. + Detested simian with thumb prehensile, + Switch _me_ and I would brain you with my pencil! + + Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back + On its transplendency to flog some wight + Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night + Your ugly shadow lays along his track. + O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin, + Behold what rascals try to scourge it in! + + + + + JUDGMENT. + + + I drew aside the Future's veil + And saw upon his bier + The poet Whitman. Loud the wail + And damp the falling tear. + + "He's dead--he is no more!" one cried, + With sobs of sorrow crammed; + "No more? He's this much more," replied + Another: "he is damned!" + + 1885. + + + + + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. + + + Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand, + Played accordions as well as any lady in the land; + And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was such + That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch; + And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang + That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang. + This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine, + Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine. + She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet + When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet-- + Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung + As to overtax the strength of any single human lung. + That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell, + Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell. + + One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smart + A chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part. + Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrude + It was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude. + Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to see + That he _was_ a real Gent of an uncommon high degree. + That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regards + On this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards; + But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blind + To her many charms of person and the merits of her mind, + And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad, + And acted in a manner that in general was bad. + + One evening--'twas in summer--she was holding in her lap + Her accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap, + Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued, + Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude. + + Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to hum + And elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb. + Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled, + And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed. + "In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impassioned strain, + And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain, + Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round, + And going into session strove to magnify the sound. + He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rang + With the song that to _his_ darling he impetuously sang! + Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes, + Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines, + From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog, + Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog." + + + + + IN HIGH LIFE. + + + Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea, + Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee. + The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare; + The fashion, the rank and the wealth were all there-- + No person was absent of all whom one meets. + Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, + While good Sir John Satan attended the door + And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor, + Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, + Preserving the peace between poodle and pug. + Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle + To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; + Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom + To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom. + The rites were performed by the hand and the lip + Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, + Assisted by three able-bodied divines. + He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs. + Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such grace + Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place! + That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, + Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride. + + + + + A BUBBLE. + + + Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore + Was a dame of superior mind, + With a gown which, modestly fitting before, + Was greatly puffed up behind. + + The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned + With an inspiration bright: + It magnified seven diameters and + Was remarkably nice and light. + + It was made of rubber and edged with lace + And riveted all with brass, + And the whole immense interior space + Inflated with hydrogen gas. + + The ladies all said when she hove in view + Like the round and rising moon: + "She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true, + And men called her the Captive Balloon. + + To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day + She went and she said: "O dear! + If I leave off _this_ what will people say? + I shall look so uncommonly queer!" + + So a costume she had accordingly made + To take it all nicely in, + And when she appeared in that suit arrayed, + She was greeted with many a grin. + + Proudly and happily looking around, + She waded out into the wet, + But the water was very, very profound, + And her feet and her forehead met! + + As her bubble drifted away from the shore, + On the glassy billows borne, + All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore? + I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!" + + Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot, + Till it burst with a sullen roar, + And the sea like oil closed over the spot-- + Farewell, O Mehitable Moore! + + + + + A RENDEZVOUS. + + + Nightly I put up this humble petition: + "Forgive me, O Father of Glories, + My sins of commission, my sins of omission, + My sins of the Mission Dolores." + + + + + FRANCINE. + + + Did I believe the angels soon would call + You, my beloved, to the other shore, + And I should never see you any more, + I love you so I know that I should fall + Into dejection utterly, and all + Love's pretty pageantry, wherein we bore + Twin banners bravely in the tumult's fore, + Would seem as shadows idling on a wall. + So daintily I love you that my love + Endures no rumor of the winter's breath, + And only blossoms for it thinks the sky + Forever gracious, and the stars above + Forever friendly. Even the fear of death + Were frost wherein its roses all would die. + + + + + AN EXAMPLE. + + + They were two deaf mutes, and they loved and they + Resolved to be groom and bride; + And they listened to nothing that any could say, + Nor ever a word replied. + + From wedlock when warned by the married men, + Maintain an invincible mind: + Be deaf and dumb until wedded--and then + Be deaf and dumb and blind. + + + + + REVENGE. + + + A spitcat sate on a garden gate + And a snapdog fared beneath; + Careless and free was his mien, and he + Held a fiddle-string in his teeth. + + She marked his march, she wrought an arch + Of her back and blew up her tail; + And her eyes were green as ever were seen, + And she uttered a woful wail. + + The spitcat's plaint was as follows: "It ain't + That I am to music a foe; + For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside, + And I twang them soft and low. + + "But that dog has trifled with art and rifled + A kitten of mine, ah me! + That catgut slim was marauded from him: + 'Tis the string that men call E." + + + Then she sounded high, in the key of Y, + A note that cracked the tombs; + And the missiles through the firmament flew + From adjacent sleeping-rooms. + + As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell + She followed it down to earth; + And that snapdog wears a placard that bears + The inscription: "Blind from birth." + + + + + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. + + + When Adam first saw Eve he said: + "O lovely creature, share my bed." + Before consenting, she her gaze + Fixed on the greensward to appraise, + As well as vision could avouch, + The value of the proffered couch. + And seeing that the grass was green + And neatly clipped with a machine-- + Observing that the flow'rs were rare + Varieties, and some were fair, + The posts of precious woods, besprent + With fragrant balsams, diffluent, + And all things suited to her worth, + She raised her angel eyes from earth + To his and, blushing to confess, + Murmured: "I love you, Adam--yes." + Since then her daughters, it is said, + Look always down when asked to wed. + + + + + IN CONTUMACIAM. + + + Och! Father McGlynn, + Ye appear to be in + Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; + An' there's divil a doubt + But he's knockin' ye out + While ye're hangin' onto the rope. + + An' soon ye'll lave home + To thravel to Rome, + For its bound to Canossa ye are. + Persistin' to shtay + When ye're ordered away-- + Bedad! that is goin' too far! + + + + + RE-EDIFIED. + + + Lord of the tempest, pray refrain + From leveling this church again. + Now in its doom, as so you've willed it, + We acquiesce. But _you'll_ rebuild it. + + + + + A BULLETIN. + + + "Lothario is very low," + So all the doctors tell. + Nay, nay, not _so_--he will be, though, + If ever he get well. + + + + + FROM THE MINUTES. + + + When, with the force of a ram that discharges its ponderous body + Straight at the rear elevation of the luckless culler of simples, + The foot of Herculean Kilgore--statesman of surname suggestive + Or carnage unspeakable!--lit like a missile prodigious + Upon the Congressional door with a monstrous and mighty momentum, + Causing that vain ineffective bar to political freedom + To fly from its hinges, effacing the nasal excrescence of Dingley, + That luckless one, decently veiling the ruin with ready bandanna, + Lamented the loss of his eminence, sadly with sobs as follows: + "Ah, why was I ever elected to the halls of legislation, + So soon to be shown the door with pitiless emphasis? Truly, + I've leaned on a broken Reed, and the same has gone back on me meanly. + Where now is my prominence, erstwhile in council conspicuous, patent? + Alas, I did never before understand what I now see clearly, + To wit, that Democracy tends to level all human distinctions!" + His fate so untoward and sad the Pine-tree statesman, bewailing, + Stood in the corridor there while Democrats freed from confinement + Came trooping forth from the chamber, dissembling all, as they passed him, + Hilarious sentiments painful indeed to observe, and remarking: + "O friend and colleague of the Speaker, what ails the unjoyous proboscis?" + + + + + WOMAN IN POLITICS. + + + What, madam, run for School Director? You? + And want my vote and influence? Well, well, + That beats me! Gad! where _are_ we drifting to? + In all my life I never have heard tell + Of such sublime presumption, and I smell + A nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam; + We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam. + + But now you mention it--well, well, who knows? + We might, that's certain, give the sex a show. + I have a cousin--teacher. I suppose + If I stand in and you 're elected--no? + You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go! + But understand that school administration + Belongs to Politics, not Education. + + We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wise + To understand each other at the start. + You know my business--books and school supplies; + You'd hardly, if elected, have the heart + Some small advantage to deny me--part + Of all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing? + Please don't express yourself with so much feeling. + + You pain me, truly. Now one question more. + Suppose a fair young man should ask a place + As teacher--would you (pardon) shut the door + Of the Department in his handsome face + Until--I know not how to put the case-- + Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor? + Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver. + + Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect: + A woman has no head for useful tricks. + My profitable offers you reject + And will not promise anything to fix + The opposition. That's not politics. + Good morning. Stay--I'm chaffing you, conceitedly. + Madam, I mean to vote for you--repeatedly. + + + + + TO AN ASPIRANT. + + + What! you a Senator--you, Mike de Young? + Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung? + Sir, if all Senators were such as you, + Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,-- + (Shaped to the pocket for commercial work, + For literary, fitted to the dirk)-- + So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers, + The toga's touch would give a man the shivers. + + + + + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. + + + Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives, + And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives, + Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame-- + The assassinating wassail that has given him his name; + Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen + To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green, + While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread + With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head; + Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun, + And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run, + Lived a colony of settlers--old Missouri was the State + Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date. + + Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme + Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream. + + The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free, + And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea. + So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce, + And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use-- + Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day, + Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way. + Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God create + Such a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state? + + Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he; + With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree; + So he knelt upon the _mesa_ and he prayed with all his chin + That the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin. + + Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land, + And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand! + Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birth + Fitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth. + Astounded by the miracle, the people met that night + To celebrate it properly by some religious rite; + And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunk + Every man and every woman was devotionally drunk. + A half a standard gallon (says history) per head + Of the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed. + O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk. + By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke! + Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye, + And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky! + Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass, + Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass. + Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way, + To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say, + Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop, + To the head of population--and consumes it, every drop! + + + + + A BUILDER. + + + I saw the devil--he was working free: + A customs-house he builded by the sea. + "Why do you this?" The devil raised his head; + "Churches and courts I've built enough," he said. + + + + + AN AUGURY. + + + Upon my desk a single spray, + With starry blossoms fraught. + I write in many an idle way, + Thinking one serious thought. + + "O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear, + And with a fine Greek grace." + Be still, O heart, that turns to share + The sunshine of a face. + + "Have ye no messages--no brief, + Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?" + A sudden stir of stem and leaf-- + A breath of heliotrope! + + + + + LUSUS POLITICUS. + + + Come in, old gentleman. How do you do? + Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called. + I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you + Are a pleasant-appearing person, too, + With a head agreeably bald. + That's right--sit down in the scuttle of coal + And put up your feet in a chair. + It is better to have them there: + And I've always said that a hat of lead, + Such as I see you wear, + Was a better hat than a hat of glass. + And your boots of brass + Are a natural kind of boots, I swear. + "May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?" + Why, certainly, man, why not? + I rather expected you'd do it before, + When I saw you poking it in at the door. + It's dev'lish hot-- + The weather, I mean. "You are twins"? + Why, that was evident at the start, + From the way that you paint your head + In stripes of purple and red, + With dots of yellow. + That proves you a fellow + With a love of legitimate art. + "You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"? + That's very sad, + But Longfellow's words I beg to recall: + Your lot is the common lot of all. + "Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"? + That, I fancy, is just as you please. + Some think that way and others hold + The opposite view; + I never quite knew, + For the matter o' that, + When everything's been said-- + May I offer this mat + If you _will_ stand on your head? + I suppose I look to be upside down + From your present point of view. + It's a giddy old world, from king to clown, + And a topsy-turvy, too. + But, worthy and now uninverted old man, + _You're_ built, at least, on a normal plan + If ever a truth I spoke. + Smoke? + Your air and conversation + Are a liberal education, + And your clothes, including the metal hat + And the brazen boots--what's that? + + "You never could stomach a Democrat + Since General Jackson ran? + You're another sort, but you predict + That your party'll get consummately licked?" + Good God! what a queer old man! + + + + + BEREAVEMENT. + + + A Countess (so they tell the tale) + Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale, + Where ladies, even of high degree, + Know more of love than of A.B.C, + Came once with a prodigious bribe + Unto the learned village scribe, + That most discreet and honest man + Who wrote for all the lover clan, + Nor e'er a secret had betrayed-- + Save when inadequately paid. + "Write me," she sobbed--"I pray thee do-- + A book about the Prince di Giu-- + A book of poetry in praise + Of all his works and all his ways; + The godlike grace of his address, + His more than woman's tenderness, + His courage stern and lack of guile, + The loves that wantoned in his smile. + So great he was, so rich and kind, + I'll not within a fortnight find + His equal as a lover. O, + My God! I shall be drowned in woe!" + + "What! Prince di Giu has died!" exclaimed + The honest man for letters famed, + The while he pocketed her gold; + "Of what'?--if I may be so bold." + Fresh storms of tears the lady shed: + "I stabbed him fifty times," she said. + + + + + AN INSCRIPTION + + FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT. + + + A famous conqueror, in battle brave, + Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave. + His reign laid quantities of human dust: + He fell upon the just and the unjust. + + + + + A PICKBRAIN. + + + What! imitate me, friend? Suppose that you + With agony and difficulty do + What I do easily--what then? You've got + A style I heartily wish _I_ had not. + If I from lack of sense and you from choice + Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice, + No equal censure our deserts will suit-- + We both are fools, but you're an ape to boot! + + + + + CONVALESCENT. + + + "By good men's prayers see Grant restored!" + Shouts Talmage, pious creature! + Yes, God, by supplication bored + From every droning preacher, + Exclaimed: "So be it, tiresome crew-- + But I've a crow to pick with _you_." + + + + + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. + + + He looked upon the ships as they + All idly lay at anchor, + Their sides with gorgeous workmen gay-- + The riveter and planker-- + + Republicans and Democrats, + Statesmen and politicians. + He saw the swarm of prudent rats + Swimming for land positions. + + He marked each "belted cruiser" fine, + Her poddy life-belts floating + In tether where the hungry brine + Impinged upon her coating. + + He noted with a proud regard, + As any of his class would, + The poplar mast and poplar yard + Above the hull of bass-wood. + + He saw the Eastlake frigate tall, + With quaintly carven gable, + Hip-roof and dormer-window--all + With ivy formidable. + + In short, he saw our country's hope + In best of all conditions-- + Equipped, to the last spar and rope, + By working politicians. + + He boarded then the noblest ship + And from the harbor glided. + "Adieu, adieu!" fell from his lip. + Verdict: "He suicided." + + 1881. + + + + + DETECTED. + + + In Congress once great Mowther shone, + Debating weighty matters; + Now into an asylum thrown, + He vacuously chatters. + + If in that legislative hall + His wisdom still he 'd vented, + It never had been known at all + That Mowther was demented. + + + + + BIMETALISM. + + + Ben Bulger was a silver man, + Though not a mine had he: + He thought it were a noble plan + To make the coinage free. + + "There hain't for years been sech a time," + Said Ben to his bull pup, + "For biz--the country's broke and I'm + The hardest kind of up. + + "The paper says that that's because + The silver coins is sea'ce, + And that the chaps which makes the laws + Puts gold ones in their place. + + "They says them nations always be + Most prosperatin' where + The wolume of the currency + Ain't so disgustin' rare." + + His dog, which hadn't breakfasted, + Dissented from his view, + And wished that he could swell, instead, + The volume of cold stew. + + "Nobody'd put me up," said Ben, + "With patriot galoots + Which benefits their feller men + By playin' warious roots; + + "But havin' all the tools about, + I'm goin' to commence + A-turnin' silver dollars out + Wuth eighty-seven cents. + + "The feller takin' 'em can't whine: + (No more, likewise, can I): + They're better than the genooine, + Which mostly satisfy. + + "It's only makin' coinage free, + And mebby might augment + The wolume of the currency + A noomerous per cent." + + I don't quite see his error nor + Malevolence prepense, + But fifteen years they gave him for + That technical offense. + + + + + THE RICH TESTATOR. + + + He lay on his bed and solemnly "signed," + Gasping--perhaps 'twas a jest he meant: + "This of a sound and disposing mind + Is the last ill-will and contestament." + + + + + TWO METHODS. + + + To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fed + The Priest delivers masses for the dead, + And even from estrays outside the fold + Death for the masses he would not withhold. + The Parson, loth alike to free or kill, + Forsakes the souls already on the grill, + And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming, + Spares living sinners for a harder damning. + + + + + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + + + Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranks + Are played by sentimental cranks! + First this one mounts his hinder hoofs + And brays the chimneys off the roofs; + Then that one, with exalted voice, + Expounds the thesis of his choice, + Our understandings to bombard, + Till all the window panes are starred! + A third augments the vocal shock + Till steeples to their bases rock, + Confessing, as they humbly nod, + They hear and mark the will of God. + A fourth in oral thunder vents + His awful penury of sense + Till dogs with sympathetic howls, + And lowing cows, and cackling fowls, + Hens, geese, and all domestic birds, + Attest the wisdom of his words. + Cranks thus their intellects deflate + Of theories about the State. + This one avers 'tis built on Truth, + And that on Temperance. This youth + Declares that Science bears the pile; + That graybeard, with a holy smile, + Says Faith is the supporting stone; + While women swear that Love alone + Could so unflinchingly endure + The heavy load. And some are sure + The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock + Is the indubitable bedrock. + + Physicians once about the bed + Of one whose life was nearly sped + Blew up a disputatious breeze + About the cause of his disease: + This, that and t' other thing they blamed. + "Tut, tut!" the dying man exclaimed, + "What made me ill I do not care; + You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear. + And if you had the skill to make it + I'd see you hanged before I'd take it!" + + + + + AN IMPOSTER. + + + Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain + Your worth, and all the reasons give again + Why black and red are similarly white, + And you and God identically right? + Still must our ears without redress submit + To hear you play the solemn hypocrite + Walking in spirit some high moral level, + Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil? + Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made + Your mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayed + To have an earless head. Since she did not, + Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot-- + Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air + So delicately, mercifully rare + That when the fellow climbs that giddy hill, + As, for my sins, I know at last he will, + To utter twaddle in that void inane + His soundless organ he will play in vain. + + + + + UNEXPOUNDED. + + + On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills, + On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills, + Lawyers great books indite; + The creaking of their busy quills + I've never heard on Right. + + + + + FRANCE. + + + Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive: + Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive; + A Prince who'd govern where he dares not dwell, + And who for power would his birthright sell-- + Who, anxious o'er his enemies to reign, + Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain; + While pugnant factions mutually strive + By cutting throats to keep the land alive. + Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse-- + To all a mistress, to thyself a curse; + Sweetheart of Europe! every sun's embrace + Matures the charm and poison of thy grace. + Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings: + In blood of citizens and blood of kings + The stones of thy stability are set, + And the fair fabric trembles at a threat. + + + + + THE EASTERN QUESTION. + + + Looking across the line, the Grecian said: + "This border I will stain a Turkey red." + The Moslem smiled securely and replied: + "No Greek has ever for his country dyed." + While thus each patriot guarded his frontier, + The Powers stole all the country in his rear. + + + + + A GUEST. + + + Death, are you well? I trust you have no cough + That's painful or in any way annoying-- + No kidney trouble that may carry you off, + Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying + Your meals--and ours. 'T were very sad indeed + To have to quit the busy life you lead. + + You've been quite active lately for so old + A person, and not very strong-appearing. + I'm apprehensive, somehow, that my bold, + Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing. + And my two friends--I fear, sir, that you ran + Quite hard for them, especially the man. + + I crave your pardon: 'twas no fault of mine; + If you are overworked I'm sorry, very. + Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine. + What shall it be--Marsala, Port or Sherry? + What! just a mug of blood? That's funny grog + To ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog! + + + + + A FALSE PROPHECY. + + + Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil + (Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut), + They say that you're imperially ill, + And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut! + Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but + A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill + A man predestined to depart this life + By the assassin's bullet, bomb or knife. + + Sir, once there was a President who freed + Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar + Who freed five times as many serfs. Sins breed + The means of punishment, and tyrants are + Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car + If faster than the law allows they speed. + Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut; + _You_ freed slaves too. Paralysis--tut-tut! + + 1885. + + + + + TWO TYPES. + + + Courageous fool!--the peril's strength unknown. + Courageous man!--so conscious of your own. + + + + + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. + + + STEPHEN DORSEY. + + Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst, + Where rests in Satan an offender first + In point of greatness, as in point of time, + Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime. + Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab + The dark arcana of each mighty grab, + And famed for lying from his early youth, + He sinned secure behind a veil of truth. + Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write + A damning record and conceal from sight; + Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it. + His way to keep a secret was to tell it. + + + STEPHEN J. FIELD. + + Here sleeps one of the greatest students + Of jurisprudence. + Nature endowed him with the gift + Of the juristhrift. + All points of law alike he threw + The dice to settle. + Those honest cubes were loaded true + With railway metal. + + + GENERAL B.F. BUTLER. + + Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God, + We gave, O gallant brother; + And o'er thy grave the awkward squad + Fired into one another! + + + Beneath this monument which rears its head. + A giant note of admiration--dead, + His life extinguished like a taper's flame. + John Ericsson is lying in his fame. + Behold how massive is the lofty shaft; + How fine the product of the sculptor's craft; + The gold how lavishly applied; the great + Man's statue how impressive and sedate! + Think what the cost-was! It would ill become + Our modesty to specify the sum; + Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're giving + Of what we robbed him of when he was living. + + + Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk + Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk. + His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear, + But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here. + + + Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead + He looked so natural that round his bed + + The people stood, in silence all, to weep. + They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep. + + + Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid + The tools of his infernal trade-- + His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude + They grew--so slack in gratitude, + His hand was wounded as he wrote, + And when he spoke he cut his throat. + + + Within this humble mausoleum + Poor Guiteau's flesh you'll find. + His bones are kept in a museum, + And Tillman has his mind. + + + Stranger, uncover; here you have in view + The monument of Chauncey M. Depew. + Eater and orator, the whole world round + For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned. + Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech, + Nothing he knew excepting how to teach. + But in default of something to impart + He multiplied his words with all his heart: + When least he had to say, instructive most-- + A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost. + + Dining his way to eminence, he rowed + With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed + From lakes of favor--pulled with all his force + And found each river sweeter than the source. + Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor, + Gnawing and rising till obscure no more, + He ate his way to eminence, and Fame + Inscribes in gravy his immortal name. + A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly, + So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly. + Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him, + And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him. + + + Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie; + Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why. + In '71 he filled the public eye, + In '72 he bade the world good-bye, + In God's good time, with a protesting sigh, + He came to life just long enough to die. + + + Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay, + Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray. + He joined the great Order and studied with zeal + The awful arcana he meant to reveal. + At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell-- + There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell. + + + + + A HYMN OF THE MANY. + + + God's people sorely were oppressed, + I heard their lamentations long;-- + I hear their singing, clear and strong, + I see their banners in the West! + + The captains shout the battle-cry, + The legions muster in their might; + They turn their faces to the light, + They lift their arms, they testify: + + "We sank beneath the Master's thong, + Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;-- + Now clash your lances in the sun + And bless your banners with a song! + + "God bides his time with patient eyes + While tyrants build upon the land;-- + He lifts his face, he lifts his hand, + And from the stones his temples rise. + + "Now Freedom waves her joyous wing + Beyond the foemen's shields of gold. + March forward, singing, for, behold, + The right shall rule while God is king!" + + + + + ONE MORNING. + + + Because that I am weak, my love, and ill, + I cannot follow the impatient feet + Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat + Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill + The hour appointed for the air to thrill + And brighten at your coming. O my sweet, + The tale of moments is at last complete-- + The tryst is broken on the gusty hill! + O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed, + The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not; + Think rather that the clock and sun have lied + And all too early, you have sought the spot. + For lo! despair has darkened all the light, + And till I see your face it still is night. + + + + + AN ERROR. + + Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream + How sweet the roses in the autumn seem! + + + + + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." + + + You 're grayer than one would have thought you: + The climate you have over there + In the East has apparently brought you + Disorders affecting the hair, + Which--pardon me--seems a thought spare. + + You'll not take offence at my giving + Expression to notions like these. + You might have been stronger if living + Out here in our sanative breeze. + It's unhealthy here for disease. + + No, I'm not as plump as a pullet. + But that's the old wound, you see. + Remember my paunching a bullet?-- + And how that it didn't agree + With--well, honest hardtack for me. + + Just pass me the wine--I've a helly + And horrible kind of drouth! + When a fellow has that in his belly + Which didn't go in at his mouth + He's hotter than all Down South! + + Great Scott! what a nasty day _that_ was-- + When every galoot in our crack + Division who didn't lie flat was + Dissuaded from further attack + By the bullet's felicitous whack. + + 'Twas there that our major slept under + Some cannon of ours on the crest, + Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, + And he cursed them for breaking his rest, + And died in the midst of his jest. + + That night--it was late in November-- + The dead seemed uncommonly chill + To the touch; and one chap I remember + Who took it exceedingly ill + When I dragged myself over his bill. + + Well, comrades, I'm off now--good morning. + Your talk is as pleasant as pie, + But, pardon me, one word of warning: + Speak little of self, say I. + That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye. + + + + + THE KING OF BORES. + + + Abundant bores afflict this world, and some + Are bores of magnitude that-come and--no, + They're always coming, but they never go-- + Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum + Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum, + Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow. + But one superb tormentor I can show-- + Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum. + He the johndonkey is who, when I pen + Amorous verses in an idle mood + To nobody, or of her, reads them through + And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then + Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood + This tender sonnet's application too. + + + + + HISTORY. + + + What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice, + Another indolence, another dice. + Emascle says polygamy. "Not so," + Says Impycu--"'twas luxury and show." + The parson, lifting up a brow of brass, + Swears superstition gave the _coup de grâce_, + Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms + 'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: "'T was worms") + And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars, + Averring the no coins were silver dollars. + Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack + Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back, + Holds a new "autopsy" and finds that death + Resulted partly from the want of breath, + But chiefly from some visitation sad + That points his argument or serves his fad. + They're all in error--never human mind + The cause of the disaster has divined. + What slew the Roman power? Well, provided + You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did. + + + + + THE HERMIT. + + + To a hunter from the city, + Overtaken by the night, + Spake, in tones of tender pity + For himself, an aged wight: + + "I have found the world a fountain + Of deceit and Life a sham. + I have taken to the mountain + And a Holy Hermit am. + + "Sternly bent on Contemplation, + Far apart from human kind---- + In the hill my habitation, + In the Infinite my mind. + + "Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing, + Growing bald and bent with dole. + Vainly seeking for a Something + To engage my gloomy soul. + + "Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you + Eat, and quaff my simple drink, + Please suggest whatever suits you + As a Theme for me to Think." + + Then the hunter answered gravely: + "From distraction free, and strife, + You could ponder very bravely + On the Vanity of Life." + + "O, thou wise and learned Teacher, + You have solved the Problem well-- + You have saved a grateful creature + From the agonies of hell. + + "Take another root, another + Cup of water: eat and drink. + Now I have a Subject, brother, + Tell me What, and How, to think." + + + + + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. + + + Affronting fool, subdue your transient light; + When Wisdom's dull dares Folly to be bright: + If Genius stumble in the path to fame, + 'Tis decency in dunces to go lame. + + + + + THE YEARLY LIE. + + + A merry Christmas? Prudent, as I live!-- + You wish me something that you need not give. + + Merry or sad, what does it signify? + To you 't is equal if I laugh, or die. + + Your hollow greeting, like a parrot's jest, + Finds all its meaning in the ear addressed. + + Why "merry" Christmas? Faith, I'd rather frown + Than grin and caper like a tickled clown. + + When fools are merry the judicious weep; + The wise are happy only when asleep. + + A present? Pray you give it to disarm + A man more powerful to do you harm. + + 'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot let + You pay for favors that you'll never get. + + Perish the savage custom of the gift, + Founded in terror and maintained in thrift! + + What men of honor need to aid their weal + They purchase, or, occasion serving, steal. + + Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies, + Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies. + + Let Santa Claus descend again the flue; + If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true. + + "A lie well stuck to is as good as truth," + And God's too old to legislate for youth. + + Hail Christmas! On my knees and fowl I fall: + For greater grace and better gravy call. + _Vive l'Humbug!_--that's to say, God bless us all! + + + + + COOPERATION. + + + No more the swindler singly seeks his prey; + To hunt in couples is the modern way-- + A rascal, from the public to purloin, + An honest man to hide away the coin. + + + + + AN APOLOGUE. + + + A traveler observed one day + A loaded fruit-tree by the way. + And reining in his horse exclaimed: + "The man is greatly to be blamed + Who, careless of good morals, leaves + Temptation in the way of thieves. + Now lest some villain pass this way + And by this fruit be led astray + To bag it, I will kindly pack + It snugly in my saddle-sack." + He did so; then that Salt o' the Earth + Rode on, rejoicing in his worth. + + + + + DIAGNOSIS. + + + Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, pray + Compose my spirits' strife: + O what may be my chances, say, + Of living all my life? + + "For lately I have dreamed of high + And hempen dissolution! + O doctor, doctor, how can I + Amend my constitution?" + + The learned leech replied: "You're young + And beautiful and strong-- + Permit me to inspect your tongue: + H'm, ah, ahem!--'tis long." + + + + + FALLEN. + + + O, hadst thou died when thou wert great, + When at thy feet a nation knelt + To sob the gratitude it felt + And thank the Saviour of the State, + Gods might have envied thee thy fate! + + Then was the laurel round thy brow, + And friend and foe spoke praise of thee, + While all our hearts sang victory. + Alas! thou art too base to bow + To hide the shame that brands it now. + + + + +DIES IRAE. + +A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing +translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches +into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me +to undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to +attempt that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have +attempted before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me +to hope that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The +fault of previous translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. +Dix, has been, I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the +delicate irony and subtle humor of the immortal poem--though doubtless +these admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators--have +been utterly sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions +that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of +insincerity pervading the whole prayer,--the cool effrontery of the +suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of +salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission +to the punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing +characteristics of this amusing work, being most imperfectly conveyed. +By permitting myself a reasonable freedom of rendering--in many cases +boldly supplying that "missing link" between the sublime and the +ridiculous which the author, writing for the acute monkish apprehension +of the 13th century, did not deem it necessary to insert--I have hoped +at least partially to liberate the lurking devil of humor from his +fetters, letting him caper, not, certainly, as he does in the Latin, but +as he probably would have done had his creator written in English. In +preserving the metre and double rhymes of the original, I have acted +from the same reverent regard for the music with which, in the liturgy +of the Church, the verses have become inseparably wedded that inspired +Gen. Dix; seeking rather to surmount the obstacles to success by honest +effort, than to avoid them by the adoption of an easier versification +which would have deprived my version of all utility in religious +service. + +I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the +first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been +purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the +very boundary of the alluring domain. I have got over the +inhibition--somehow--but David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me +if they find themselves represented merely by the names of those +conspicuous personal qualities to which they probably owed, +respectively, their powers of prophecy, as Samson's strength lay in his +hair. + + + DIES IRAE. + + Dies irae! dies ilia! + Solvet saeclum in favilla + Teste David cum Sibylla. + + Quantus tremor est futurus, + Quando Judex est venturus. + Cuncta stricte discussurus. + + Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchra regionem, + Coget omnes ante thronum. + + Mors stupebit, et Natura, + Quum resurget creatura + Judicanti responsura. + + Liber scriptus proferetur, + In quo totum continetur, + Unde mundus judicetur. + + Judex ergo quum sedebit, + Quicquid latet apparebit, + Nil inultum remanebit. + + Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, + Quem patronem rogaturus, + Quum vix justus sit securus? + + Rex tremendae majestatis, + Qui salvandos salvas gratis; + Salva me, Fons pietatis + + Recordare, Jesu pie + Quod sum causa tuae viae; + Ne me perdas illa die. + + Quarens me sedisti lassus + Redimisti crucem passus, + Tantus labor non sit cassus. + + Juste Judex ultionis, + Donum fac remissionis + Ante diem rationis. + + Ingemisco tanquam reus, + Culpa rubet vultus meus; + Supplicanti parce, Deus. + + Qui Mariam absolvisti + Et latronem exaudisti, + Mihi quoque spem dedisti. + + Preces meae non sunt dignae, + Sed tu bonus fac benigne + Ne perenni cremer igne. + + Inter oves locum praesta. + Et ab haedis me sequestra, + Statuens in parte dextra. + + Confutatis maledictis, + Flammis acribus addictis, + Voca me cum benedictis. + + Oro supplex et acclinis, + Cor contritum quasi cinis; + Gere curam mei finis. + + Lacrymosa dies illa + Qua resurgent et favilla, + Judicandus homo reus + Huic ergo parce, Deus! + + + THE DAY OF WRATH. + + Day of Satan's painful duty! + Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; + So says Virtue, so says Beauty. + + Ah! what terror shall be shaping + When the Judge the truth's undraping! + Cats from every bag escaping! + + Now the trumpet's invocation + Calls the dead to condemnation; + All receive an invitation. + + Death and Nature now are quaking, + And the late lamented, waking, + In their breezy shrouds are shaking. + + Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, + And the Clerk, to them referring, + Makes it awkward for the erring. + + When the Judge appears in session, + We shall all attend confession, + Loudly preaching non-suppression. + + How shall I then make romances + Mitigating circumstances? + Even the just must take their chances. + + King whose majesty amazes. + Save thou him who sings thy praises; + Fountain, quench my private blazes. + + Pray remember, sacred Savior, + Mine the playful hand that gave your + Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. + + Seeking me fatigue assailed thee, + Calvary's outlook naught availed thee: + Now 't were cruel if I failed thee. + + Righteous judge and learned brother, + Pray thy prejudices smother + Ere we meet to try each other. + + Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, + And my face vermilion flushes; + Spare me for my pretty blushes. + + Thief and harlot, when repenting, + Thou forgav'st--be complimenting + Me with sign of like relenting. + + If too bold is my petition + I'll receive with due submission + My dismissal--from perdition. + + When thy sheep thou hast selected + From the goats, may I, respected, + Stand amongst them undetected. + + When offenders are indicted, + And with trial-flames ignited, + Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. + + Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful, + When of death I see the air full, + Lest I perish, too, be careful. + + On that day of lamentation, + When, to enjoy the conflagration. + Men come forth, O, be not cruel. + Spare me, Lord--make them thy fuel. + + + + + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. + + + See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed + For revolution! + To foil their villainous crusade + Unsheathe again the sacred blade + Of persecution. + + What though through long disuse 't is grown + A trifle rusty? + 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone + Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, + It still is trusty. + + Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, + Unapprehensive, + Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; + Our zealots chiefly to the nose + Assume the offensive. + + Then wield the blade their necks to hack, + Nor ever spare one. + Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, + But see that every martyr lack + The head to wear one. + + + + + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. + + + "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull: + There's nothing happening at all--a lull + After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife + Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. + A fire on Blank Street and some babies--one, + Two, three or four, I don't remember, done + To quite a delicate and lovely brown. + A husband shot by woman of the town-- + The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. + The crew, all saved--or lost. Uncommon drouth + Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud-- + Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. + 'T is feared some bank will burst--or else it won't + They always burst, I fancy--or they don't; + Who cares a cent?--the banker pays his coin + And takes his chances: bullet in the groin-- + But that's another item--suicide-- + Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. + Heigh-ho! there's noth--Jerusalem! what's this: + Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss + Of ruin!--owes me seven hundred clear! + Was ever such a damned disastrous year! + + + + + IN THE BINNACLE. + + +[The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly +and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.--_Religious +Weekly._] + + + The Church's compass, if you please, + Has two or three (or more) degrees + Of variation; + And many a soul has gone to grief + On this or that or t'other reef + Through faith unreckoning or brief + Miscalculation. + Misguidance is of perils chief + To navigation. + + The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark, + Obeisance through a little arc + Of declination; + For Satan, fearing witches, drew + From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe, + And nailed it to his door to undo + Their machination. + Since then the needle dips to woo + His habitation. + + + + + HUMILITY. + + + Great poets fire the world with fagots big + That make a crackling racket, + But I'm content with but a whispering twig + To warm some single jacket. + + + + + ONE PRESIDENT. + + + "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child-- + Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild." + + "What are they that way for, father?" "Last fall, + 'Our candidate's better,' they said, 'than all!'" + + "What did they say he was, father?" "A man + Built on a straight incorruptible plan-- + Believing that none for an office would do + Unless he were honest and capable too." + + "Poor gentlemen--_so_ disappointed!" "Yes, lad, + That is the feeling that's driving them mad; + They're weeping and wailing and gnashing because + They find that he's all that they said that he was." + + + + + THE BRIDE. + + + "You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse + I made a second marriage in my house-- + Divorced old barren Reason from my bed + And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse." + + So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam + Of light that made her like an angel seem, + The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myself + Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream." + + + + + STRAINED RELATIONS. + + + Says England to Germany: "Africa's ours." + Says Germany: "Ours, I opine." + Says Africa: "Tell me, delectable Pow'rs, + What is it that ought to be mine?" + + + + + THE MAN BORN BLIND. + + + A man born blind received his sight + By a painful operation; + And these are things he saw in the light + Of an infant observation. + + He saw a merchant, good and wise. + And greatly, too, respected, + Who looked, to those imperfect eyes, + Like a swindler undetected. + + He saw a patriot address + A noisy public meeting. + And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess. + That for the teat is bleating." + + A doctor stood beside a bed + And shook his summit sadly. + "O see that foul assassin!" said + The man who saw so badly. + + He saw a lawyer pleading for + A thief whom they'd been jailing, + And said: "That's an accomplice, or + My sight again is failing." + + Upon the Bench a Justice sat, + With nothing to restrain him; + "'Tis strange," said the observer, "that + They ventured to unchain him." + + With theologic works supplied, + He saw a solemn preacher; + "A burglar with his kit," he cried, + "To rob a fellow creature." + + A bluff old farmer next he saw + Sell produce in a village, + And said: "What, what! is there no law + To punish men for pillage?" + + A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed, + Who many charms united; + He thanked his stars his lot was cast + Where sepulchers were whited. + + He saw a soldier stiff and stern, + "Full of strange oaths" and toddy; + But was unable to discern + A wound upon his body. + + Ten square leagues of rolling ground + To one great man belonging, + Looked like one little grassy mound + With worms beneath it thronging. + + A palace's well-carven stones, + Where Dives dwelt contented, + Seemed built throughout of human bones + With human blood cemented. + + He watched the yellow shining thread + A silk-worm was a-spinning; + "That creature's coining gold." he said, + "To pay some girl for sinning." + + His eyes were so untrained and dim + All politics, religions, + Arts, sciences, appeared to him + But modes of plucking pigeons. + + And so he drew his final breath, + And thought he saw with sorrow + Some persons weeping for his death + Who'd be all smiles to-morrow. + + + + + A NIGHTMARE. + + + I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by: + The world forgot that such a man as I + Had ever lived and written: other names + Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die. + + Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew. + Its roots transpierced my body, through and through, + My substance fed its growth. From many lands + Men came in troops that giant tree to view. + + 'T was sacred to my memory and fame-- + My monument. But Allen Forman came, + Filled with the fervor of a new untruth, + And carved upon the trunk his odious name! + + + + + A WET SEASON. + + Horas non numero nisi serenas. + + + The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth, + And man's in danger. + O that my mother at my birth + Had borne a stranger! + The flooded ground is all around. + The depth uncommon. + How blest I'd be if only she + Had borne a salmon. + + If still denied the solar glow + 'T were bliss ecstatic + To be amphibious--but O, + To be aquatic! + We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they + That faith are firm of. + O, then, be just: show me some dust + To be a worm of. + + The pines are chanting overhead + A psalm uncheering. + It's O, to have been for ages dead + And hard of hearing! + Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours + The dial reckoned; + 'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime-- + Rameses II. + + + + + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. + + + Tut-tut! give back the flags--how can you care + You veterans and heroes? + Why should you at a kind intention swear + Like twenty Neroes? + + Suppose the act was not so overwise-- + Suppose it was illegal-- + Is 't well on such a question to arise + And pinch the Eagle? + + Nay, let's economize his breath to scold + And terrify the alien + Who tackles him, as Hercules of old + The bird Stymphalian. + + Among the rebels when we made a breach + Was it to get their banners? + That was but incidental--'t was to teach + Them better manners. + + They know the lesson well enough to-day; + Now, let us try to show them + That we 're not only stronger far than they. + (How we did mow them!) + + But more magnanimous. You see, my lads, + 'T was an uncommon riot; + The warlike tribes of Europe fight for "fads," + We fought for quiet. + + If we were victors, then we all must live + With the same flag above us; + 'Twas all in vain unless we now forgive + And make them love us. + + Let kings keep trophies to display above + Their doors like any savage; + The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love, + Despite war's ravage. + + "Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll find + You can't, in right and reason, + While "Washington" and "treason" are combined-- + "Hugo" and "treason." + + All human governments must take the chance + And hazard of sedition. + O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advance + To blind submission. + + It may be wrong, it may be right, to rise + In warlike insurrection: + The loyalty that fools so dearly prize + May mean subjection. + + Be loyal to your country, yes--but how + If tyrants hold dominion? + The South believed they did; can't you allow + For that opinion? + + He who will never rise though rulers plods + His liberties despising + How is he manlier than the _sans culottes_ + Who's always rising? + + Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fell + Too valiant to forsake them. + Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well, + I helped to take them. + + + + + HAEC FABULA DOCET. + + + A rat who'd gorged a box of bane + And suffered an internal pain, + Came from his hole to die (the label + Required it if the rat were able) + And found outside his habitat + A limpid stream. Of bane and rat + 'T was all unconscious; in the sun + It ran and prattled just for fun. + Keen to allay his inward throes, + The beast immersed his filthy nose + And drank--then, bloated by the stream, + And filled with superheated steam, + Exploded with a rascal smell, + Remarking, as his fragments fell + Astonished in the brook: "I'm thinking + This water's damned unwholesome drinking!" + + + + + EXONERATION. + + + When men at candidacy don't connive, + From that suspicion if their friends would free 'em, + The teeth and nails with which they did not strive + Should be exhibited in a museum. + + + + + AZRAEL. + + + The moon in the field of the keel-plowed main + Was watching the growing tide: + A luminous peasant was driving his wain, + And he offered my soul a ride. + + But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall, + And I fixed him fast with mine eye. + "O, peasant," I sang with a dying fall, + "Go leave me to sing and die." + + The water was weltering round my feet, + As prone on the beach they lay. + I chanted my death-song loud and sweet; + "Kioodle, ioodle, iay!" + + Then I heard the swish of erecting ears + Which caught that enchanted strain. + The ocean was swollen with storms of tears + That fell from the shining swain. + + "O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand, + "That ravishing song would make + The devil a saint." He held out his hand + And solemnly added: "Shake." + + We shook. "I crave a victim, you see," + He said--"you came hither to die." + The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he! + And the victim he crove was I! + + 'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard; + And he knocked me on the head. + O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard, + For I didn't want to be dead. + + "You'll sing no worser for that," said he, + And he drove with my soul away, + O, death-song singers, be warned by me, + Kioodle, ioodle, iay! + + + + + AGAIN. + + + Well, I've met her again--at the Mission. + She'd told me to see her no more; + It was not a command--a petition; + I'd granted it once before. + + Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. + Repenting her virtuous freak-- + Subdued myself daily and nightly + For the better part of a week. + + And then ('twas my duty to spare her + The shame of recalling me) I + Just sought her again to prepare her + For an everlasting good-bye. + + O, that evening of bliss--shall I ever + Forget it?--with Shakespeare and Poe! + She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never + To see me again. And now go." + + As we parted with kisses 'twas human + And natural for me to smile + As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: + She'll send for me after a while." + + But she didn't; and so--well, the Mission + Is fine, picturesque and gray; + It's an excellent place for contrition-- + And sometimes she passes that way. + + That's how it occurred that I met her, + And that's ah there is to tell-- + Except that I'd like to forget her + Calm way of remarking: "I'm well." + + It was hardly worth while, all this keying + My soul to such tensions and stirs + To learn that her food was agreeing + With that little stomach of hers. + + + + HOMO PODUNKENSIS. + + + As the poor ass that from his paddock strays + Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, + Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, + Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, + Mistaking for the world's assent the clang + Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; + So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, + Visits the city on the ocean's marge, + Expands his eyes and marvels to remark + Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; + Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares + That native merchants sell imported wares, + Nor comprehends how in his very view + A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; + Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, + Swears it superior to aught on earth, + Sighs for the temples locally renowned-- + The village school-house and the village pound-- + And chalks upon the palaces of Rome + The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!" + + + + + A SOCIAL CALL. + + + Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you, + With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue? + Less redness in the nose--nay, even some blue + Would not, I think, particularly hurt you. + When seen close to, not mounted in your car, + You look the drunkard and the pig you are. + + No matter, sit you down, for I am not + In a gray study, as you sometimes find me. + Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot, + But there's another year of pain behind me. + That's something to be thankful for: the more + There are behind, the fewer are before. + + I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp, + But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation + With an affinity to every tramp + That walks the world and steals its admiration. + For admiration is like linen left + Upon the line--got easiest by theft. + + Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood, + With brains and honesty, some five-and-twenty + Long years as champion of all that's good, + And taken on the mazzard thwacks a-plenty. + Yet now whose praises do the people bawl? + Those of the fellows whom I live to maul! + + Why, this is odd!--the more I try to talk + Of you the more my tongue grows egotistic + To prattle of myself! I'll try to balk + Its waywardness and be more altruistic. + So let us speak of others--how they sin, + And what a devil of a state they 're in! + + That's all I have to say. Good-bye, old man. + Next year you possibly may find me scolding-- + Or miss me altogether: Nature's plan + Includes, as I suppose, a final folding + Of these poor empty hands. Then drop a tear + To think they'll never box another ear. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES OF CLAY *** + +***** This file should be named 12658-8.txt or 12658-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/5/12658/ + +Produced by Rick Niles, Kat Jeter, John Hagerson and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Shapes of Clay + +Author: Ambrose Bierce + +Release Date: June 19, 2004 [EBook #12658] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES OF CLAY *** + + + + +Etext produced by Rick Niles, Kat Jeter, John Hagerson and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SHAPES OF CLAY + </h1> + <h2> + By Ambrose Bierce + </h2> + <h4> + Author Of "In The Midst Of Life," "Can Such Things Be?" "Black Beetles In + Amber," And "Fantastic Fables" + </h4> + <h3> + 1903 + </h3> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> DEDICATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> SHAPES OF CLAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> THE PASSING SHOW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> ELIXER VITAE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> CONVALESCENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> NOVUM ORGANUM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> GEOTHEOS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> YORICK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A VISION OF DOOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> POLITICS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> POESY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> IN DEFENSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> AN INVOCATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> RELIGION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> A MORNING FANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> VISIONS OF SIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> THE TOWN OF DAE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> AN ANARCHIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> ARMA VIRUMQUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> A DEMAND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> THE WEATHER WIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> MY MONUMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> MAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> HOSPITALITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0030"> RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0031"> MAGNANIMITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0032"> TO HER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0033"> TO A SUMMER POET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0034"> ARTHUR McEWEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0035"> CHARLES AND PETER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0036"> CONTEMPLATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> CREATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0038"> BUSINESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> A POSSIBILITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> TO A CENSOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0041"> THE HESITATING VETERAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0042"> A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0043"> INSPIRATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> TO-DAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0045"> AN ALIBI. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0046"> REBUKE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0047"> THE DYING STATESMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0048"> THE DEATH OF GRANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0049"> THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> LAUS LUCIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0051"> NANINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> TECHNOLOGY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0053"> A REPLY TO A LETTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> TO OSCAR WILDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0055"> PRAYER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0057"> TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0058"> AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0060"> AN EPITAPH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> THE POLITICIAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0062"> AN INSCRIPTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0064"> A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0066"> SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> IN MEMORIAM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0068"> THE STATESMEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0069"> THE BROTHERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0070"> THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0071"> CORRECTED NEWS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0072"> AN EXPLANATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0073"> JUSTICE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0074"> MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0075"> TO MY LAUNDRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0076"> FAME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0077"> OMNES VANITAS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0078"> ASPIRATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0079"> DEMOCRACY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0080"> THE NEW "ULALUME." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0081"> CONSOLATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0082"> FATE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0083"> PHILOSOPHER BIMM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0084"> REMINDED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0085"> SALVINI IN AMERICA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0086"> ANOTHER WAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0087"> ART. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0088"> AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0089"> TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0090"> THE DEBTOR ABROAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0091"> FORESIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0092"> A FAIR DIVISION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0093"> GENESIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0094"> LIBERTY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0095"> THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0096"> TO MAUDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0097"> THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0098"> STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0099"> THE SCURRIL PRESS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0100"> ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0101"> THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0102"> A LACKING FACTOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0103"> THE ROYAL JESTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0104"> A CAREER IN LETTERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0105"> THE FOLLOWING PAIR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0106"> POLITICAL ECONOMY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0107"> VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0108"> THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0109"> INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0110"> TEMPORA MUTANTUR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0111"> CONTENTMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0112"> THE NEW ENOCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0113"> DISAVOWAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0114"> AN AVERAGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0115"> WOMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0116"> INCURABLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0117"> THE PUN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0118"> A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0119"> TO NANINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0120"> VICE VERSA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0121"> A BLACK-LIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0122"> A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0123"> AUTHORITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0124"> THE PSORIAD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0125"> ONEIROMANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0126"> PEACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0127"> THANKSGIVING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0128"> THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0129"> THE AESTHETES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0130"> JULY FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0131"> WITH MINE OWN PETARD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0132"> CONSTANCY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0133"> SIRES AND SONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0134"> A CHALLENGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0135"> TWO SHOWS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0136"> A POET'S HOPE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0137"> THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0138"> TWO ROGUES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0139"> BEECHER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0140"> NOT GUILTY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0141"> PRESENTIMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0142"> A STUDY IN GRAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0143"> A PARADOX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0144"> FOR MERIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0145"> A BIT OF SCIENCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0146"> THE TABLES TURNED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0147"> TO A DEJECTED POET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0148"> A FOOL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0149"> THE HUMORIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0150"> MONTEFIORE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0151"> A WARNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0152"> DISCRETION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0153"> AN EXILE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0154"> THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0155"> PSYCHOGRAPHS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0156"> TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0157"> FOR WOUNDS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0158"> ELECTION DAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0159"> THE MILITIAMAN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0160"> A WELCOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0161"> A SERENADE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0162"> THE WISE AND GOOD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0163"> THE LOST COLONEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0164"> FOR TAT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0165"> A DILEMMA. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0166"> METEMPSYCHOSIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0167"> THE SAINT AND THE MONK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0168"> THE OPPOSING SEX. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0169"> A WHIPPER-IN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0170"> JUDGMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0171"> THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0172"> IN HIGH LIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0173"> A BUBBLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0174"> A RENDEZVOUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0175"> FRANCINE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0176"> AN EXAMPLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0177"> REVENGE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0178"> THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0179"> IN CONTUMACIAM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0180"> RE-EDIFIED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0181"> A BULLETIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0182"> FROM THE MINUTES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0183"> WOMAN IN POLITICS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0184"> TO AN ASPIRANT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0185"> A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0186"> A BUILDER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0187"> AN AUGURY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0188"> LUSUS POLITICUS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0189"> BEREAVEMENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0190"> AN INSCRIPTION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0191"> A PICKBRAIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0192"> CONVALESCENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0193"> THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0194"> DETECTED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0195"> BIMETALISM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0196"> THE RICH TESTATOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0197"> TWO METHODS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0198"> FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0199"> AN IMPOSTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0200"> UNEXPOUNDED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0201"> FRANCE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0202"> THE EASTERN QUESTION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0203"> A GUEST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0204"> A FALSE PROPHECY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0205"> TWO TYPES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0206"> SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0207"> A HYMN OF THE MANY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0208"> ONE MORNING. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0209"> AN ERROR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0210"> AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0211"> THE KING OF BORES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0212"> HISTORY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0213"> THE HERMIT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0214"> TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0215"> THE YEARLY LIE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0216"> COOPERATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0217"> AN APOLOGUE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0218"> DIAGNOSIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0219"> FALLEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0220"> DIES IRAE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0221"> ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0222"> SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0223"> IN THE BINNACLE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0224"> HUMILITY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0225"> ONE PRESIDENT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0226"> THE BRIDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0227"> STRAINED RELATIONS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0228"> THE MAN BORN BLIND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0229"> A NIGHTMARE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0230"> A WET SEASON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0231"> THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0232"> HAEC FABULA DOCET. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0233"> EXONERATION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0234"> AZRAEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0235"> AGAIN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0236"> HOMO PODUNKENSIS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0237"> A SOCIAL CALL. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEDICATION. + </h2> + <p> + WITH PRIDE IN THEIR WORK, FAITH IN THEIR FUTURE AND AFFECTION FOR + THEMSELVES, AN OLD WRITER DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS AND + PUPILS, GEORGE STERLING AND HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. A.B. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE. + </h2> + <p> + Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that part + the names of real persons being used without their assent, it seems fit + that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems well + to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface of + another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its character. I + quote from "Black Beetles in Amber:" + </p> + <p> + "Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable + alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in now + republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, except + with reference to those who since my first censure of them have passed + away. To one having only a reader's interest in the matter it may easily + seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been omitted + from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any considerable + part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth which by this + attempt to preserve some of it I have assumed, their permanent suppression + is impossible, and it is only a question of when and by whom they will be + republished. Some one will surely search them out and put them in + circulation. + </p> + <p> + "I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work collected + in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one whose work, + necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed to challenge as + unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined before time has effaced + the evidence. For the death of a man of whom I have written what I may + venture to think worthy to live I am no way responsible; and however + sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent that it shall affect my + literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not accept the remarkable + doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should spare the sinner, were + bound to let the life of his work be coterminous with that of his subject + his were a lot of peculiar hardship. + </p> + <p> + "Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint + even certain 'epitaphs' which, once of the living, are now of the dead, as + all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms of + applied satire—my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at + least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of + matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown + by abundant instance and example." + </p> + <p> + In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless to + classify them according to character, as "Serious," "Comic," + "Sentimental," "Satirical," and so forth. I do the reader the honor to + think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; and I + entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without + disappointment to that of his author. + </p> + <h3> + AMBROSE BIERCE. <br /><br /> + </h3> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + SHAPES OF CLAY + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PASSING SHOW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know not if it was a dream. I viewed + A city where the restless multitude, + Between the eastern and the western deep + Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude. + + Colossal palaces crowned every height; + Towers from valleys climbed into the light; + O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes + Hung in the blue, barbarically bright. + + But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day + Touched the black masses with a grace of gray, + Dim spires of temples to the nation's God + Studding high spaces of the wide survey. + + Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep + Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, + Yet whispered of an hour-when sleepers wake, + The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep. + + The gardens greened upon the builded hills + Above the tethered thunders of the mills + With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet + By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills. + + A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space, + Looked on the builder's blocks about his base + And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: + "Strike! 't is my destiny to lodge your race. + + "'T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed + Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed + Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness, + While on their foeman's offal they caroused." + + Ships from afar afforested the bay. + Within their huge and chambered bodies lay + The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed + The hardy argosies to far Cathay. + + Beside the city of the living spread— + Strange fellowship!—the city of the dead; + And much I wondered what its humble folk, + To see how bravely they were housed, had said. + + Noting how firm their habitations stood, + Broad-based and free of perishable wood— + How deep in granite and how high in brass + The names were wrought of eminent and good, + + I said: "When gold or power is their aim, + The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, + Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare + When they would conquer an abiding fame." + + From the red East the sun—a solemn rite— + Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height + Above the dead; and then with all his strength + Struck the great city all aroar with light! +</pre> + <h3> + II. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I know not if it was a dream. I came + Unto a land where something seemed the same + That I had known as 't were but yesterday, + But what it was I could not rightly name. + + It was a strange and melancholy land. + Silent and desolate. On either hand + Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, + And dead above it seemed the hills to stand, + + Grayed all with age, those lonely hills—ah me, + How worn and weary they appeared to be! + Between their feet long dusty fissures clove + The plain in aimless windings to the sea. + + One hill there was which, parted from the rest, + Stood where the eastern water curved a-west. + Silent and passionless it stood. I thought + I saw a scar upon its giant breast. + + The sun with sullen and portentous gleam + Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; + Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars + Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam. + + It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, + That desert in its cold, uncanny light; + No soul but I alone to mark the fear + And imminence of everlasting night! + + All presages and prophecies of doom + Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, + And in the midst of that accursèd scene + A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELIXER VITAE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep + (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) + Sealed upon my senses with so deep + A stupefaction that men thought me dead. + The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, + Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; + I saw mankind in dim procession sweep + Through life, oblivion at each extreme. + Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, + Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing. + + The generations came with dance and song, + And each observed me curiously there. + Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng + Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." + Some said I was a saint, and some a bear— + These all were women. So the young and gay, + Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, + Doddered at last on failing limbs away; + Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, + Fell into its abysses and were strangled. + + At last a generation came that walked + More slowly forward to the common tomb, + Then altogether stopped. The women talked + Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom + Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; + And one cried out: "We are immortal now— + How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, + Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, + And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, + Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!" + + So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped + From its fair shoulders, and but men alone + Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped, + Enough of room remained in every zone, + And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne. + Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks + Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped) + 'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe. + Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking, + And crumbled all to powder in the waking. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONVALESCENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame + Or canting Pharisee no more defame? + Will Treachery caress my hand no more, + Nor Hatred He alurk about my door?— + Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed, + Not close the loaded palm to make a fist? + Will Envy henceforth not retaliate + For virtues it were vain to emulate? + Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout, + Not understanding what 'tis all about, + Yet feeling in its light so mean and small + That all his little soul is turned to gall? + + What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed? + Greed from exaction magically charmed? + Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets, + Like horses fugitive in crowded streets? + The Bigot, with his candle, book and bell, + Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well? + The Critic righteously to justice haled, + His own ear to the post securely nailed— + What most he dreads unable to inflict, + And powerless to hawk the faults he's picked? + The liar choked upon his choicest lie, + And impotent alike to villify + Or flatter for the gold of thrifty men + Who hate his person but employ his pen— + Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt + Belonging to his character and shirt? + + What! "Out of danger?"—Nature's minions all, + Like hounds returning to the huntsman's call, + Obedient to the unwelcome note + That stays them from the quarry's bursting throat?— + Famine and Pestilence and Earthquake dire, + Torrent and Tempest, Lightning, Frost and Fire, + The soulless Tiger and the mindless Snake, + The noxious Insect from the stagnant lake + (Automaton malevolences wrought + Out of the substance of Creative Thought)— + These from their immemorial prey restrained, + Their fury baffled and their power chained? + + I'm safe? Is that what the physician said? + What! "Out of danger?" Then, by Heaven, I'm dead! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning, + All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect; + And in a jeremaid of objurgatory warning + He lifted up his <i>jodel</i> to the following effect: + + O ye sanguinary statesmen, intermit your verbal tussles + O ye editors and orators, consent to hear my lay! + And a little while the digital and maxillary muscles + And attend to what a Venerable Person has to say. + + Cease your writing, cease your shouting, cease your wild unearthly lying; + Cease to bandy such expressions as are never, never found + In the letter of a lover; cease "exposing" and "replying"— + Let there be abated fury and a decrement of sound. + + For to-morrow will be Monday and the fifth day of November— + Only day of opportunity before the final rush. + <i>Carpe diem!</i> go conciliate each person who's a member + Of the other party—do it while you can without a blush. + + "Lo! the time is close upon you when the madness of the season + Having howled itself to silence, like a Minnesota 'clone, + Will at last be superseded by the still, small voice of reason, + When the whelpage of your folly you would willingly disown. + + "Ah, 'tis mournful to consider what remorses will be thronging, + With a consciousness of having been so ghastly indiscreet, + When by accident untoward two ex-gentlemen belonging + To the opposite political denominations meet! + + "Yes, 'tis melancholy, truly, to forecast the fierce, unruly + Supersurging of their blushes, like the flushes upon high + When Aurora Borealis lights her circumpolar palace + And in customary manner sets her banner in the sky. + + "Each will think: 'This falsifier knows that I too am a liar. + Curse him for a son of Satan, all unholily compound! + Curse my leader for another! Curse that pelican, my mother! + Would to God that I when little in my victual had been drowned!'" + + Then that Venerable Person went away without returning + And, the madness of the season having also taken flight, + All the people soon were blushing like the skies to crimson burning + When Aurora Borealis fires her premises by night. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOVUM ORGANUM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Bacon see the culminating prime + Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crime. + He dies and Nature, settling his affairs, + Parts his endowments among us, his heirs: + To every one a pinch of brain for seed, + And, to develop it, a pinch of greed. + Each thrifty heir, to make the gift suffice, + Buries the talent to manure the vice. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GEOTHEOS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As sweet as the look of a lover + Saluting the eyes of a maid, + That blossom to blue as the maid + Is ablush to the glances above her, + The sunshine is gilding the glade + And lifting the lark out of shade. + + Sing therefore high praises, and therefore + Sing songs that are ancient as gold, + Of Earth in her garments of gold; + Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore + They charm as of yore, for behold! + The Earth is as fair as of old. + + Sing songs of the pride of the mountains, + And songs of the strength of the seas, + And the fountains that fall to the seas + From the hands of the hills, and the fountains + That shine in the temples of trees, + In valleys of roses and bees. + + Sing songs that are dreamy and tender, + Of slender Arabian palms, + And shadows that circle the palms, + Where caravans, veiled from the splendor, + Are kneeling in blossoms and balms, + In islands of infinite calms. + + Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing + When mountains were stained as with wine + By the dawning of Time, and as wine + Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning, + Achant in the gusty pine + And the pulse of the poet's line. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + YORICK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hard by an excavated street one sat + In solitary session on the sand; + And ever and anon he spake and spat + And spake again—a yellow skull in hand, + To which that retrospective Pioneer + Addressed the few remarks that follow here: + + "Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,' + Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49 + Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross + From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine? + Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way + From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?—say! + + "Was you in Frisco when the water came + Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind + The time when Peters run the faro game— + Jim Peters from old Mississip—behind + Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust + By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust? + + "I wonder was you here when Casey shot + James King o' William? And did you attend + The neck-tie dance ensuin'? <i>I</i> did not, + But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend + Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved + In sech diversions not to be involved. + + "Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed + Your face afore. I don't forget a face, + But names I disremember—I'm that breed + Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space + An' maybe my remarks is too derned free, + Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me. + + "Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed + Nigh onto every dern galoot in town. + That was as late as '50. Now she's growed + Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown, + Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss + We didn't know, the cause was—he knowed us. + + "Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine + Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you + To which Long Mary took a mighty shine, + An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo? + I guess if she could see ye now she'd take + Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake. + + "You ain't so purty now as you was then: + Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes, + An' women which are hitched to better men + Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls, + As Lengthie did. By G——! I <i>hope</i> it's you, + For" <i>(kicks the skull)</i> "I'm Jake the Kangaroo." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A VISION OF DOOM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I stood upon a hill. The setting sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom— + The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled, + And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All + These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear + Had ever heard, some spiritual sense + Interpreted, though brokenly; for I + Was haunted by a consciousness of crime, + Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All + These things malign, by sight and sound revealed, + Were sin-begotten; that I knew—no more— + And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams + The sleepy senses babble to the brain + Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice, + But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud + Some words to me in a forgotten tongue, + Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn, + Returned from the illimited inane. + Again, but in a language that I knew, + As in reply to something which in me + Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words, + It spake from the dread mystery about: + "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul + That perished with eternity, attend. + What thou beholdest is as void as thou: + The shadow of a poet's dream—himself + As thou, his soul as thine, long dead, + But not like thine outlasted by its shade. + His dreams alone survive eternity + As pictures in the unsubstantial void. + Excepting thee and me (and we because + The poet wove us in his thought) remains + Of nature and the universe no part + Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread, + Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all + Its desolation and its terrors—lo! + 'T is but a phantom world. So long ago + That God and all the angels since have died + That poet lived—yourself long dead—his mind + Filled with the light of a prophetic fire, + And standing by the Western sea, above + The youngest, fairest city in the world, + Named in another tongue than his for one + Ensainted, saw its populous domain + Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there + Red-handed murder rioted; and there + The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose + The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat, + But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed: + 'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law + Look to the matter.' But the Law did not. + And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain + Within its mother's breast and the same grave + Held babe and mother; and the people smiled, + Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,' + Then the great poet, touched upon the lips + With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised + His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom— + Sang of the time to be, when God should lean + Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand, + And that foul city be no more!—a tale, + A dream, a desolation and a curse! + No vestige of its glory should survive + In fact or memory: its people dead, + Its site forgotten, and its very name + Disputed." + + "Was the prophecy fulfilled?" + The sullen disc of the declining sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom. + But not to me came any voice again; + And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, + I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POLITICS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + That land full surely hastens to its end + Where public sycophants in homage bend + The populace to flatter, and repeat + The doubled echoes of its loud conceit. + Lowly their attitude but high their aim, + They creep to eminence through paths of shame, + Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r, + The dupes they flattered they at last devour. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POESY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire + That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire. + The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, + And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk. + So die ingloriously Fame's <i>élite</i>, + But dams of dunces keep the line complete. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN DEFENSE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls + Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; + But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle + Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile. + + Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, + Are popular here because popular there; + And for them our ladies persistently go + Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know. + + Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess + The effort's attended with easy success; + And—pardon the freedom—'tis thought, over here, + 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer. + + It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade + Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid, + But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose + No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose. + + Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street + (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!) + 'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say + The men from politeness go seldom astray. + + Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot + Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!) + Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure, + And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure. + + "'Tis nothing but money?" "Your nobles are bought?" + As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought + That England's a country not specially free + Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae. + + You've many a widow and many a girl + With money to purchase a duke or an earl. + 'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, + When goods import buyers from over the sea. + + Alas for the woman of Albion's isle! + She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; + She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose— + But my lord of the future will talk through his nose. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INVOCATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San + Francisco, in 1888.] +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Goddess of Liberty! O thou + Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, + And look unmoved upon the slain, + Eternal peace upon thy brow,— + + Before thy shrine the races press, + Thy perfect favor to implore— + The proudest tyrant asks no more, + The ironed anarchist no less. + + Thine altar-coals that touch the lips + Of prophets kindle, too, the brand + By Discord flung with wanton hand + Among the houses and the ships. + + Upon thy tranquil front the star + Burns bleak and passionless and white, + Its cold inclemency of light + More dreadful than the shadows are. + + Thy name we do not here invoke + Our civic rites to sanctify: + Enthroned in thy remoter sky, + Thou heedest not our broken yoke. + + Thou carest not for such as we: + Our millions die to serve the still + And secret purpose of thy will. + They perish—what is that to thee? + + The light that fills the patriot's tomb + Is not of thee. The shining crown + Compassionately offered down + To those who falter in the gloom, + + And fall, and call upon thy name, + And die desiring—'tis the sign + Of a diviner love than thine, + Rewarding with a richer fame. + + To him alone let freemen cry + Who hears alike the victor's shout, + The song of faith, the moan of doubt, + And bends him from his nearer sky. + + God of my country and my race! + So greater than the gods of old— + So fairer than the prophets told + Who dimly saw and feared thy face,— + + Who didst but half reveal thy will + And gracious ends to their desire, + Behind the dawn's advancing fire + Thy tender day-beam veiling still,— + + To whom the unceasing suns belong, + And cause is one with consequence,— + To whose divine, inclusive sense + The moan is blended with the song,— + + Whose laws, imperfect and unjust, + Thy just and perfect purpose serve: + The needle, howsoe'er it swerve, + Still warranting the sailor's trust,— + + God, lift thy hand and make us free + To crown the work thou hast designed. + O, strike away the chains that bind + Our souls to one idolatry! + + The liberty thy love hath given + We thank thee for. We thank thee for + Our great dead fathers' holy war + Wherein our manacles were riven. + + We thank thee for the stronger stroke + Ourselves delivered and incurred + When—thine incitement half unheard— + The chains we riveted we broke. + + We thank thee that beyond the sea + The people, growing ever wise, + Turn to the west their serious eyes + And dumbly strive to be as we. + + As when the sun's returning flame + Upon the Nileside statue shone, + And struck from the enchanted stone + The music of a mighty fame, + + Let Man salute the rising day + Of Liberty, but not adore. + 'Tis Opportunity—no more— + A useful, not a sacred, ray. + + It bringeth good, it bringeth ill, + As he possessing shall elect. + He maketh it of none effect + Who walketh not within thy will. + + Give thou or more or less, as we + Shall serve the right or serve the wrong. + Confirm our freedom but so long + As we are worthy to be free. + + But when (O, distant be the time!) + Majorities in passion draw + Insurgent swords to murder Law, + And all the land is red with crime; + + Or—nearer menace!—when the band + Of feeble spirits cringe and plead + To the gigantic strength of Greed, + And fawn upon his iron hand;— + + Nay, when the steps to state are worn + In hollows by the feet of thieves, + And Mammon sits among the sheaves + And chuckles while the reapers mourn; + + Then stay thy miracle!—replace + The broken throne, repair the chain, + Restore the interrupted reign + And veil again thy patient face. + + Lo! here upon the world's extreme + We stand with lifted arms and dare + By thine eternal name to swear + Our country, which so fair we deem— + + Upon whose hills, a bannered throng, + The spirits of the sun display + Their flashing lances day by day + And hear the sea's pacific song— + + Shall be so ruled in right and grace + That men shall say: "O, drive afield + The lawless eagle from the shield, + And call an angel to the place!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RELIGION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hassan Bedreddin, clad in rags, ill-shod, + Sought the great temple of the living God. + The worshippers arose and drove him forth, + And one in power beat him with a rod. + + "Allah," he cried, "thou seest what I got; + Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot." + "Be comforted," the Holy One replied; + "It is the only place where I am not." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A MORNING FANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I drifted (or I seemed to) in a boat + Upon the surface of a shoreless sea + Whereon no ship nor anything did float, + Save only the frail bark supporting me; + And that—it was so shadowy—seemed to be + Almost from out the very vapors wrought + Of the great ocean underneath its keel; + And all that blue profound appeared as naught + But thicker sky, translucent to reveal, + Miles down, whatever through its spaces glided, + Or at the bottom traveled or abided. + + Great cities there I saw—of rich and poor, + The palace and the hovel; mountains, vales, + Forest and field, the desert and the moor, + Tombs of the good and wise who'd lived in jails, + And seas of denser fluid, white with sails + Pushed at by currents moving here and there + And sensible to sight above the flat + Of that opaquer deep. Ah, strange and fair + The nether world that I was gazing at + With beating heart from that exalted level, + And—lest I founder—trembling like the devil! + + The cities all were populous: men swarmed + In public places—chattered, laughed and wept; + And savages their shining bodies warmed + At fires in primal woods. The wild beast leapt + Upon its prey and slew it as it slept. + Armies went forth to battle on the plain + So far, far down in that unfathomed deep + The living seemed as silent as the slain, + Nor even the widows could be heard to weep. + One might have thought their shaking was but laughter; + And, truly, most were married shortly after. + + Above the wreckage of that silent fray + Strange fishes swam in circles, round and round— + Black, double-finned; and once a little way + A bubble rose and burst without a sound + And a man tumbled out upon the ground. + Lord! 'twas an eerie thing to drift apace + On that pellucid sea, beneath black skies + And o'er the heads of an undrowning race; + And when I woke I said—to her surprise + Who came with chocolate, for me to drink it: + "The atmosphere is deeper than you think it." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VISIONS OF SIN. + </h2> + <p> + KRASLAJORSK, SIBERIA, March 29. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "My eyes are better, and I shall travel slowly toward home." +</pre> + <h3> + DANENHOWER. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From the regions of the Night, + Coming with recovered sight— + From the spell of darkness free, + What will Danenhower see? + + He will see when he arrives, + Doctors taking human lives. + He will see a learned judge + Whose decision will not budge + Till both litigants are fleeced + And his palm is duly greased. + Lawyers he will see who fight + Day by day and night by night; + Never both upon a side, + Though their fees they still divide. + Preachers he will see who teach + That it is divine to preach— + That they fan a sacred fire + And are worthy of their hire. + He will see a trusted wife + + (Pride of some good husband's life) + Enter at a certain door + And—but he will see no more. + He will see Good Templars reel— + See a prosecutor steal, + And a father beat his child. + He'll perhaps see Oscar Wilde. + + From the regions of the Night + Coming with recovered sight— + From the bliss of blindness free, + That's what Danenhower'll see. + + 1882. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TOWN OF DAE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>Swains and maidens, young and old, + You to me this tale have told.</i> + + Where the squalid town of Dae + Irks the comfortable sea, + Spreading webs to gather fish, + As for wealth we set a wish, + Dwelt a king by right divine, + Sprung from Adam's royal line, + Town of Dae by the sea, + Divers kinds of kings there be. + + Name nor fame had Picklepip: + Ne'er a soldier nor a ship + Bore his banners in the sun; + Naught knew he of kingly sport, + And he held his royal court + Under an inverted tun. + Love and roses, ages through, + Bloom where cot and trellis stand; + Never yet these blossoms grew— + Never yet was room for two— + In a cask upon the strand. + + So it happened, as it ought, + That his simple schemes he wrought + Through the lagging summer's day + In a solitary way. + So it happened, as was best, + That he took his nightly rest + With no dreadful incubus + This way eyed and that way tressed, + Featured thus, and thus, and thus, + Lying lead-like on a breast + By cares of State enough oppressed. + Yet in dreams his fancies rude + Claimed a lordly latitude. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Dreamers mate above their state + And waken back to their degree. + + Once to cask himself away + He prepared at close of day. + As he tugged with swelling throat + At a most unkingly coat— + Not to get it off, but on, + For the serving sun was gone— + Passed a silk-appareled sprite + Toward her castle on the height, + Seized and set the garment right. + Turned the startled Picklepip— + Splendid crimson cheek and lip! + Turned again to sneak away, + + But she bade the villain stay, + Bade him thank her, which he did + With a speech that slipped and slid, + Sprawled and stumbled in its gait + As a dancer tries to skate. + Town of Dae by the sea, + In the face of silk and lace + Rags too bold should never be. + + Lady Minnow cocked her head: + "Mister Picklepip," she said, + "Do you ever think to wed?" + Town of Dae by the sea, + No fair lady ever made a + Wicked speech like that to me! + + Wretched little Picklepip + Said he hadn't any ship, + Any flocks at his command, + Nor to feed them any land; + Said he never in his life + Owned a mine to keep a wife. + But the guilty stammer so + That his meaning wouldn't flow; + So he thought his aim to reach + By some figurative speech: + Said his Fate had been unkind + Had pursued him from behind + (How the mischief could it else?) + + Came upon him unaware, + Caught him by the collar—there + Gushed the little lady's glee + Like a gush of golden bells: + "Picklepip, why, that is <i>me</i>!" + Town of Dae by the sea, + Grammar's for great scholars—she + Loved the summer and the lea. + + Stupid little Picklepip + Allowed the subtle hint to slip— + Maundered on about the ship + That he did not chance to own; + Told this grievance o'er and o'er, + Knowing that she knew before; + Told her how he dwelt alone. + Lady Minnow, for reply, + Cut him off with "So do I!" + But she reddened at the fib; + Servitors had she, <i>ad lib.</i> + Town of Dae by the sea, + In her youth who speaks no truth + Ne'er shall young and honest be. + + Witless little Picklepip + Manned again his mental ship + And veered her with a sudden shift. + Painted to the lady's thought + How he wrestled and he wrought + + Stoutly with the swimming drift + By the kindly river brought + From the mountain to the sea, + Fuel for the town of Dae. + Tedious tale for lady's ear: + From her castle on the height, + She had watched her water-knight + Through the seasons of a year, + Challenge more than met his view + And conquer better than he knew. + Now she shook her pretty pate + And stamped her foot—'t was growing late: + "Mister Picklepip, when I + Drifting seaward pass you by; + When the waves my forehead kiss + And my tresses float above— + Dead and drowned for lack of love— + You'll be sorry, sir, for this!" + And the silly creature cried— + Feared, perchance, the rising tide. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Madam Adam, when she had 'em, + May have been as bad as she. + + <i>Fiat lux!</i> Love's lumination + Fell in floods of revelation! + Blinded brain by world aglare, + Sense of pulses in the air, + + Sense of swooning and the beating + Of a voice somewhere repeating + Something indistinctly heard! + And the soul of Picklepip + Sprang upon his trembling lip, + But he spake no further word + Of the wealth he did not own; + In that moment had outgrown + Ship and mine and flock and land— + Even his cask upon the strand. + Dropped a stricken star to earth, + Type of wealth and worldly worth. + Clomb the moon into the sky, + Type of love's immensity! + Shaking silver seemed the sea, + Throne of God the town of Dae! + Town of Dae by the sea, + From above there cometh love, + Blessing all good souls that be. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ANARCHIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + False to his art and to the high command + God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand + Beats all in vain the harp he touched before: + It yields a jingle and it yields no more. + No more the strings beneath his finger-tips + Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips, + Touched with a living coal from sacred fires, + Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires. + The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak; + They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek! + The more the wayward, disobedient song + Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong, + More diligently still the singer strums, + To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs. + Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean + Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene, + And Israfel, "whose heart-strings are a lute," + Though now compassion makes their music mute, + Among the weeping company appears, + Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once I "dipt into the future far as human eye could see," + And saw—it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she— + The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran + Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man. + But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set, + And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet. + Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart + All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart. + Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search: + "In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch! + Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes + I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes. + Now without a mate of any kind where am I?—that's to say, + Where shall I be to-morrow?—where exert my rightful sway + And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind? + Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined? + Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance— + From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance— + Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return + To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn. + But I fancy I detected—though I pray it wasn't that— + A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat. + So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year, + Till I'm what you now behold me—or would if you were here— + A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud + An Independent Entity appropriately loud! + Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!) + Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate— + To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man + Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van. + O the horrible dilemma!—to be odiously linked + With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!" + + As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air, + Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare— + Plato's Man!—bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump, + Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump. + First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms + It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms. + Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head, + And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said: + "My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw + Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw + To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth; + And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth. + I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl— + I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!" + + From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then + Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARMA VIRUMQUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Ours is a Christian Army"; so he said + A regiment of bangomen who led. + "And ours a Christian Navy," added he + Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea. + Better they know than men unwarlike do + What is an army and a navy, too. + Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by + The knowledge what a Christian is, and why. + For somewhat lamely the conception runs + Of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf + Between two cities, some ambitious fool, + Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave + To push his clumsy feet upon the span, + That men in after years may single him, + Saying: "Behold the fool who first went o'er!" + So be it when, as now the promise is, + Next summer sees the edifice complete + Which some do name a crematorium, + Within the vantage of whose greater maw's + Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm + And circumvent the handed mole who loves, + With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, + To mine our mortal parts in all their dips + And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth + To link his name with this fair enterprise, + As first decarcassed by the flame. And if + With rival greedings for the fiery fame + They push in clamoring multitudes, or if + With unaccustomed modesty they all + Hold off, being something loth to qualify, + Let me select the fittest for the rite. + By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise + And excellent censure of their true deserts, + And such a searching canvass of their claims, + That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice + Upon the main and general of those + Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, + Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn + God's gracious images, designed to rot, + And bellowed for the right of way for each + Distempered carrion through the water pipes. + With such a sturdy, boisterous exclaim + They did discharge themselves from their own throats + Against the splintered gates of audience + 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth + Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible + And seasoned substances—trunks, legs and arms, + Blent indistinguishable in a mass, + Like winter-woven serpents in a pit— + None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point + Of precedence, and all alive—shall serve + As fueling to fervor the retort + For after cineration of true men. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DEMAND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You promised to paint me a picture, + Dear Mat, + And I was to pay you in rhyme. + Although I am loth to inflict your + Most easy of consciences, I'm + Of opinion that fibbing is awful, + And breaking a contract unlawful, + Indictable, too, as a crime, + A slight and all that. + + If, Lady Unbountiful, any + Of that + By mortals called pity has part + In your obdurate soul—if a penny + You care for the health of my heart, + By performing your undertaking + You'll succor that organ from breaking— + And spare it for some new smart, + As puss does a rat. + + Do you think it is very becoming, + Dear Mat, + To deny me my rights evermore + And—bless you! if I begin summing + Your sins they will make a long score! + You never were generous, madam, + If you had been Eve and I Adam + You'd have given me naught but the core, + And little of that. + + Had I been content with a Titian, + A cat + By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, + No doubt I'd have had your permission + To take it—by purchase abroad. + But why should I sail o'er the ocean + For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion + All's bad that the critics belaud. + I wanted a Mat. + + Presumption's a sin, and I suffer + For that: + But still you <i>did</i> say that sometime, + If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher— + That's more than enough) of rhyme + You'd paint me a picture. I pay you + Hereby in advance; and I pray you + Condone, while you can, your crime, + And send me a Mat. + + But if you don't do it I warn you, + Dear Mat, + I'll raise such a clamor and cry + On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you + As mocker of poets and fly + With bitter complaints to Apollo: + "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, + Her beauty"—they'll hardly deny, + On second thought, <i>that</i>! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WEATHER WIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The way was long, the hill was steep, + My footing scarcely I could keep. + + The night enshrouded me in gloom, + I heard the ocean's distant boom— + + The trampling of the surges vast + Was borne upon the rising blast. + + "God help the mariner," I cried, + "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" + + Then from the impenetrable dark + A solemn voice made this remark: + + "For this locality—warm, bright; + Barometer unchanged; breeze light." + + "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, + "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, + + "Thanks—but my care is somewhat less + For Jack's, than for my own, distress. + + "Could I but find a friendly roof, + Small odds what weather were aloof. + + "For he whose comfort is secure + Another's woes can well endure." + + "The latch-string's out," the voice replied, + "And so's the door—jes' step inside." + + Then through the darkness I discerned + A hovel, into which I turned. + + Groping about beneath its thatch, + I struck my head and then a match. + + A candle by that gleam betrayed + Soon lent paraffinaceous aid. + + A pallid, bald and thin old man + I saw, who this complaint began: + + "Through summer suns and winter snows + I sets observin' of my toes. + + "I rambles with increasin' pain + The path of duty, but in vain. + + "Rewards and honors pass me by— + No Congress hears this raven cry!" + + Filled with astonishment, I spoke: + "Thou ancient raven, why this croak? + + "With observation of your toes + What Congress has to do, Heaven knows! + + "And swallow me if e'er I knew + That one could sit and ramble too!" + + To answer me that ancient swain + Took up his parable again: + + "Through winter snows and summer suns + A Weather Bureau here I runs. + + "I calls the turn, and can declare + Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair. + + "Three times a day I sings out clear + The probs to all which wants to hear. + + "Some weather stations run with light + Frivolity is seldom right. + + "A scientist from times remote, + In Scienceville my birth is wrote. + + "And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign + Jes' take your clo'es in off the line." + + "Not mine, O marvelous old man, + The methods of your art to scan, + + "Yet here no instruments there be— + Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see. + + "Did you (if questions you permit) + At the asylum leave your kit?" + + That strange old man with motion rude + Grew to surprising altitude. + + "Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns— + I tells the weather by my corns. + + "No doors and windows here you see— + The wind and m'isture enters free. + + "No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur + Here falsifies the tempercher. + + "My corns unleathered I expose + To feel the rain's foretellin' throes. + + "No stockin' from their ears keeps out + The comin' tempest's warnin' shout. + + "Sich delicacy some has got + They know next summer's to be hot. + + "This here one says (for that he's best): + 'Storm center passin' to the west.' + + "This feller's vitals is transfixed + With frost for Janawary sixt'. + + "One chap jes' now is occy'pied + In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide. + + "I've shaved this cuss so thin and true + He'll spot a fog in South Peru. + + "Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell + Observatory can excel. + + "By long a-studyin' their throbs + I catches onto all the probs." + + Much more, no doubt, he would have said, + But suddenly he turned and fled; + + For in mine eye's indignant green + Lay storms that he had not foreseen, + + Till all at once, with silent squeals, + His toes "caught on" and told his heels. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + T.A.H. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer— + Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; + Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. + And had whatever's needful for a fall. + As rough inflections on a planet merge + In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, + Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, + So in the survey of his worth the small + Asperities of spirit disappear, + Lost in the grander curves of character. + He lately was hit hard: none knew but I + The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke— + Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, + But set his teeth and made a revelry; + Drank like a devil—staining sometimes red + The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, + Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke + His welcome in a tongue so long forgot + That even his ancient guest remembered not + What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend + Still conjugating with each failing sense + The verb "to die" in every mood and tense, + Pursued his awful humor to the end. + When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke + From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, + And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MY MONUMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink + A-drying along my paper, + That a monument fine will surely be mine + When death has extinguished my taper. + + From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe + Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, + A pebble will mark his respect for the stark + Stiff body that's under the barrow. + + By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone + Will make my celebrity deathless. + O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink, + They'd wait till my carcass is breathless. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O ye who push and fight + To hear a wanton sing— + Who utter the delight + That has the bogus ring,— + + O men mature in years, + In understanding young, + The membranes of whose ears + She tickles with her tongue,— + + O wives and daughters sweet, + Who call it love of art + To kiss a woman's feet + That crush a woman's heart,— + + O prudent dams and sires, + Your docile young who bring + To see how man admires + A sinner if she sing,— + + O husbands who impart + To each assenting spouse + The lesson that shall start + The buds upon your brows,— + + All whose applauding hands + Assist to rear the fame + That throws o'er all the lands + The shadow of its shame,— + + Go drag her car!—the mud + Through which its axle rolls + Is partly human blood + And partly human souls. + + Mad, mad!—your senses whirl + Like devils dancing free, + Because a strolling girl + Can hold the note high C. + + For this the avenging rod + Of Heaven ye dare defy, + And tear the law that God + Thundered from Sinai! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOSPITALITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine + (Unless to praise your rascal wine) + Yet never ask some luckless sinner + Who needs, as I do not, a dinner? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let lowly themes engage my humble pen— + Stupidities of critics, not of men. + Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace + Of the expounders' self-directed race— + Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, + Of diligent vacuity the sign. + Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse + The moral meaning of the random verse + That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen + To be half-blotted by ambitious men + Who hope with his their meaner names to link + By writing o'er it in another ink + The thoughts unreal which they think they think, + Until the mental eye in vain inspects + The hateful palimpsest to find the text. + + The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long + Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. + The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, + Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: + Explains its principles, design—in brief, + Pronounces it a parable of grief! + + The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh + With pollen from a hollyhock near by, + Declares he never heard in terms so just + The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! + The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle + To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!" + Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing + And innocently asks: "What!—did I sing?" + + O literary parasites! who thrive + Upon the fame of better men, derive + Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, + And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,— + Who find it half is profit, half delight, + To write about what you could never write,— + Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes + Of famine and discomfiture in those + You write of if they had been critics, too, + And doomed to write of nothing but of you! + + Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, + To see the lion resolutely bent! + The prosing showman who the beast displays + Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. + But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, + The lion owned the show and showed the showman? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0030" id="link2H_4_0030"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Every religion is important. When men rise above existing + conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better + than the old one.—<i>Professor Howison</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Professor dear, I think it queer + That all these good religions + ('Twixt you and me, some two or three + Are schemes for plucking pigeons)— + + I mean 'tis strange that every change + Our poor minds to unfetter + Entails a new religion—true + As t' other one, and better. + + From each in turn the truth we learn, + That wood or flesh or spirit + May justly boast it rules the roast + Until we cease to fear it. + + Nay, once upon a time long gone + Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: + His God he'd find in any kind + Of beast, from a to izzard. + + When risen above his early love + Of dirt and blood and slumber, + He pulled down these vain deities, + And made one out of lumber. + + "Far better that than even a cat," + The Howisons all shouted; + "When God is wood religion's good!" + But one poor cynic doubted. + + "A timber God—that's very odd!" + Said Progress, and invented + The simple plan to worship Man, + Who, kindly soul! consented. + + But soon our eye we lift asky, + Our vows all unregarded, + And find (at least so says the priest) + The Truth—and Man's discarded. + + Along our line of march recline + Dead gods devoid of feeling; + And thick about each sun-cracked lout + Dried Howisons are kneeling. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0031" id="link2H_4_0031"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MAGNANIMITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "To the will of the people we loyally bow!" + That's the minority shibboleth now. + O noble antagonists, answer me flat— + What would you do if you didn't do that? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0032" id="link2H_4_0032"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO HER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, Sinner A, to me unknown + Be such a conscience as your own! + To ease it you to Sinner B + Confess the sins of Sinner C. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0033" id="link2H_4_0033"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A SUMMER POET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, + With a him. + And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, + On the limb; + Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking + And the dudelet is a-smoking + Cigarettes; + And the hackman is a-hacking + And the showman is a-cracking + Up his pets; + Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore + And the snapdog—we have heard it o'er and o'er; + Yes, my poet, + Well we know it— + Know the spooners how they spoon + In the bright + Dollar light + Of the country tavern moon; + Yes, the caterpillars fall + From the trees (we know it all), + And with beetles all the shelves + Are alive. + + Please unbuttonhole us—O, + Have the grace to let us go, + For we know + How you Summer poets thrive, + By the recapitulation + And insistent iteration + Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among + Ourselves! + So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. + For you, poor human linnet, + There's a half a living in it, + But there's not a copper cent in it for us! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0034" id="link2H_4_0034"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ARTHUR McEWEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Posterity with all its eyes + Will come and view him where he lies. + Then, turning from the scene away + With a concerted shrug, will say: + "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus— + What interest has that to us? + We can't admire at all, at all, + A tumble-bug without its ball." + And then a sage will rise and say: + "Good friends, you err—turn back, I pray: + This freak that you unwisely shun + Is bug and ball rolled into one." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0035" id="link2H_4_0035"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHARLES AND PETER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ere Gabriel's note to silence died + All graves of men were gaping wide. + + Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," + Rose slowly from the deepest one. + + "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," + Quoth he—"ick, bick, ban, doe,—I'm It!" + + (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, + Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe": + + Of beating Nick the subtle art + Was part of his immortal part.) + + Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, + Arriving at the Gates of Light. + + There Warden Peter, in the throes + Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. + + "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried— + "I've an engagement there inside." + + The Saint arose and scratched his head. + "I recollect your face," he said. + + "(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), + But——" Dana handed him a card. + + "Ah, yes, I now remember—bless + My soul, how dull I am I—yes, yes, + + "We've nothing better here than bliss. + Walk in. But I must tell you this: + + "We've rest and comfort, though, and peace." + "H'm—puddles," Dana said, "for geese. + + "Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no," + Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below. + + "'T is not included in our scheme— + 'T is but a preacher's idle dream." + + The great man slowly moved away. + "I'll call," he said, "another day. + + "On earth I played it, o'er and o'er, + And Heaven without it were a bore." + + "O, stuff!—come in. You'll make," said Pete, + "A hell where'er you set your feet." + + 1885. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0036" id="link2H_4_0036"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTEMPLATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I muse upon the distant town + In many a dreamy mood. + Above my head the sunbeams crown + The graveyard's giant rood. + The lupin blooms among the tombs. + The quail recalls her brood. + + Ah, good it is to sit and trace + The shadow of the cross; + It moves so still from place to place + O'er marble, bronze and moss; + With graves to mark upon its arc + Our time's eternal loss. + + And sweet it is to watch the bee + That reve's in the rose, + And sense the fragrance floating free + On every breeze that blows + O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, + Mine enemies repose. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CREATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place, + And sailing worlds with many a venturous race! + He woke—His smile alone illumined space. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0038" id="link2H_4_0038"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BUSINESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two villains of the highest rank + Set out one night to rob a bank. + They found the building, looked it o'er, + Each window noted, tried each door, + Scanned carefully the lidded hole + For minstrels to cascade the coal— + In short, examined five-and-twenty + Good paths from poverty to plenty. + But all were sealed, they saw full soon, + Against the minions of the moon. + "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied." + The other, smiling fair and wide, + Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you: + No burglar ever can get through. + Fate surely prospers our design— + The booty all is yours and mine." + So, full of hope, the following day + To the exchange they took their way + And bought, with manner free and frank, + Some stock of that devoted bank; + And they became, inside the year, + One President and one Cashier. + + Their crime I can no further trace— + The means of safety to embrace, + I overdrew and left the place. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A POSSIBILITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + If the wicked gods were willing + (Pray it never may be true!) + That a universal chilling + Should ensue + Of the sentiment of loving,— + If they made a great undoing + Of the plan of turtle-doving, + Then farewell all poet-lore, + Evermore. + If there were no more of billing + There would be no more of cooing + And we all should be but owls— + Lonely fowls + Blinking wonderfully wise, + With our great round eyes— + Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two, + As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo; + With regard to being mated, + Asking still with aggravated + Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A CENSOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of + our judges is responsible for half the murders."—<i>Daily Newspaper</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend, + Impeach Delay and you will make an end. + Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot + For doing all the things that it should not. + Put not good-natured judges under bond, + But make Delay in damages respond. + Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled + Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold— + Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled + To "lash the rascals naked through the world." + The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing + Above whose back your knotted scourges sing. + <i>Your</i> satire, truly, like a razor keen, + "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;" + For naught that you assail with falchion free + Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see. + Against abstractions evermore you charge + You hack no helmet and you need no targe. + That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice, + That wrong's not right and foulness never nice, + Fearless affirm. All consequences dare: + Smite the offense and the offender spare. + When Ananias and Sapphira lied + Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died. + When money-changers in the Temple sat, + At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat" + (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen) + And all the brokers would have cried amen! + + Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame + Have you no courage, or has he no name? + Upon his method will you wreak your wrath, + Himself all unmolested in his path? + Fall to! fall to!—your club no longer draw + To beat the air or flail a man of straw. + Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall + Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall. + Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal— + Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel! + + We know that judges are corrupt. We know + That crimes are lively and that laws are slow. + We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay; + That priests and preachers are but birds of pray; + That merchants cheat and journalists for gold + Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold. + 'Tis all familiar as the simple lore + That two policemen and two thieves make four. + + But since, while some are wicked, some are good, + (As trees may differ though they all are wood) + Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit, + The bad would sentence and the good acquit. + In sparing everybody none you spare: + Rebukes most personal are least unfair. + To fire at random if you still prefer, + And swear at Dog but never kick a cur, + Permit me yet one ultimate appeal + To something that you understand and feel: + Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade— + You might be read if you would learn your trade. + + Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed + Not one of you but all are here addressed) + Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart + Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart + Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green, + Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0041" id="link2H_4_0041"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HESITATING VETERAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When I was young and full of faith + And other fads that youngsters cherish + A cry rose as of one that saith + With unction: "Help me or I perish!" + 'Twas heard in all the land, and men + The sound were each to each repeating. + It made my heart beat faster then + Than any heart can now be beating. + + For the world is old and the world is gray— + Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. + She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, + And doesn't now go in for Pity. + Besides, the melancholy cry + Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, + Whose plight no one beneath the sky + Felt half so poignantly as he did. + + Moreover, he was black. And yet + That sentimental generation + With an austere compassion set + Its face and faith to the occasion. + Then there were hate and strife to spare, + And various hard knocks a-plenty; + And I ('twas more than my true share, + I must confess) took five-and-twenty. + + That all is over now—the reign + Of love and trade stills all dissensions, + And the clear heavens arch again + Above a land of peace and pensions. + The black chap—at the last we gave + Him everything that he had cried for, + Though many white chaps in the grave + 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for. + + I hope he's better off—I trust + That his society and his master's + Are worth the price we paid, and must + Continue paying, in disasters; + But sometimes doubts press thronging round + ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) + If war for union was a sound + And profitable undertaking. + + 'Tis said they mean to take away + The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. + 'Tis true he sits in darkness day + And night, as formerly, when fettered; + But pray observe—howe'er he vote + To whatsoever party turning, + He'll be with gentlemen of note + And wealth and consequence and learning. + With Hales and Morgans on each side, + How could a fool through lack of knowledge, + Vote wrong? If learning is no guide + Why ought one to have been in college? + O Son of Day, O Son of Night! + What are your preferences made of? + I know not which of you is right, + Nor which to be the more afraid of. + + The world is old and the world is bad, + And creaks and grinds upon its axis; + And man's an ape and the gods are mad!— + There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. + No mortal man can Truth restore, + Or say where she is to be sought for. + I know what uniform I wore— + O, that I knew which side I fought for! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0042" id="link2H_4_0042"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, + Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, + Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed + The river to join the loved and lost. + In the space of a year their spirits fled, + Silent and white, to the camp of the dead. + + One after one, they fall asleep + And the pension agents awake to weep, + And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail + As the souls flit by on the evening gale. + O Father of Battles, pray give us release + From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0043" id="link2H_4_0043"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INSPIRATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: + I fain would view the lettered stone. + What carvest thou?—perchance some grand + And solemn fancy all thine own. + For oft to know the fitting word + Some humble worker God permits. + "Jain Ann Meginnis, + Agid 3rd. + He givith His beluved fits." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO-DAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw a man who knelt in prayer, + And heard him say: + "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare + To-day. + + "Lord, for to-morrow and its need + I do not pray; + Let me upon my neighbor feed + To-day. + + "Let me my duty duly shirk + And run away + From any form or phase of work + To-day. + + "From Thy commands exempted still + Let me obey + The promptings of my private will + To-day. + + "Let me no word profane, no lie + Unthinking say + If anyone is standing by + To-day. + + "My secret sins and vices grave + Let none betray; + The scoffer's jeers I do not crave + To-day. + + "And if to-day my fortune all + Should ebb away, + Help me on other men's to fall + To-day. + + "So, for to-morrow and its mite + I do not pray; + Just give me everything in sight + To-day." + + I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran + Like oil away. + I said: "I've seen an honest man + To-day." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0045" id="link2H_4_0045"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ALIBI. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A famous journalist, who long + Had told the great unheaded throng + Whate'er they thought, by day or night. + Was true as Holy Writ, and right, + Was caught in—well, on second thought, + It is enough that he was caught, + And being thrown in jail became + The fuel of a public flame. + + "<i>Vox populi vox Dei</i>," said + The jailer. Inxling bent his head + Without remark: that motto good + In bold-faced type had always stood + Above the columns where his pen + Had rioted in praise of men + And all they said—provided he + Was sure they mostly did agree. + Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife + To take, or save, the culprit's life + Or liberty (which, I suppose, + Was much the same to him) arose + Outside. The journal that his pen + Adorned denounced his crime—but then + Its editor in secret tried + To have the indictment set aside. + The opposition papers swore + His father was a rogue before, + And all his wife's relations were + Like him and similar to her. + They begged their readers to subscribe + A dollar each to make a bribe + That any Judge would feel was large + Enough to prove the gravest charge— + Unless, it might be, the defense + Put up superior evidence. + The law's traditional delay + Was all too short: the trial day + Dawned red and menacing. The Judge + Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, + And all the motions counsel made + Could not move <i>him</i>—and there he stayed. + "The case must now proceed," he said, + "While I am just in heart and head, + It happens—as, indeed, it ought— + Both sides with equal sums have bought + My favor: I can try the cause + Impartially." (Prolonged applause.) + + The prisoner was now arraigned + And said that he was greatly pained + To be suspected—<i>he</i>, whose pen + Had charged so many other men + With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," + He said, a tear in either eye, + "If men who live by crying out + 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt + Of their integrity exempt, + Let all forego the vain attempt + To make a reputation! Sir, + I'm innocent, and I demur." + Whereat a thousand voices cried + Amain he manifestly lied— + <i>Vox populi</i> as loudly roared + As bull by <i>picadores</i> gored, + In his own coin receiving pay + To make a Spanish holiday. + + The jury—twelve good men and true— + Were then sworn in to see it through, + And each made solemn oath that he + As any babe unborn was free + From prejudice, opinion, thought, + Respectability, brains—aught + That could disqualify; and some + Explained that they were deaf and dumb. + A better twelve, his Honor said, + Was rare, except among the dead. + The witnesses were called and sworn. + The tales they told made angels mourn, + And the Good Book they'd kissed became + Red with the consciousness of shame. + + Whenever one of them approached + The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, + Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. + "Strike out his testimony," quoth + The learned judge: "This Court denies + Its ear to stories which surprise. + I hold that witnesses exempt + From coaching all are in contempt." + Both Prosecution and Defense + Applauded the judicial sense, + And the spectators all averred + Such wisdom they had never heard: + 'Twas plain the prisoner would be + Found guilty in the first degree. + Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed + The nameless terrors in his breast. + He felt remorseful, too, because + He wasn't half they said he was. + "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused + On opportunities unused, + "I might have easily become + As wealthy as Methusalum." + This journalist adorned, alas, + The middle, not the Bible, class. + + With equal skill the lawyers' pleas + Attested their divided fees. + Each gave the other one the lie, + Then helped him frame a sharp reply. + + Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, + And lasted all the day and night. + When once or oftener the roar + Had silenced the judicial snore + The speaker suffered for the sport + By fining for contempt of court. + Twelve jurors' noses good and true + Unceasing sang the trial through, + And even <i>vox populi</i> was spent + In rattles through a nasal vent. + Clerk, bailiff, constables and all + Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call + To arms—his arms—and all fell in + Save counsel for the Man of Sin. + That thaumaturgist stood and swayed + The wand their faculties obeyed— + That magic wand which, like a flame. + Leapt, wavered, quivered and became + A wonder-worker—known among + The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue. + + How long, O Lord, how long my verse + Runs on for better or for worse + In meter which o'ermasters me, + Octosyllabically free!— + A meter which, the poets say, + No power of restraint can stay;— + A hard-mouthed meter, suited well + To him who, having naught to tell, + Must hold attention as a trout + Is held, by paying out and out + The slender line which else would break + Should one attempt the fish to take. + Thus tavern guides who've naught to show + But some adjacent curio + By devious trails their patrons lead + And make them think 't is far indeed. + Where was I? + + While the lawyer talked + The rogue took up his feet and walked: + While all about him, roaring, slept, + Into the street he calmly stepped. + In very truth, the man who thought + The people's voice from heaven had caught + God's inspiration took a change + Of venue—it was passing strange! + Straight to his editor he went + And that ingenious person sent + A Negro to impersonate + The fugitive. In adequate + Disguise he took his vacant place + And buried in his arms his face. + When all was done the lawyer stopped + And silence like a bombshell dropped + Upon the Court: judge, jury, all + Within that venerable hall + (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, + And one or two whom death had freed) + Awoke and tried to look as though + Slumber was all they did not know. + + And now that tireless lawyer-man + Took breath, and then again began: + "Your Honor, if you did attend + To what I've urged (my learned friend + Nodded concurrence) to support + The motion I have made, this court + May soon adjourn. With your assent + I've shown abundant precedent + For introducing now, though late, + New evidence to exculpate + My client. So, if you'll allow, + I'll prove an <i>alibi</i>!" "What?—how?" + Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't + Deny your showing, and I grant + The motion. Do I understand + You undertake to prove—good land!— + That when the crime—you mean to show + Your client wasn't <i>there</i>?" "O, no, + I cannot quite do that, I find: + My <i>alibi's</i> another kind + Of <i>alibi</i>,—I'll make it clear, + Your Honor, that he isn't <i>here</i>." + The Darky here upreared his head, + Tranquillity affrighted fled + And consternation reigned instead! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0046" id="link2H_4_0046"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REBUKE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Admonition's hand essays + Our greed to curse, + Its lifted finger oft displays + Our missing purse. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + J.F.B. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How well this man unfolded to our view + The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell— + This man whose own convictions none could tell, + Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. + Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew + The fair philosophies of doubt so well + That while we listened to his words there fell + Some that were strangely comforting, though true. + Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt, + We said: "If so, by groping in the night, + He can proclaim some certain paths of trust, + How great our profit if he saw about + His feet the highways leading to the light." + Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0047" id="link2H_4_0047"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DYING STATESMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + It is a politician man— + He draweth near his end, + And friends weep round that partisan, + Of every man the friend. + + Between the Known and the Unknown + He lieth on the strand; + The light upon the sea is thrown + That lay upon the land. + + It shineth in his glazing eye, + It burneth on his face; + God send that when we come to die + We know that sign of grace! + + Upon his lips his blessed sprite + Poiseth her joyous wing. + "How is it with thee, child of light? + Dost hear the angels sing?" + + "The song I hear, the crown I see, + And know that God is love. + Farewell, dark world—I go to be + A postmaster above!" + + For him no monumental arch, + But, O, 'tis good and brave + To see the Grand Old Party march + To office o'er his grave! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0048" id="link2H_4_0048"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEATH OF GRANT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Father! whose hard and cruel law + Is part of thy compassion's plan, + Thy works presumptuously we scan + For what the prophets say they saw. + + Unbidden still the awful slope + Walling us in we climb to gain + Assurance of the shining plain + That faith has certified to hope. + + In vain!—beyond the circling hill + The shadow and the cloud abide. + Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide + To trust the Record and be still. + + To trust it loyally as he + Who, heedful of his high design, + Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, + But wrought thy will unconsciously, + + Disputing not of chance or fate, + Nor questioning of cause or creed; + For anything but duty's deed + Too simply wise, too humbly great. + + The cannon syllabled his name; + His shadow shifted o'er the land, + Portentous, as at his command + Successive cities sprang to flame! + + He fringed the continent with fire, + The rivers ran in lines of light! + Thy will be done on earth—if right + Or wrong he cared not to inquire. + + His was the heavy hand, and his + The service of the despot blade; + His the soft answer that allayed + War's giant animosities. + + Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, + Fill, Father, with another light, + That we may see with clearer sight + Thy servant's soul in Paradise. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0049" id="link2H_4_0049"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + The Muse of History records + That he'd get drunk as twenty lords. + + He'd get so truly drunk that men + Stood by to marvel at him when + His slow advance along the street + Was but a vain cycloidal feat. + + And when 'twas fated that he fall + With a wide geographical sprawl, + They signified assent by sounds + Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds. + + And yet this Mr. Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes + When it was red or otherwise. + + All malt, or spirituous, tope + He loathed as cats dissent from soap; + And cider, if it touched his lip, + Evoked a groan at every sip. + + But still, as heretofore explained, + He not infrequently was grained. + (I'm not of those who call it "corned." + Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.) + + Though truth to say, and that's but right, + Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) + Was what had put him in the mud, + The only kind he used was blood! + + Alas, that an immortal soul + Addicted to the flowing bowl, + The emptied flagon should again + Replenish from a neighbor's vein. + + But, Mr. Shanahan was so + Constructed, and his taste that low. + Nor more deplorable was he + In kind of thirst than in degree; + + For sometimes fifty souls would pay + The debt of nature in a day + To free him from the shame and pain + Of dread Sobriety's misreign. + + His native land, proud of its sense + Of his unique inabstinence, + Abated something of its pride + At thought of his unfilled inside. + + And some the boldness had to say + 'Twere well if he were called away + To slake his thirst forevermore + In oceans of celestial gore. + + But Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Knew that his thirst was mortal; so + Remained unsainted here below— + + Unsainted and unsaintly, for + He neither went to glory nor + To abdicate his power deigned + Where, under Providence, he reigned, + + But kept his Boss's power accurst + To serve his wild uncommon thirst. + Which now had grown so truly great + It was a drain upon the State. + + Soon, soon there came a time, alas! + When he turned down an empty glass— + All practicable means were vain + His special wassail to obtain. + + In vain poor Decimation tried + To furnish forth the needful tide; + And Civil War as vainly shed + Her niggard offering of red. + + Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased + Until he wished himself deceased, + Invoked the firearm and the knife, + But could not die to save his life! + + He was so dry his own veins made + No answer to the seeking blade; + So parched that when he would have passed + Away he could not breathe his last. + + 'Twas then, when almost in despair, + (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) + He saw as in a dream a way + To wet afresh his mortal clay. + + Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Saw freedom, and with joy and pride + "Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried. + + Straight to the Aldermen went he, + With many a "pull" and many a fee, + And many a most corrupt "combine" + (The Press for twenty cents a line + + Held out and fought him—O, God, bless + Forevermore the holy Press!) + Till he had franchises complete + For trolley lines on every street! + + The cars were builded and, they say, + Were run on rails laid every way— + Rhomboidal roads, and circular, + And oval—everywhere a car— + + Square, dodecagonal (in great + Esteem the shape called Figure 8) + And many other kinds of shapes + As various as tails of apes. + + No other group of men's abodes + E'er had such odd electric roads, + That winding in and winding out, + Began and ended all about. + + No city had, unless in Mars, + That city's wealth of trolley cars. + They ran by day, they flew by night, + And O, the sorry, sorry sight! + + And Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Incessantly, the Muse records, + Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LAUS LUCIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the + Mysteries of Antiquity."—<i>Vide the Newspapers, passim</i>. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Each to his taste: some men prefer to play + At mystery, as others at piquet. + Some sit in mystic meditation; some + Parade the street with tambourine and drum. + One studies to decipher ancient lore + Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; + Another swears that learning is but good + To darken things already understood, + Then writes upon Simplicity so well + That none agree on what he wants to tell, + And future ages will declare his pen + Inspired by gods with messages to men. + To found an ancient order those devote + Their time—with ritual, regalia, goat, + Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease + And all the modern inconveniences; + These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites + And go to church for rational delights. + So all are suited, shallow and profound, + The prophets prosper and the world goes round. + For me—unread in the occult, I'm fain + To damn all mysteries alike as vain, + Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon + The Revelations of the good St. John. + + 1897. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0051" id="link2H_4_0051"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NANINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + We heard a song-bird trilling— + 'T was but a night ago. + Such rapture he was rilling + As only we could know. + + This morning he is flinging + His music from the tree, + But something in the singing + Is not the same to me. + + His inspiration fails him, + Or he has lost his skill. + Nanine, Nanine, what ails him + That he should sing so ill? + + Nanine is not replying— + She hears no earthly song. + The sun and bird are lying + And the night is, O, so long! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TECHNOLOGY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas a serious person with locks of gray + And a figure like a crescent; + His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, + But his smile was evanescent. + + He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and + With (likewise) a high falsetto; + And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand + As if it had been a stiletto. + + His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, + Came out of his head unblended, + And the wonderful altitude of some + Was exceptionally splendid. + + While executing a shake of the head, + With the hand, as it were, of a master, + This agonizing old gentleman said: + "'Twas a truly sad disaster! + + "Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, + Went down"—he paused and snuffled. + A single tear was observed to fall, + And the old man's drum was muffled. + + "A very calamitous year," he said. + And again his head-piece hoary + He shook, and another pearl he shed, + As if he wept <i>con amore.</i> + + "O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why + Should these failures so affect you? + With speculators in stocks no eye + That's normal would ever connect you." + + He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled + In a sinister sort of manner. + "Young man," he said, "your words are wild: + I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.' + + "For she has went down in a howlin' squall, + And my heart is nigh to breakin'— + Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all + Will never need undertakin'! + + "I'm in the business myself," said he, + "And you've mistook my expression; + For I uses the technical terms, you see, + Employed in my perfession." + + That old undertaker has joined the throng + On the other side of the River, + But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long," + And a tape-line makes me shiver. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0053" id="link2H_4_0053"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A REPLY TO A LETTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O nonsense, parson—tell me not they thrive + And jubilate who follow your dictation. + The good are the unhappiest lot alive— + I know they are from careful observation. + If freedom from the terrors of damnation + Lengthens the visage like a telescope, + And lacrymation is a sign of hope, + Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, + To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope + Contentedly without your lantern's light; + And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, + Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap. + + You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, + With many a million others of my kidney. + Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed + With sinners—worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney + And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss + To simulate respect for Genesis— + Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, + But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, + And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss. + + Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, + Must go to—beg your pardon, sir—perdition, + The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, + But count it sin of the sort called omission + The groan to smother or the tear to stay + Or fail to—what is that they live by?—pray. + So down they flop, and the whole serious race is + Put by divine compassion on a praying basis. + + Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet + Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, + You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, + And you look down upon us out of Heaven. + In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades + Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades + Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, + Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound, + Dash downward through the glimmering profound, + Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out! + + Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs + To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs + Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, + With less of ink than incoherence fraught + Befits the folly that it tries to utter. + Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: + You suffer from impediment of thought. + + When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: + Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where! + Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, + Bears witness how my anger I can tame: + I've called you everything except your hateful name! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO OSCAR WILDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because from Folly's lips you got + Some babbled mandate to subdue + The realm of Common Sense, and you + Made promise and considered not— + + Because you strike a random blow + At what you do not understand, + And beckon with a friendly hand + To something that you do not know, + + I hold no speech of your desert, + Nor answer with porrected shield + The wooden weapon that you wield, + But meet you with a cast of dirt. + + Dispute with such a thing as you— + Twin show to the two-headed calf? + Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, + 'T is more than half the world can do. + + 1882. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0055" id="link2H_4_0055"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRAYER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fear not in any tongue to call + Upon the Lord—He's skilled in all. + But if He answereth my plea + He speaketh one unknown to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh + Is a statesman of world-wide fame, + With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh + To glorify somebody's name— + Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters + To succor the country from divers disasters + Portentous to Mr. Mahosh. + + Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee + Is in the political swim. + He cares not a button for men, not he: + Great principles captivate him— + Principles cleverly cut out and fitted + To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, + And fought for by Mr. Cabee. + + Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse + Holds office the most of his life. + For men nor for principles cares he a curse, + But much for his neighbor's wife. + The Ship of State leaks, but <i>he</i> doesn't pump any, + Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company + Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0057" id="link2H_4_0057"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O Liberty, God-gifted— + Young and immortal maid— + In your high hand uplifted; + The torch declares your trade. + + Its crimson menace, flaming + Upon the sea and shore, + Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming + That Law shall be no more. + + Austere incendiary, + We're blinking in the light; + Where is your customary + Grenade of dynamite? + + Where are your staves and switches + For men of gentle birth? + Your mask and dirk for riches? + Your chains for wit and worth? + + Perhaps, you've brought the halters + You used in the old days, + When round religion's altars + You stabled Cromwell's bays? + + Behind you, unsuspected, + Have you the axe, fair wench, + Wherewith you once collected + A poll-tax from the French? + + America salutes you— + Preparing to disgorge. + Take everything that suits you, + And marry Henry George. + + 1894 +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0058" id="link2H_4_0058"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. + One place it never comes, and that is here. + Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, + No well-worn greetings tediously ring— + For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: + The hollower they are they ring the more. + Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, + Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, + No trinket-laden vegetable come, + No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. + No shrilling children shall their voices rear. + Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer! + + No presents, if you please—I know too well + What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell + (I know not if he did) yet might have told + Of present-giving in the days of old, + When Early Man with gifts propitiated + The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, + Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude + Advantage from the taker's gratitude. + Since thus the Gift its origin derives + (How much of its first character survives + You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, + My pocket buttoned—with my soul inside. + I save my money and I save my pride. + + Dinner? Yes; thank you—just a human body + Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy + To give me appetite; and as for drink, + About a half a jug of blood, I think, + Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, + Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine + Fretting the satin surface of its flood. + O tope of kings—divine Falernian—blood! + + Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, + The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! + Has not a pagan rights to be regarded— + His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded + With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan + Even in his demonium would ban? + + No, friends—no Christmas here, for I have sworn + To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. + Enough you have of jester, player, priest: + I as the skeleton attend your feast, + In the mad revelry to make a lull + With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. + However you my services may flout, + Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, + I mean to hold in customary state, + My dismal revelry and celebrate + My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, + Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom + And cultivate an oasis of gloom. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes + Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; + Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown + Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; + Justice denied, authority abused, + And the one honest person the accused— + Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, + Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0060" id="link2H_4_0060"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EPITAPH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse— + So small a tenant of so big a house! + He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist + Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) + And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, + His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,— + What poetry he'd written but for lack + Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! + Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep + To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! + To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs + And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. + No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, + Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" + The genius of his purse no longer draws + The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. + All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, + Though riddances of worms improve his brains. + All his no talents to the earth revert, + And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE POLITICIAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Let Glory's sons manipulate + The tiller of the Ship of State. + Be mine the humble, useful toil + To work the tiller of the soil." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0062" id="link2H_4_0062"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INSCRIPTION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him who + Made it Beautiful. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dear + Good folk he lived and moved among in peace— + Guarded on either hand by the police, + With soldiers in his front and in his rear. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The polecat, sovereign of its native wood, + Dashes damnation upon bad and good; + The health of all the upas trees impairs + By exhalations deadlier than theirs; + Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad— + The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode! + She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking dale + The horrid aspergillus of her tail! + From every saturated hair, till dry, + The spargent fragrances divergent fly, + Deafen the earth and scream along the sky! + + Removed to alien scenes, amid the strife + Of urban odors to ungladden life— + Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspire + The flesh to torture and the soul to fire— + Where all the "well defined and several stinks" + Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks— + Humbled in spirit, smitten with a sense + Of lost distinction, leveled eminence, + She suddenly resigns her baleful trust, + Nor ever lays again our mortal dust. + Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk, + She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0064" id="link2H_4_0064"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O, I'm the Unaverage Man, + But you never have heard of me, + For my brother, the Average Man, outran + My fame with rapiditee, + And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea, + But my bully big brother the world can span + With his wide notorietee. + I do everything that I can + To make 'em attend to me, + But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man + With a weird uniformitee." + + So sang with a dolorous note + A voice that I heard from the beach; + On the sable waters it seemed to float + Like a mortal part of speech. + The sea was Oblivion's sea, + And I cried as I plunged to swim: + "The Unaverage Man shall reside with me." + But he didn't—I stayed with him! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spice + And shells and corals, brought for my inspection + From the fair tropics—paid a Christian price + And was content in my fool's paradise, + Where never had been heard the word "Protection." + + 'T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone— + No customs-house, collector nor collection, + But a man came, who, in a pious tone + Condoled with me that I had never known + The manifest advantage of Protection. + + So, when the trading-boat arrived one day, + He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section. + The traders paddled for their lives away, + Nor came again into that haunted bay, + The blessed home thereafter of Protection. + + Then down he sat, that philanthropic man, + And spat upon some mud of his selection, + And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan, + To shapes of shells and coral things, and span + A thread of song in glory of Protection. + + He baked them in the sun. His air devout + Enchanted me. I made a genuflexion: + "God help you, gentle sir," I said. "No doubt," + He answered gravely, "I'll get on without + Assistance now that we have got Protection." + + Thenceforth I bought his wares—at what a price + For shells and corals of such imperfection! + "Ah, now," said he, "your lot is truly nice." + But still in all that isle there was no spice + To season to my taste that dish, Protection. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0066" id="link2H_4_0066"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I died. As meekly in the earth I lay, + With shriveled fingers reverently folded, + The worm—uncivil engineer!—my clay + Tunneled industriously, and the mole did. + My body could not dodge them, but my soul did; + For that had flown from this terrestrial ball + And I was rid of it for good and all. + + So there I lay, debating what to do— + What measures might most usefully be taken + To circumvent the subterranean crew + Of anthropophagi and save my bacon. + My fortitude was all this while unshaken, + But any gentleman, of course, protests + Against receiving uninvited guests. + + However proud he might be of his meats, + Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus, + Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets; + "<i>Aut Caesar</i>," say judicious hosts, "<i>aut nullus</i>." + And though when Marcius came unbidden Tullus + Aufidius feasted him because he starved, + Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved. + + We feed the hungry, as the book commands + (For men might question else our orthodoxy) + But do not care to see the outstretched hands, + And so we minister to them by proxy. + When Want, in his improper person, knocks he + Finds we're engaged. The graveworm's very fresh + To think we like his presence in the flesh. + + So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in all + That underworld no judges could determine + My rights. When Death approaches them they fall, + And falling, naturally soil their ermine. + And still below ground, as above, the vermin + That work by dark and silent methods win + The case—the burial case that one is in. + + Cases at law so slowly get ahead, + Even when the right is visibly unclouded, + That if all men are classed as quick and dead, + The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded. + Pray Jove that when they're actually crowded + On Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight, + His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite. + + Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begot + A race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourish + And woman to caress, the muse had not + Lamented the decay of virtues currish, + And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish, + For barking, biting, kissing to employ + Canine repeaters were indeed a joy. + + Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I, + Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping, + By moles and worms and such familiar fry + Run through and through, am singing still and harping + Of mundane matters—flatting, too, and sharping. + I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup: + So I'm for getting—and for shutting—up. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN MEMORIAM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid + Of many things in the world afraid. + She wasn't a maid who turned and fled + At sight of a mouse, alive or dead. + She wasn't a maid a man could "shoo" + By shouting, however abruptly, "Boo!" + She wasn't a maid who'd run and hide + If her face and figure you idly eyed. + She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shake + When asked what part of the fowl she'd take. + (I blush myself to confess she preferred, + And commonly got, the most of the bird.) + She wasn't a maid to simper because + She was asked to sing—if she ever was. + + In short, if the truth must be displayed + <i>In puris</i>—Beauty wasn't a maid. + Beauty, furry and fine and fat, + Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that, + Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat! + + I loved her well, and I'm proud that she + Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me; + In fact I have sometimes gone so far + (You know, mesdames, how silly men are) + As to think she preferred—excuse the conceit— + <i>My</i> legs upon which to sharpen her feet. + Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much, + But I started and thrilled beneath her touch! + + Ah, well, that's ancient history now: + The fingers of Time have touched my brow, + And I hear with never a start to-day + That Beauty has passed from the earth away. + Gone!—her death-song (it killed her) sung. + Gone!—her fiddlestrings all unstrung. + Gone to the bliss of a new <i>régime</i> + Of turkey smothered in seas of cream; + Of roasted mice (a superior breed, + To science unknown and the coarser need + Of the living cat) cooked by the flame + Of the dainty soul of an erring dame + Who gave to purity all her care, + Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,— + Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice + By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise; + A very digestible sort of mice. + + Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold + That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold, + To eat and eat, forever and aye, + On a velvet rug from a golden tray. + But the human spirit—that is my creed— + Rots in the ground like a barren seed. + That is my creed, abhorred by Man + But approved by Cat since time began. + Till Death shall kick at me, thundering "Scat!" + I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0068" id="link2H_4_0068"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STATESMEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + How blest the land that counts among + Her sons so many good and wise, + To execute great feats of tongue + When troubles rise. + + Behold them mounting every stump + Our liberty by speech to guard. + Observe their courage:—see them jump + And come down hard! + + "Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud, + "And learn from me what you must do + To turn aside the thunder cloud, + The earthquake too. + + "Beware the wiles of yonder quack + Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. + I—I alone can show that black + Is white as grass." + + They shout through all the day and break + The silence of the night as well. + They'd make—I wish they'd <i>go</i> and make— + Of Heaven a Hell. + + A advocates free silver, B + Free trade and C free banking laws. + Free board, clothes, lodging would from me + Win warm applause. + + Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see + The single tax on land would fall + On all alike." More evenly + No tax at all. + + "With paper money" bellows E + "We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt— + And richest of the lot will be + The chap without. + + As many "cures" as addle wits + Who know not what the ailment is! + Meanwhile the patient foams and spits + Like a gin fizz. + + Alas, poor Body Politic, + Your fate is all too clearly read: + To be not altogether quick, + Nor very dead. + + You take your exercise in squirms, + Your rest in fainting fits between. + 'T is plain that your disorder's worms— + Worms fat and lean. + + Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell + Within your maw and muscle's scope. + Their quarrels make your life a Hell, + Your death a hope. + + God send you find not such an end + To ills however sharp and huge! + God send you convalesce! God send + You vermifuge. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0069" id="link2H_4_0069"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BROTHERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Scene—<i>A lawyer's dreadful den. + Enter stall-fed citizen.</i> +</pre> + <p> + LAWYER.—'Mornin'. How-de-do? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +CITIZEN.—Sir, same to you. + Called as counsel to retain you + In a case that I'll explain you. + Sad, <i>so</i> sad! Heart almost broke. + Hang it! where's my kerchief? Smoke? + Brother, sir, and I, of late, + Came into a large estate. + Brother's—h'm, ha,—rather queer + Sometimes <i>(tapping forehead) </i>here. + What he needs—you know—a "writ"— + Something, eh? that will permit + Me to manage, sir, in fine, + His estate, as well as mine. + 'Course he'll <i>kick</i>; 't will break, I fear, + His loving heart—excuse this tear. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +LAWYER.—Have you nothing more? + All of this you said before— + When last night I took your case. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +CITIZEN.—Why, sir, your face + Ne'er before has met my view! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +LAWYER.—Eh? The devil! True: + My mistake—it was your brother. + But you're very like each other. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0070" id="link2H_4_0070"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In that fair city, Ispahan, + There dwelt a problematic man, + Whose angel never was released, + Who never once let out his beast, + But kept, through all the seasons' round, + Silence unbroken and profound. + No Prophecy, with ear applied + To key-hole of the future, tried + Successfully to catch a hint + Of what he'd do nor when begin 't; + As sternly did his past defy + Mild Retrospection's backward eye. + Though all admired his silent ways, + The women loudest were in praise: + For ladies love those men the most + Who never, never, never boast— + Who ne'er disclose their aims and ends + To naughty, naughty, naughty friends. + + Yet, sooth to say, the fame outran + The merit of this doubtful man, + For taciturnity in him, + Though not a mere caprice or whim, + Was not a virtue, such as truth, + High birth, or beauty, wealth or youth. + + 'Twas known, indeed, throughout the span + Of Ispahan, of Gulistan— + These utmost limits of the earth + Knew that the man was dumb from birth. + + Unto the Sun with deep salaams + The Parsee spreads his morning palms + (A beacon blazing on a height + Warms o'er his piety by night.) + The Moslem deprecates the deed, + Cuts off the head that holds the creed, + Then reverently goes to grass, + Muttering thanks to Balaam's Ass + For faith and learning to refute + Idolatry so dissolute! + But should a maniac dash past, + With straws in beard and hands upcast, + To him (through whom, whene'er inclined + To preach a bit to Madmankind, + The Holy Prophet speaks his mind) + Our True Believer lifts his eyes + Devoutly and his prayer applies; + But next to Solyman the Great + Reveres the idiot's sacred state. + Small wonder then, our worthy mute + Was held in popular repute. + Had he been blind as well as mum, + Been lame as well as blind and dumb, + No bard that ever sang or soared + Could say how he had been adored. + More meagerly endowed, he drew + An homage less prodigious. True, + No soul his praises but did utter— + All plied him with devotion's butter, + But none had out—'t was to their credit— + The proselyting sword to spread it. + I state these truths, exactly why + The reader knows as well as I; + They've nothing in the world to do + With what I hope we're coming to + If Pegasus be good enough + To move when he has stood enough. + Egad! his ribs I would examine + Had I a sharper spur than famine, + Or even with that if 'twould incline + To examine his instead of mine. + Where was I? Ah, that silent man + Who dwelt one time in Ispahan— + He had a name—was known to all + As Meerza Solyman Zingall. + + There lived afar in Astrabad, + A man the world agreed was mad, + So wickedly he broke his joke + Upon the heads of duller folk, + So miserly, from day to day, + He gathered up and hid away + In vaults obscure and cellars haunted + What many worthy people wanted, + A stingy man!—the tradesmen's palms + Were spread in vain: "I give no alms + Without inquiry"—so he'd say, + And beat the needy duns away. + The bastinado did, 'tis true, + Persuade him, now and then, a few + Odd tens of thousands to disburse + To glut the taxman's hungry purse, + But still, so rich he grew, his fear + Was constant that the Shah might hear. + (The Shah had heard it long ago, + And asked the taxman if 'twere so, + Who promptly answered, rather airish, + The man had long been on the parish.) + The more he feared, the more he grew + A cynic and a miser, too, + Until his bitterness and pelf + Made him a terror to himself; + Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke, + He tartly cut his final joke. + So perished, not an hour too soon, + The wicked Muley Ben Maroon. + + From Astrabad to Ispahan + At camel speed the rumor ran + That, breaking through tradition hoar, + And throwing all his kinsmen o'er, + The miser'd left his mighty store + Of gold—his palaces and lands— + To needy and deserving hands + (Except a penny here and there + To pay the dervishes for prayer.) + 'Twas known indeed throughout the span + Of earth, and into Hindostan, + That our beloved mute was the + Residuary legatee. + The people said 'twas very well, + And each man had a tale to tell + Of how he'd had a finger in 't + By dropping many a friendly hint + At Astrabad, you see. But ah, + They feared the news might reach the Shah! + To prove the will the lawyers bore 't + Before the Kadi's awful court, + Who nodded, when he heard it read, + Confirmingly his drowsy head, + Nor thought, his sleepiness so great, + Himself to gobble the estate. + "I give," the dead had writ, "my all + To Meerza Solyman Zingall + Of Ispahan. With this estate + I might quite easily create + Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun + Temptation and create but one, + In whom the whole unthankful crew + The rich man's air that ever drew + To fat their pauper lungs I fire + Vicarious with vain desire! + From foul Ingratitude's base rout + I pick this hapless devil out, + Bestowing on him all my lands, + My treasures, camels, slaves and bands + Of wives—I give him all this loot, + And throw my blessing in to boot. + Behold, O man, in this bequest + Philanthropy's long wrongs redressed: + To speak me ill that man I dower + With fiercest will who lacks the power. + Allah il Allah! now let him bloat + With rancor till his heart's afloat, + Unable to discharge the wave + Upon his benefactor's grave!" + + Forth in their wrath the people came + And swore it was a sin and shame + To trick their blessed mute; and each + Protested, serious of speech, + That though <i>he'd</i> long foreseen the worst + He'd been against it from the first. + By various means they vainly tried + The testament to set aside, + Each ready with his empty purse + To take upon himself the curse; + For <i>they</i> had powers of invective + Enough to make it ineffective. + The ingrates mustered, every man, + And marched in force to Ispahan + (Which had not quite accommodation) + And held a camp of indignation. + + The man, this while, who never spoke— + On whom had fallen this thunder-stroke + Of fortune, gave no feeling vent + Nor dropped a clue to his intent. + Whereas no power to him came + His benefactor to defame, + Some (such a length had slander gone to) + Even whispered that he didn't want to! + But none his secret could divine; + If suffering he made no sign, + Until one night as winter neared + From all his haunts he disappeared— + Evanished in a doubtful blank + Like little crayfish in a bank, + Their heads retracting for a spell, + And pulling in their holes as well. + + All through the land of Gul, the stout + Young Spring is kicking Winter out. + The grass sneaks in upon the scene, + Defacing it with bottle-green. + + The stumbling lamb arrives to ply + His restless tail in every eye, + Eats nasty mint to spoil his meat + And make himself unfit to eat. + Madly his throat the bulbul tears— + In every grove blasphemes and swears + As the immodest rose displays + Her shameless charms a dozen ways. + Lo! now, throughout the utmost span + Of Ispahan—of Gulistan— + A big new book's displayed in all + The shops and cumbers every stall. + The price is low—the dealers say 'tis— + And the rich are treated to it gratis. + Engraven on its foremost page + These title-words the eye engage: + "The Life of Muley Ben Maroon, + Of Astrabad—Rogue, Thief, Buffoon + And Miser—Liver by the Sweat + Of Better Men: A Lamponette + Composed in Rhyme and Written all + By Meerza Solyman Zingall!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0071" id="link2H_4_0071"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CORRECTED NEWS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'T was a maiden lady (the newspapers say) + Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray. + She slept like an angel, holy and white, + Till ten o' the clock in the shank o' the night + (When men and other wild animals prey) + And then she cried in the viewless gloom: + "There's a man in the room, a man in the room!" + And this maiden lady (they make it appear) + Leapt out of the window, five fathom sheer! + + Alas, that lying is such a sin + When newspaper men need bread and gin + And none can be had for less than a lie! + For the maiden lady a bit gone-gray + Saw the man in the room from across the way, + And leapt, not out of the window but in— + <i>Ten</i> fathom sheer, as I hope to die! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0072" id="link2H_4_0072"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXPLANATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I never yet exactly could determine + Just how it is that the judicial ermine + Is kept so safely from predacious vermin." + + "It is not so, my friend: though in a garret + 'Tis kept in camphor, and you often air it, + The vermin will get into it and wear it." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0073" id="link2H_4_0073"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUSTICE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jack Doe met Dick Roe, whose wife he loved, + And said: "I will get the best of him." + So pulling a knife from his boot, he shoved + It up to the hilt in the breast of him. + + Then he moved that weapon forth and back, + Enlarging the hole he had made with it, + Till the smoking liver fell out, and Jack + Merrily, merrily played with it. + + Then he reached within and he seized the slack + Of the lesser bowel, and, traveling + Hither and thither, looked idly back + On that small intestine, raveling. + + The wretched Richard, with many a grin + Laid on with exceeding suavity, + Curled up and died, and they ran John in + And charged him with sins of gravity. + + The case was tried and a verdict found: + The jury, with great humanity, + Acquitted the prisoner on the ground + Of extemporary insanity. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0074" id="link2H_4_0074"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of a person known as Peters I will humbly crave your leave + An unusual adventure into narrative to weave— + Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel, + A public educator and an orator as well. + Mr. Peters had a weakness which, 'tis painful to relate, + Was a strong predisposition to the pleasures of debate. + He would foster disputation wheresoever he might be; + In polygonal contention none so happy was as he. + 'Twas observable, however, that the exercises ran + Into monologue by Peters, that rhetorical young man. + And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show, + By involuntary silence testified their overthrow— + Mr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief, + Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief. + O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold + As to entertain opinions that he didn't care to hold. + + One day—'t was in pursuance of a pedagogic plan + For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man— + Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained + That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained) + Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate + Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate + On the question, "Which is better, as a serviceable gift, + Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?" + The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met + At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet, + They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove, + And the non-committal "barkeep" on their differences throve. + And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way: + You'll have the more to back your word the less you have to say. + Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink + Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think. + + On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel + Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well— + All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear. + Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear, + And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn't lift + The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift. + The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled, + The question he proceeded <i>in extenso</i> to unfold: + "<i>Resolved</i>—The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach + Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech." + This simple proposition he expounded, word by word, + Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard. + Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain— + The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain. + Beginning at a period before Creation's morn, + He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn. + As down the early centuries of pre-historic time + He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme, + And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay, + Had risen and like an earthquake, "reeled unheededly away," + And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve, + Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve, + A noise arose outside—the door was opened with a bang + And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating "G'lang!" + Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink + An ancient ass—the property it was of Mr. Fink. + Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread, + Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped! + It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown + Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone. + Then spake old Ebenezer: "Gents, I heern o' this debate + On w'ether v'ice or y'ears is best the mind to elevate. + Now 'yer's a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme: + He has 'em both, I'm free to say, oncommonly extreme. + He wa'n't invited for to speak, but he will not refuse + (If t'other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views." + + Ere merriment or anger o'er amazement could prevail; + He cut the string that held the stone on that canary's tail. + Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight, + Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite. + With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid, + Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then—to put it mildly—brayed! + He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills, + And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills. + 'T is said that awful bugle-blast—to make the story brief— + Wafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf! + + Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred + 'Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard + That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel, + A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel, + Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0075" id="link2H_4_0075"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MY LAUNDRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Saponacea, wert thou not so fair + I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins— + For sending home my clothes all full of pins— + A shirt occasionally that's a snare + And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where, + The Lord knows why—a sock whose outs and ins + None know, nor where it ends nor where begins, + And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share. + But when I mark thy lilies how they grow, + And the red roses of thy ripening charms, + I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming. + I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go + Into the magic circle of thine arms, + Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0076" id="link2H_4_0076"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FAME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + One thousand years I slept beneath the sod, + My sleep in 1901 beginning, + Then, by the action of some scurvy god + Who happened then to recollect my sinning, + I was revived and given another inning. + On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd— + A formless multitude of men and women, + Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud + I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in; + And, pointing at me, one said: "Let's put <i>him</i> in." + Then each turned on me with an evil look, + As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook. + + "Nay, good Posterity," I cried, "forbear! + If that's a jail I fain would be remaining + Outside, for truly I should little care + To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining + The life lost long ago by my disdaining + To take precautions against draughts like those + That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting + Old structure." Then an aged wight arose + From a chair of state in which he had been sitting, + And with preliminary coughing, spitting + And wheezing, said: "'T is not a jail, we're sure, + Whate'er it may have been when it was newer. + + "'T was found two centuries ago, o'ergrown + With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated; + And in restoring it we found a stone + Set here and there in the dilapidated + And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated + Big characters, with certain uncouth names, + Which we conclude were borne of old by awful + Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games— + Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful, + And orators less sensible than jawful. + So each ten years we add to the long row + A name, the most unworthy that we know." + + "But why," I asked, "put <i>me</i> in?" He replied: + "You look it"—and the judgment pained me greatly; + Right gladly would I then and there have died, + But that I'd risen from the grave so lately. + But on examining that solemn, stately + Old ruin I remarked: "My friend, you err— + The truth of this is just what I expected. + This building in its time made quite a stir. + I lived (was famous, too) when 't was erected. + The names here first inscribed were much respected. + This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork, + And this goat pasture once was called New York." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0077" id="link2H_4_0077"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OMNES VANITAS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Alas for ambition's possessor! + Alas for the famous and proud! + The Isle of Manhattan's best dresser + Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud. + + The world has forgotten his glory; + The wagoner sings on his wain, + And Chauncey Depew tells a story, + And jackasses laugh in the lane. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0078" id="link2H_4_0078"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ASPIRATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No man can truthfully say that he would not like to + be President.—<i>William C. Whitney.</i> +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the pride + Of qualities to meaner beasts denied, + Surveys the ass with reverence and fear, + Adoring his superior length of ear, + And says: "No living creature, lean or fat, + But wishes in his heart to be like That!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0079" id="link2H_4_0079"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DEMOCRACY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Let slaves and subjects with unvaried psalms + Before their sovereign execute salaams; + The freeman scorns one idol to adore— + Tom, Dick and Harry and himself are four. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0080" id="link2H_4_0080"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NEW "ULALUME." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The skies they were ashen and sober, + The leaves they were crisped and sere,— + " " " withering " " + It was night in the lonesome October + Of my most immemorial year; + It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,— + " " down " " dark tarn " " + In the misty mid region of Weir,— + " " ghoul-haunted woodland " " +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0081" id="link2H_4_0081"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONSOLATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Little's the good to sit and grieve + Because the serpent tempted Eve. + Better to wipe your eyes and take + A club and go out and kill a snake. + + What do you gain by cursing Nick + For playing her such a scurvy trick? + Better go out and some villain find + Who serves the devil, and beat him blind. + + But if you prefer, as I suspect, + To philosophize, why, then, reflect: + If the cunning rascal upon the limb + Hadn't tempted her she'd have tempted him. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0082" id="link2H_4_0082"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FATE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide!— + He turned from the beaten trail aside, + Wandered bewildered, lay down and died. + + O grim is the Irony of Fate: + It switches the man of low estate + And loosens the dogs upon the great. + + It lights the fireman to roast the cook; + The fisherman squirms upon the hook, + And the flirt is slain with a tender look. + + The undertaker it overtakes; + It saddles the cavalier, and makes + The haughtiest butcher into steaks. + + Assist me, gods, to balk the decree! + Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be, + In order that nothing be done to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0083" id="link2H_4_0083"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PHILOSOPHER BIMM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Republicans think Jonas Bimm + A Democrat gone mad, + And Democrats consider him + Republican and bad. + + The Tough reviles him as a Dude + And gives it him right hot; + The Dude condemns his crassitude + And calls him <i>sans culottes.</i> + + Derided as an Anglophile + By Anglophobes, forsooth, + As Anglophobe he feels, the while, + The Anglophilic tooth. + + The Churchman calls him Atheist; + The Atheists, rough-shod, + Have ridden o'er him long and hissed + "The wretch believes in God!" + + The Saints whom clergymen we call + Would kill him if they could; + The Sinners (scientists and all) + Complain that he is good. + + All men deplore the difference + Between themselves and him, + And all devise expedients + For paining Jonas Bimm. + + I too, with wild demoniac glee, + Would put out both his eyes; + For Mr. Bimm appears to me + Insufferably wise! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0084" id="link2H_4_0084"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REMINDED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath my window twilight made + Familiar mysteries of shade. + Faint voices from the darkening down + Were calling vaguely to the town. + Intent upon a low, far gleam + That burned upon the world's extreme, + I sat, with short reprieve from grief, + And turned the volume, leaf by leaf, + Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought + A million miracles of thought. + My fingers carelessly unclung + The lettered pages, and among + Them wandered witless, nor divined + The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. + The soul that should have led their quest + Was dreaming in the level west, + Where a tall tower, stark and still, + Uplifted on a distant hill, + Stood lone and passionless to claim + Its guardian star's returning flame. + + I know not how my dream was broke, + But suddenly my spirit woke + Filled with a foolish fear to look + Upon the hand that clove the book, + Significantly pointing; next + I bent attentive to the text, + And read—and as I read grew old— + The mindless words: "Poor Tom's a-cold!" + + Ah me! to what a subtle touch + The brimming cup resigns its clutch + Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ + That hearts their overburden bear + Of bitterness though thou permit + The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks, + And striking coward blows from books, + And dead hands reaching everywhere? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0085" id="link2H_4_0085"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SALVINI IN AMERICA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come, gentlemen—your gold. + Thanks: welcome to the show. + To hear a story told + In words you do not know. + + Now, great Salvini, rise + And thunder through your tears, + Aha! friends, let your eyes + Interpret to your ears. + + Gods! 't is a goodly game. + Observe his stride—how grand! + When legs like his declaim + Who can misunderstand? + + See how that arm goes round. + It says, as plain as day: + "I love," "The lost is found," + "Well met, sir," or, "Away!" + + And mark the drawing down + Of brows. How accurate + The language of that frown: + Pain, gentlemen—or hate. + + Those of the critic trade + Swear it is all as clear + As if his tongue were made + To fit an English ear. + + Hear that Italian phrase! + Greek to your sense, 't is true; + But shrug, expression, gaze— + Well, they are Grecian too. + + But it is Art! God wot + Its tongue to all is known. + Faith! he to whom 't were not + Would better hold his own. + + Shakespeare says act and word + Must match together true. + From what you've seen and heard, + How can you doubt they do? + + Enchanting drama! Mark + The crowd "from pit to dome", + One box alone is dark— + The prompter stays at home. + + Stupendous artist! You + Are lord of joy and woe: + We thrill if you say "Boo," + And thrill if you say "Bo." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0086" id="link2H_4_0086"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ANOTHER WAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I lay in silence, dead. A woman came + And laid a rose upon my breast and said: + "May God be merciful." She spoke my name, + And added: "It is strange to think him dead. + + "He loved me well enough, but 't was his way + To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath: + "Besides"—I knew what further she would say, + But then a footfall broke my dream of death. + + To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose + Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem + It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows + I had more pleasure in the other dream. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0087" id="link2H_4_0087"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ART. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + For Gladstone's portrait five thousand pounds + Were paid, 't is said, to Sir John Millais. + I cannot help thinking that such fine pay + Transcended reason's uttermost bounds. + + For it seems to me uncommonly queer + That a painted British stateman's price + Exceeds the established value thrice + Of a living statesman over here. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0088" id="link2H_4_0088"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A is defrauded of his land by B, + Who's driven from the premises by C. + D buys the place with coin of plundered E. + "That A's an Anarchist!" says F to G. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0089" id="link2H_4_0089"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When at your window radiant you've stood + I've sometimes thought—forgive me if I've erred— + That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred + Your heart to beat less gently than it should. + I know you beautiful; that you are good + I hope—or fear—I cannot choose the word, + Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard + Reason at love's dictation never could. + Blindly to this dilemma so I grope, + As one whose every pathway has a snare: + If you are minded in the saintly fashion + Of your pure face my passion's without hope; + If not, alas! I equally despair, + For what to me were hope without the passion? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0090" id="link2H_4_0090"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DEBTOR ABROAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Grief for an absent lover, husband, friend, + Is barely felt before it comes to end: + A score of early consolations serve + To modify its mouth's dejected curve. + But woes of creditors when debtors flee + Forever swell the separating sea. + When standing on an alien shore you mark + The steady course of some intrepid bark, + How sweet to think a tear for you abides, + Not all unuseful, in the wave she rides!— + That sighs for you commingle in the gale + Beneficently bellying her sail! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0091" id="link2H_4_0091"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FORESIGHT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + An "actors' cemetery"! Sure + The devil never tires + Of planning places to procure + The sticks to feed his fires. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0092" id="link2H_4_0092"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FAIR DIVISION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Another Irish landlord gone to grass, + Slain by the bullets of the tenant class! + Pray, good agrarians, what wrong requires + Such foul redress? Between you and the squires + All Ireland's parted with an even hand— + For you have all the ire, they all the land. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0093" id="link2H_4_0093"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GENESIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God said: "Let there be Man," and from the clay + Adam came forth and, thoughtful, walked away. + The matrix whence his body was obtained, + An empty, man-shaped cavity, remained + All unregarded from that early time + Till in a recent storm it filled with slime. + Now Satan, envying the Master's power + To make the meat himself could but devour, + Strolled to the place and, standing by the pool, + Exerted all his will to make a fool. + A miracle!—from out that ancient hole + Rose Morehouse, lacking nothing but a soul. + "To give him that I've not the power divine," + Said Satan, sadly, "but I'll lend him mine." + He breathed it into him, a vapor black, + And to this day has never got it back. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0094" id="link2H_4_0094"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LIBERTY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo! + The red skies all were luminous. The glow + Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks + One hundred and eleven years ago!" + + So sang a patriot whom once I saw + Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe + I noted that he shone with sacred light, + Like Moses with the tables of the Law. + + One hundred and eleven years? O small + And paltry period compared with all + The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed + To etch Yosemite's divided wall! + + Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young + Whose harps are in your adoration strung + (Each swears you are his countrywoman, too, + And speak no language but his mother tongue). + + And truly, lass, although with shout and horn + Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn, + I cannot think you old—I think, indeed, + You are by twenty centuries unborn. + + 1886. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0095" id="link2H_4_0095"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The sullen church-bell's intermittent moan, + The dirge's melancholy monotone, + The measured march, the drooping flags, attest + A great man's progress to his place of rest. + Along broad avenues himself decreed + To serve his fellow men's disputed need— + Past parks he raped away from robbers' thrift + And gave to poverty, wherein to lift + Its voice to curse the giver and the gift— + Past noble structures that he reared for men + To meet in and revile him, tongue and pen, + Draws the long retinue of death to show + The fit credentials of a proper woe. + + "Boss" Shepherd, you are dead. Your hand no more + Throws largess to the mobs that ramp and roar + For blood of benefactors who disdain + Their purity of purpose to explain, + Their righteous motive and their scorn of gain. + Your period of dream—'twas but a breath— + Is closed in the indifference of death. + Sealed in your silences, to you alike + If hands are lifted to applaud or strike. + No more to your dull, inattentive ear + Praise of to-day than curse of yesteryear. + From the same lips the honied phrases fall + That still are bitter from cascades of gall. + We note the shame; you in your depth of dark + The red-writ testimony cannot mark + On every honest cheek; your senses all + Locked, <i>incommunicado</i>, in your pall, + Know not who sit and blush, who stand and bawl. + + "Seven Grecian cities claim great Homer dead, + Through which the living Homer begged his + bread." + So sang, as if the thought had been his own, + An unknown bard, improving on a known. + "Neglected genius!"—that is sad indeed, + But malice better would ignore than heed, + And Shepherd's soul, we rightly may suspect, + Prayed often for the mercy of neglect + When hardly did he dare to leave his door + Without a guard behind him and before + To save him from the gentlemen that now + In cheap and easy reparation bow + Their corrigible heads above his corse + To counterfeit a grief that's half remorse. + + The pageant passes and the exile sleeps, + And well his tongue the solemn secret keeps + Of the great peace he found afar, until, + Death's writ of extradition to fulfill, + They brought him, helpless, from that friendly zone + To be a show and pastime in his own— + A final opportunity to those + Who fling with equal aim the stone and rose; + That at the living till his soul is freed, + This at the body to conceal the deed! + + Lone on his hill he's lying to await + What added honors may befit his state— + The monument, the statue, or the arch + (Where knaves may come to weep and dupes to march) + Builded by clowns to brutalize the scenes + His genius beautified. To get the means, + His newly good traducers all are dunned + For contributions to the conscience fund. + If each subscribe (and pay) one cent 'twill rear + A structure taller than their tallest ear. + + Washington, May 4, 1903. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0096" id="link2H_4_0096"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO MAUDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Not as two errant spheres together grind + With monstrous ruin in the vast of space, + Destruction born of that malign embrace, + Their hapless peoples all to death consigned— + Not so when our intangible worlds of mind, + Even mine and yours, each with its spirit race + Of beings shadowy in form and face, + Shall drift together on some blessed wind. + No, in that marriage of gloom and light + All miracles of beauty shall be wrought, + Attesting a diviner faith than man's; + For all my sad-eyed daughters of the night + Shall smile on your sweet seraphim of thought, + Nor any jealous god forbid the banns. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0097" id="link2H_4_0097"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When, long ago, the young world circling flew + Through wider reaches of a richer blue, + New-eyed, the men and maids saw, manifest, + The thoughts untold in one another's breast: + Each wish displayed, and every passion learned— + A look revealed them as a look discerned. + But sating Time with clouds o'ercast their eyes; + Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies. + A goddess then, emerging from the dust, + Fair Virtue rose, the daughter of Distrust. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0098" id="link2H_4_0098"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Seraphs came to Christ, and said: "Behold! + The man, presumptuous and overbold, + Who boasted that his mercy could excel + Thine own, is dead and on his way to Hell." + + Gravely the Saviour asked: "What did he do + To make his impious assertion true?" + + "He was a Governor, releasing all + The vilest felons ever held in thrall. + No other mortal, since the dawn of time, + Has ever pardoned such a mass of crime!" + + Christ smiled benignly on the Seraphim: + "Yet I am victor, for I pardon <i>him</i>." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0099" id="link2H_4_0099"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SCURRIL PRESS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +TOM JONESMITH <i>(loquitur)</i>: I've slept right through + The night—a rather clever thing to do. + How soundly women sleep <i>(looks at his wife.)</i> + They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life + Is woman when she lies with folded tongue, + Its toil completed and its day-song sung. + (<i>Thump</i>) That's the morning paper. What a bore + That it should be delivered at the door. + There ought to be some expeditious way + To get it <i>to</i> one. By this long delay + The fizz gets off the news <i>(a rap is heard)</i>. + That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird; + She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul. + <i>(Gets up and takes it in.)</i> Upon the whole + The system's not so bad a one. What's here? + Gad, if they've not got after—listen dear + <i>(To sleeping wife)</i>—young Gastrotheos! Well, + If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell + She'll shriek again—with laughter—seeing how + They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow + 'T is right if he goes dining at The Pup + With Mrs. Thing. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WIFE <i>(briskly, waking up)</i>: + With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +JONESMITH (<i>continuing to "seek the light"</i>): + What's this about old Impycu? That's good! + Grip—that's the funny man—says Impy should + Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps. + I knew old Impy when he had the "stamps" + To buy us all out, and he wasn't then + So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen + Is just a tickler!—and the world, no doubt, + Is better with it than it was without. + What? thirteen ladies—Jumping Jove! we know + Them nearly all!—who gamble at a low + And very shocking game of cards called "draw"! + O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw! + Let's see what else (<i>wife snores</i>). Well, I'll be blest! + A woman doesn't understand a jest. + Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds + To take a fling at <i>me</i>, condemn him! (<i>reads</i>): + Tom Jonesmith—my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!—<i>Of + the new Shavings Bank</i>—the man's gone mad! + That's libelous; I'll have him up for that—<i>Has + had his corns cut</i>. Devil take the rat! + What business is 't of his, I'd like to know? + He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low + And scurril things our papers have become! + You skim their contents and you get but scum. + Here, Mary, (<i>waking wife</i>) I've been attacked + In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WIFE (<i>reading it</i>): How wicked! Who do you + Suppose 't was wrote it? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +JONESMITH: Who? why, who + But Grip, the so-called funny man—he wrote + Me up because I'd not discount his note. + (<i>Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie— + He'll think of one that's better by and by— + Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads + A lively measure on it—kicks the shreds + And patches all about the room, and still + Performs his jig with unabated will.</i>) +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +WIFE (<i>warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn</i>): + Dear, do be careful of that second corn. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +STANLEY. + Noting some great man's composition vile: + A head of wisdom and a heart of guile, + A will to conquer and a soul to dare, + Joined to the manners of a dancing bear, + Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey + Of various Nature's compensating sway, + Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff, + To praise the one and at the other laugh, + Yearn all in vain and impotently seek + Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak + The sycophantic worship of the weak. + Not so the wise, from superstition free, + Who find small pleasure in the bended knee; + Quick to discriminate 'twixt good and bad, + And willing in the king to find the cad— + No reason seen why genius and conceit, + The power to dazzle and the will to cheat, + The love of daring and the love of gin, + Should not dwell, peaceful, in a single skin. + To such, great Stanley, you're a hero still, + Despite your cradling in a tub for swill. + Your peasant manners can't efface the mark + Of light you drew across the Land of Dark. + + In you the extremes of character are wed, + To serve the quick and villify the dead. + Hero and clown! O, man of many sides, + The Muse of Truth adores you and derides, + And sheds, impartial, the revealing ray + Upon your head of gold and feet of clay. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0100" id="link2H_4_0100"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + She stood at the ticket-seller's + Serenely removing her glove, + While hundreds of strugglers and yellers, + And some that were good at a shove, + Were clustered behind her like bats in + a cave and unwilling to speak their love. + + At night she still stood at that window + Endeavoring her money to reach; + The crowds right and left, how they sinned—O, + How dreadfully sinned in their speech! + Ten miles either way they extended + their lines, the historians teach. + + She stands there to-day—legislation + Has failed to remove her. The trains + No longer pull up at that station; + And over the ghastly remains + Of the army that waited and died of + old age fall the snows and the rains. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0101" id="link2H_4_0101"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Upon this quarter-eagle's leveled face, + The Lord's Prayer, legibly inscribed, I trace. + "Our Father which"—the pronoun there is funny, + And shows the scribe to have addressed the money— + "Which art in Heaven"—an error this, no doubt: + The preposition should be stricken out. + Needless to quote; I only have designed + To praise the frankness of the pious mind + Which thought it natural and right to join, + With rare significancy, prayer and coin. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0102" id="link2H_4_0102"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A LACKING FACTOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "You acted unwisely," I cried, "as you see + By the outcome." He calmly eyed me: + "When choosing the course of my action," said he, + "I had not the outcome to guide me." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0103" id="link2H_4_0103"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ROYAL JESTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, + There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. + So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: + He was a hero, even to his queen, + In whose respect he held so high a place + That none was higher,—nay, not even the ace. + He was so just his Parliament declared + Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; + So wise that none of the debating throng + Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; + So good that Crime his anger never feared, + And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; + So brave that if his army got a beating + None dared to face him when he was retreating. + This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, + And loved him tenderly despite his worth. + Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, + He called the Fool before the throne one day + And to that jester seriously said: + "I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, + While I, attired in motley, will make sport + To entertain your Majesty and Court." + + 'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed + The time of harvest and the time of seed; + Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, + And had a famine every second year; + Altered the calendar to suit his freak, + Ordaining six whole holidays a week; + Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; + Made war when angry and made peace when scared. + New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; + Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, + In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not + Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot + Made the whole country with his praises ring, + Declaring he was every inch a king; + And the High Priest averred 't was very odd + If one so competent were not a god. + + Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, + Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, + That some condoled with him as with a brother + Who, having lost a wife, had got another. + Others, mistaking his profession, often + Approached him to be measured for a coffin. + For years this highborn jester never broke + The silence—he was pondering a joke. + At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, + He strode into the Council and displayed + A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom + Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. + Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, + To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, + He brought it down with peremptory stroke + And simultaneously cracked his joke! + + I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school + Myself to quote from any other fool: + A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start + My tears; if better, it would break my heart. + So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state + That royal Jester's melancholy fate. + + The insulted nation, so the story goes, + Rose as one man—the very dead arose, + Springing indignant from the riven tomb, + And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! + All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, + By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. + In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, + The tools of legislation were displayed, + And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, + Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. + Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas + Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, + Royal approval—and the same in stacks + Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; + Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; + With mucilage convenient to extend them; + Scissors for limiting their application, + And acids to repeal all legislation— + These, flung as missiles till the air was dense, + Were most offensive weapons of offense, + And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. + They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. + Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, + His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, + His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, + His fertile head by scissors made to yield + Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, + In every wrinkle and on every welt, + Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills + And thickly studded with a pride of quills, + The royal Jester in the dreadful strife + Was made (in short) an editor for life! + + An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks + In this as plainly as in greater works. + I shall not give it birth: one moral here + Would die of loneliness within a year. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0104" id="link2H_4_0104"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CAREER IN LETTERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Liberverm resigned the chair + Of This or That in college, where + For two decades he'd gorged his brain + With more than it could well contain, + In order to relieve the stress + He took to writing for the press. + Then Pondronummus said, "I'll help + This mine of talent to devel'p;" + And straightway bought with coin and credit + The <i>Thundergust</i> for him to edit. + + The great man seized the pen and ink + And wrote so hard he couldn't think; + Ideas grew beneath his fist + And flew like falcons from his wrist. + His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways + Till all the rivers were ablaze, + And where the coruscations fell + Men uttered words I dare not spell. + + Eftsoons with corrugated brow, + Wet towels bound about his pow, + Locked legs and failing appetite, + He thought so hard he couldn't write. + His soaring fancies, chickenwise, + Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. + With dimmer light and milder heat + His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, + Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came— + He couldn't even write his name. + The <i>Thundergust</i> in three short weeks + Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. + Said Pondronummus, "How unjust! + The storm I raised has laid my dust!" + + When, Moneybagger, you have aught + Invested in a vein of thought, + Be sure you've purchased not, instead, + That salted claim, a bookworm's head. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0105" id="link2H_4_0105"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FOLLOWING PAIR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O very remarkable mortal, + What food is engaging your jaws + And staining with amber their portal? + "It's 'baccy I chaws." + + And why do you sway in your walking, + To right and left many degrees, + And hitch up your trousers when talking? + "I follers the seas." + + Great indolent shark in the rollers, + Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?— + You, too, display maculate molars. + "I dines upon salts." + + Strange diet!—intestinal pain it + Is commonly given to nip. + And how can you ever obtain it? + "I follers the ship." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0106" id="link2H_4_0106"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + POLITICAL ECONOMY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, + As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, + "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds + As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, + Increase of life's comforts the general sum— + Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come," + The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, + How that is of any advantage to geese." + "What, what!" said the man—"you are very obtuse! + Consumption no profit to those who produce? + No good to accrue to Supply from a grand + Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand? + Luxurious habits no benefit bring + To those who purvey the luxurious thing? + Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth + Of luxury promises—" "Promises," quoth + The sufferer, "what?—to what course is it pledged + To pay me for being so often defledged?" + "Accustomed"—this notion the plucker expressed + As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast— + "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn + For others and ever for others in turn; + And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, + His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, + His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage + By dining on goose with a dressing of sage." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0107" id="link2H_4_0107"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I've found the secret of your charm," I said, + Expounding with complacency my guess. + Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, + For all its secret was unconsciousness. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0108" id="link2H_4_0108"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I reckon that ye never knew, + That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, + He had a touch as light an' free + As that of any honey-bee; + But where it lit there wasn't much + To jestify another touch. + O, what a Sunday-school it was + To watch him puttin' up his paws + An' roominate upon their heft— + Particular his holy left! + Tom was my style—that's all I say; + Some others may be equal gay. + What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure— + He's dead—which make his fate obscure. + I only started in to clear + One vital p'int in his career, + Which is to say—afore he died + He soiled his erming mighty snide. + Ye see he took to politics + And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; + Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, + Just like he was the President; + Went to the Legislator; spoke + Right out agin the British yoke— + But that was right. He let his hair + Grow long to qualify for Mayor, + An' once or twice he poked his snoot + In Congress like a low galoot! + It had to come—no gent can hope + To wrastle God agin the rope. + Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, + I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, + For sech inikities as flow + From politics ain't fit to know; + But, if you think it's actin' white + To tell it—Thomas throwed a fight! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0109" id="link2H_4_0109"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As time rolled on the whole world came to be + A desolation and a darksome curse; + And some one said: "The changes that you see + In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, + Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer + Because the moon assisted with her shimmer. + + "Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, + Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, + He called her 'scab,' and meanly would retard + Her rising: and at last the villain hurled + A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion + Into the nebula of great O'Ryan. + + "The planets all had struck some time before, + Demanding what they said were equal rights: + Some pointing out that others had far more + That a fair dividend of satellites. + So all went out—though those the best provided, + If they had dared, would rather have abided. + + "The stars struck too—I think it was because + The comets had more liberty than they, + And were not bound by any hampering laws, + While <i>they</i> were fixed; and there are those who say + The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, + An aged orb that hasn't any hair. + + "The earth's the only one that isn't in + The movement—I suppose because she's watched + With horror and disgust how her fair skin + Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched + With blood and grease in every labor riot, + When seeing any purse or throat to fly at." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0110" id="link2H_4_0110"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TEMPORA MUTANTUR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "The world is dull," I cried in my despair: + "Its myths and fables are no longer fair. + + "Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time. + To Greece transport me in her golden prime. + + "Give back the beautiful old Gods again— + The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad's jocund train, + + "Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades, + The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas. + + "Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I'll dare + To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair + + "(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate, + That stiffen men into a stony state) + + "And die—erecting, as my soul goes hence, + A statue of myself, without expense." + + Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate: + "Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait." + + Raising my eyes, I saw Medusa stand, + Stheno, Euryale, on either hand. + + I gazed unpetrified and unappalled— + The girls had aged and were entirely bald! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0111" id="link2H_4_0111"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONTENTMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed + Long years had circled since my life had fled. + The world was different, and all things seemed + Remote and strange, like noises to the dead. + And one great Voice there was; and something said: + "Posterity is speaking—rightly deemed + Infallible:" and so I gave attention, + Hoping Posterity my name would mention. + + "Illustrious Spirit," said the Voice, "appear! + While we confirm eternally thy fame, + Before our dread tribunal answer, here, + Why do no statues celebrate thy name, + No monuments thy services proclaim? + Why did not thy contemporaries rear + To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? + It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge." + + Up spake I hotly: "That is where you err!" + But some one thundered in my ear: "You shan't + Be interrupting these proceedings, sir; + The question was addressed to General Grant." + Some other things were spoken which I can't + Distinctly now recall, but I infer, + By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead, + Posterity's environment is torrid. + + Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark) + Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong, + As Grant's great shade, replying from the dark, + Said in a tone that rang the earth along, + And thrilled the senses of the Judges' throng: + "I'd rather you would question why, in park + And street, my monuments were not erected + Than why they were." Then, waking, I reflected. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0112" id="link2H_4_0112"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NEW ENOCH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Enoch Arden was an able + Seaman; hear of his mishap— + Not in wild mendacious fable, + As 't was told by t' other chap; + + For I hold it is a youthful + Indiscretion to tell lies, + And the writer that is truthful + Has the reader that is wise. + + Enoch Arden, able seaman, + On an isle was cast away, + And before he was a freeman + Time had touched him up with gray. + + Long he searched the fair horizon, + Seated on a mountain top; + Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on + That would undertake to stop. + + Seeing that his sight was growing + Dim and dimmer, day by day, + Enoch said he must be going. + So he rose and went away— + + Went away and so continued + Till he lost his lonely isle: + Mr. Arden was so sinewed + He could row for many a mile. + + Compass he had not, nor sextant, + To direct him o'er the sea: + Ere 't was known that he was extant, + At his widow's home was he. + + When he saw the hills and hollows + And the streets he could but know, + He gave utterance as follows + To the sentiments below: + + "Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver, + Too, my timbers!) but, I say, + W'at a larruk to diskiver, + I have lost me blessid way! + + "W'at, alas, would be my bloomin' + Fate if Philip now I see, + Which I lammed?—or my old 'oman, + Which has frequent basted <i>me</i>?" + + Scenes of childhood swam around him + At the thought of such a lot: + In a swoon his Annie found him + And conveyed him to her cot. + + 'T was the very house, the garden, + Where their honeymoon was passed: + 'T was the place where Mrs. Arden + Would have mourned him to the last. + + Ah, what grief she'd known without him! + Now what tears of joy she shed! + Enoch Arden looked about him: + "Shanghaied!"—that was all he said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0113" id="link2H_4_0113"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DISAVOWAL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Two bodies are lying in Phoenix Park, + Grim and bloody and stiff and stark, + And a Land League man with averted eye + Crosses himself as he hurries by. + And he says to his conscience under his breath: + "I have had no hand in this deed of death!" + + A Fenian, making a circuit wide + And passing them by on the other side, + Shudders and crosses himself and cries: + "Who says that I did it, he lies, he lies!" + + Gingerly stepping across the gore, + Pat Satan comes after the two before, + Makes, in a solemnly comical way, + The sign of the cross and is heard to say: + "O dear, what a terrible sight to see, + For babes like them and a saint like me!" + + 1882. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0114" id="link2H_4_0114"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN AVERAGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I ne'er could be entirely fond + Of any maiden who's a blonde, + And no brunette that e'er I saw + Had charms my heart's whole + warmth to draw. + + Yet sure no girl was ever made + Just half of light and half of shade. + And so, this happy mean to get, + I love a blonde and a brunette. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0115" id="link2H_4_0115"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WOMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Study good women and ignore the rest, + For he best knows the sex who knows the best. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0116" id="link2H_4_0116"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INCURABLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy— + From any kind of vice, or folly, + Bias, propensity or passion + That is in prevalence and fashion, + Save one, the sufferer or lover + May, by the grace of God, recover: + Alone that spiritual tetter, + The zeal to make creation better, + Glows still immedicably warmer. + Who knows of a reformed reformer? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0117" id="link2H_4_0117"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PUN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, + Most rare and excellent bequest + Of dying idiot to the wit + He died of, rat-like, in a pit! + + Thyself disguised, in many a way + Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, + Adorning all where'er it turns, + As the revealing bull's-eye burns, + Of the dim thief, and plays its trick + Upon the lock he means to pick. + + Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear + As boldly as a brigadier + Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, + Of rank, brigade, division, corps, + To show by every means he can + An officer is not a man; + Or naked, with a lordly swagger, + Proud as a cur without a wagger, + Who says: "See simple worth prevail— + All dog, sir—not a bit of tail!" + + 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, + As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. + + O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace + Of skeleton clock without a case— + With all its boweling displayed, + And all its organs on parade. + + Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, + Where <i>Punch</i> and I can meet and kiss; + Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r— + No higher his does ever soar. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0118" id="link2H_4_0118"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O statesmen, what would you be at, + With torches, flags and bands? + You make me first throw up my hat, + And then my hands. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0119" id="link2H_4_0119"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO NANINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dear, if I never saw your face again; + If all the music of your voice were mute + As that of a forlorn and broken lute; + If only in my dreams I might attain + The benediction of your touch, how vain + Were Faith to justify the old pursuit + Of happiness, or Reason to confute + The pessimist philosophy of pain. + Yet Love not altogether is unwise, + For still the wind would murmur in the corn, + And still the sun would splendor all the mere; + And I—I could not, dearest, choose but hear + Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes + Shine in the glory of the summer morn. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0120" id="link2H_4_0120"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + VICE VERSA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, + A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, + Married a soldier—though the good Lord knows + That very common act scarce calls for mention. + What makes it worthy to be writ and read— + The man she married had been nine hours dead! + + Now, marrying a corpse is not an act + Familiar to our daily observation, + And so I crave her pardon if the fact + Suggests this interesting speculation: + Should some mischance restore the man to life + Would she be then a widow, or a wife? + + Let casuists contest the point; I'm not + Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. + 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot + And drive me staring mad as any hatter— + Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, + Sane, and all other human beings cracked. + + Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; + Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; + In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, + And think it of the Devil's own invention. + Enough of joy to know though when I wed + I <i>must</i> be married, yet I <i>may</i> be dead. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0121" id="link2H_4_0121"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BLACK-LIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Resolved that we will post," the tradesmen say, + "All names of debtors who do never pay." + "Whose shall be first?" inquires the ready scribe— + "Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?" + Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain, + Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane! + Within that temple all the names are scrolled + Of village bards upon a slab of gold; + To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire, + And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. + Yet not to total shame those names devote, + But add in mercy this explaining note: + "These cheat because the law makes theft a crime, + And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0122" id="link2H_4_0122"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Let music flourish!" So he said and died. + Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins: + The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide, + Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide— + The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0123" id="link2H_4_0123"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AUTHORITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Authority, authority!" they shout + Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt, + Some chance opinion ever entertain, + By dogma billeted upon their brain. + "Ha!" they exclaim with choreatic glee, + "Here's Dabster if you won't give in to me— + Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look + With reverence!" The fellow wrote a book. + It matters not that many another wight + Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write + On t' other side—that you yourself possess + Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. + God help you if ambitious to persuade + The fools who take opinion ready-made + And "recognize authorities." Be sure + No tittle of their folly they'll abjure + For all that you can say. But write it down, + Publish and die and get a great renown— + Faith! how they'll snap it up, misread, misquote, + Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote, + And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0124" id="link2H_4_0124"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PSORIAD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The King of Scotland, years and years ago, + Convened his courtiers in a gallant row + And thus addressed them: + + "Gentle sirs, from you + Abundant counsel I have had, and true: + What laws to make to serve the public weal; + What laws of Nature's making to repeal; + What old religion is the only true one, + And what the greater merit of some new one; + What friends of yours my favor have forgot; + Which of your enemies against me plot. + In harvests ample to augment my treasures, + Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! + The punctual planets, to their periods just, + Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. + Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: + The grateful placemen bless their useful king! + But while you quaff the nectar of my favor + I mean somewhat to modify its flavor + By just infusing a peculiar dash + Of tonic bitter in the calabash. + And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, + Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it! + + "You know, you dogs, your master long has felt + A keen distemper in the royal pelt— + A testy, superficial irritation, + Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. + For this a thousand simples you've prescribed— + Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. + You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas + You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, + To brew me remedies which, in probation, + Were sovereign only in their application. + In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied + Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: + Physic and hope have been my daily food— + I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood! + + "Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year + And tame the seasons in their mad career, + When set to higher purposes has failed me + And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. + Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech + His rivals' skill has labored to impeach + By hints equivocal in secret speech. + For years, to conquer our respective broils, + We've plied each other with pacific oils. + In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, + My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; + My life so wretched from your strife to save it + That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. + With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, + My subjects muster in contending ranks. + Those fling their banners to the startled breeze + To champion some royal ointment; these + The standard of some royal purge display + And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! + Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, + Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea! + My people perish in their martial fear, + And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear! + + "Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour + Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! + Behold this lotion, carefully compound + Of all the poisons you for me have found— + Of biting washes such as tan the skin, + And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. + What aggravates an ailment will produce— + I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! + Divided counsels you no more shall hatch— + At last you shall unanimously scratch. + Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts—God bless us! + They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!" + + The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke, + From Arthur's Seat confirming thunders broke. + The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned, + Sank to their knees, all piously inclined. + This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats, + The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes. + Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts + Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts, + Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses, + Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes. + The king advanced—then cursing fled amain + Dashing the phial to the stony plain + (Where't straight became a fountain brimming o'er, + Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store) + For lo! already on each back <i>sans</i> stitch + The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch! + + [Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking Edinburgh.] +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0125" id="link2H_4_0125"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONEIROMANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I fell asleep and dreamed that I + Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky; + Like him was lamed—another part: + His leg was crippled and my heart. + I woke in time to see my love + Conceal a letter in her glove. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0126" id="link2H_4_0126"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PEACE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When lion and lamb have together lain down + Spectators cry out, all in chorus; + "The lamb doesn't shrink nor the lion frown— + A miracle's working before us!" + + But 't is patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in, + And Faint-heart her terror and loathing; + For the one's but an ass in a lion's skin, + The other a wolf in sheep's clothing. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0127" id="link2H_4_0127"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THANKSGIVING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + <i>The Superintendent of an Almshouse. A Pauper.</i> +</pre> + <h3> + SUPERINTENDENT: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So <i>you're</i> unthankful—you'll not eat the bird? + You sit about the place all day and gird. + I understand you'll not attend the ball + That's to be given to-night in Pauper Hall. +</pre> + <h3> + PAUPER: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Why, that is true, precisely as you've heard: + I have no teeth and I will eat no bird. +</pre> + <h3> + SUPERINTENDENT: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ah! see how good is Providence. Because + Of teeth He has denuded both your jaws + The fowl's made tender; you can overcome it + By suction; or at least—well, you can gum it, + Attesting thus the dictum of the preachers + That Providence is good to all His creatures— + Turkeys excepted. Come, ungrateful friend, + If our Thanksgiving dinner you'll attend + You shall say grace—ask God to bless at least + The soft and liquid portions of the feast. +</pre> + <h3> + PAUPER. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Without those teeth my speech is rather thick— + He'll hardly understand Gum Arabic. + No, I'll not dine to-day. As to the ball, + 'Tis known to you that I've no legs at all. + I had the gout—hereditary; so, + As it could not be cornered in my toe + They cut my legs off in the fond belief + That shortening me would make my anguish brief. + Lacking my legs I could not prosecute + With any good advantage a pursuit; + And so, because my father chose to court + Heaven's favor with his ortolans and Port + (Thanksgiving every day!) the Lord supplied + Saws for my legs, an almshouse for my pride + And, once a year, a bird for my inside. + No, I'll not dance—my light fantastic toe + Took to its heels some twenty years ago. + Some small repairs would be required for putting + My feelings on a saltatory footing. + + <i>(Sings)</i> + + O the legless man's an unhappy chap— + <i>Tum-hi, tum-hi, tum-he o'haddy.</i> + The favors o' fortune fall not in his lap— + <i>Tum-hi, tum-heedle-do hum.</i> + The plums of office avoid his plate + No matter how much he may stump the State— + <i>Tum-hi, ho-heeee.</i> + The grass grows never beneath his feet, + But he cannot hope to make both ends meet— + <i>Tum-hi.</i> + With a gleeless eye and a somber heart, + He plays the role of his mortal part: + Wholly himself he can never be. + O, a soleless corporation is he! + <i>Tum</i>. +</pre> + <h3> + SUPERINTENDENT: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The chapel bell is calling, thankless friend, + Balls you may not, but church you <i>shall</i>, attend. + Some recognition cannot be denied + To the great mercy that has turned aside + The sword of death from us and let it fall + Upon the people's necks in Montreal; + That spared our city, steeple, roof and dome, + And drowned the Texans out of house and home; + Blessed all our continent with peace, to flood + The Balkan with a cataclysm of blood. + Compared with blessings of so high degree, + Your private woes look mighty small—to me. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + L'AUDACE. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Daughter of God! Audacity divine— + Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign— + Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool, + Not thine of idiots the vocal drool: + Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass, + Presumption, actuates the charging ass. + Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings + Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings; + The notes should mount on pinions true and strong, + For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song, + Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng! + Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails, + They (notes, not angels) drop and the hymn fails; + The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs + Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums. + Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand + For stronger voices and a harder hand: + Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire, + And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0128" id="link2H_4_0128"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Betook him to the place where sat + With folded feet upon a mat + Of precious stones beneath a palm, + In sweet and everlasting calm, + That ancient and immortal gent, + The God of Rational Content. + As tranquil and unmoved as Fate, + The deity reposed in state, + With palm to palm and sole to sole, + And beaded breast and beetling jowl, + And belly spread upon his thighs, + And costly diamonds for eyes. + As Chunder Sen approached and knelt + To show the reverence he felt; + Then beat his head upon the sod + To prove his fealty to the god; + And then by gestures signified + The other sentiments inside; + The god's right eye (as Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Half-fancied) grew by just a thought + More narrow than it truly ought. + Yet still that prince of devotees, + Persistent upon bended knees + And elbows bored into the earth, + Declared the god's exceeding worth, + And begged his favor. Then at last, + Within that cavernous and vast + Thoracic space was heard a sound + Like that of water underground— + A gurgling note that found a vent + At mouth of that Immortal Gent + In such a chuckle as no ear + Had e'er been privileged to hear! + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest, greatest, best of men, + Heard with a natural surprise + That mighty midriff improvise. + And greater yet the marvel was + When from between those massive jaws + Fell words to make the views more plain + The god was pleased to entertain: + "Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen," + So ran the rede in speech of men— + "Foremost of mortals in assent + To creed of Rational Content, + Why come you here to impetrate + A blessing on your scurvy pate? + Can you not rationally be + Content without disturbing me? + Can you not take a hint—a wink— + Of what of all this rot I think? + Is laughter lost upon you quite, + To check you in your pious rite? + What! know you not we gods protest + That all religion is a jest? + You take me seriously?—you + About me make a great ado + (When I but wish to be alone) + With attitudes supine and prone, + With genuflexions and with prayers, + And putting on of solemn airs, + To draw my mind from the survey + Of Rational Content away! + Learn once for all, if learn you can, + This truth, significant to man: + A pious person is by odds + The one most hateful to the gods." + Then stretching forth his great right hand, + Which shadowed all that sunny land, + That deity bestowed a touch + Which Chunder Sen not overmuch + Enjoyed—a touch divine that made + The sufferer hear stars! They played + And sang as on Creation's morn + When spheric harmony was born. + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The most astonished man of men, + Fell straight asleep, and when he woke + The deity nor moved nor spoke, + But sat beneath that ancient palm + In sweet and everlasting calm. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0129" id="link2H_4_0129"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE AESTHETES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The lily cranks, the lily cranks, + The loppy, loony lasses! + They multiply in rising ranks + To execute their solemn pranks, + They moon along in masses. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + The maiden ass, the maiden ass, + The tall and tailless jenny! + In limp attire as green as grass, + She stands, a monumental brass, + The one of one too many. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0130" id="link2H_4_0130"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JULY FOURTH. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God said: "Let there be noise." The dawning fire + Of Independence gilded every spire. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0131" id="link2H_4_0131"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WITH MINE OWN PETARD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Time was the local poets sang their songs + Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs + I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke + Bards, like the conies, are "a feeble folk," + Fearing all noises but the one they make + Themselves—at which all other mortals quake. + Now from their cracked and disobedient throats, + Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes + Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves, + If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves; + As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all + The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall. + A year's exemption from the critic's curse + Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse. + Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night, + Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight, + Or by the sudden plashing of a stone + From some adjacent cottage garden thrown, + But straight renew the song with double din + Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in. + Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched, + My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached) + Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass, + Accomplishing my body all in brass, + And arm in battle royal to oppose + A village poet singing through the nose, + Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums + With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs? + No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before + And stilled their songs—but, Satan! how they swore!— + Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats + They cleared for action with their sweetest notes; + Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine) + And damned them roundly all along the line; + Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes, + A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes! + What gained I so? I feathered every curse + Launched at the village bards with lilting verse. + The town approved and christened me (to show its + High admiration) Chief of Local Poets! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0132" id="link2H_4_0132"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONSTANCY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dull were the days and sober, + The mountains were brown and bare, + For the season was sad October + And a dirge was in the air. + + The mated starlings flew over + To the isles of the southern sea. + She wept for her warrior lover— + Wept and exclaimed: "Ah, me! + + "Long years have I mourned my darling + In his battle-bed at rest; + And it's O, to be a starling, + With a mate to share my nest!" + + The angels pitied her sorrow, + Restoring her warrior's life; + And he came to her arms on the morrow + To claim her and take her to wife. + + An aged lover—a portly, + Bald lover, a trifle too stiff, + With manners that would have been courtly, + And would have been graceful, if— + + If the angels had only restored him + Without the additional years + That had passed since the enemy bored him + To death with their long, sharp spears. + + As it was, he bored her, and she rambled + Away with her father's young groom, + And the old lover smiled as he ambled + Contentedly back to the tomb. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0133" id="link2H_4_0133"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SIRES AND SONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Wild wanton Luxury lays waste the land + With difficulty tilled by Thrift's hard hand! + Then dies the State!—and, in its carcass found, + The millionaires, all maggot-like, abound. + Alas! was it for this that Warren died, + And Arnold sold himself to t' other side, + Stark piled at Bennington his British dead, + And Gates at Camden, Lee at Monmouth, fled?— + For this that Perry did the foeman fleece, + And Hull surrender to preserve the peace? + Degenerate countrymen, renounce, I pray, + The slothful ease, the luxury, the gay + And gallant trappings of this idle life, + And be more fit for one another's wife. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0134" id="link2H_4_0134"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CHALLENGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A bull imprisoned in a stall + Broke boldly the confining wall, + And found himself, when out of bounds, + Within a washerwoman's grounds. + Where, hanging on a line to dry, + A crimson skirt inflamed his eye. + With bellowings that woke the dead, + He bent his formidable head, + With pointed horns and gnarly forehead; + Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, + Began, with rage made half insane, + To paw the arid earth amain, + Flinging the dust upon his flanks + In desolating clouds and banks, + The while his eyes' uneasy white + Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright + Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight. + The garment, which, all undismayed, + Had never paled a single shade, + Now found a tongue—a dangling sock, + Left carelessly inside the smock: + "I must insist, my gracious liege, + That you'll be pleased to raise the siege: + My colors I will never strike. + I know your sex—you're all alike. + Some small experience I've had— + You're not the first I've driven mad." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0135" id="link2H_4_0135"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO SHOWS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!) + Parades a "School of Educated Apes!" + Small education's needed, I opine, + Or native wit, to make a monkey shine; + The brute exhibited has naught to do + But ape the larger apes who come to view— + The hoodlum with his horrible grimace, + Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace, + Significant reminders of the time + When hunters, not policemen, made him climb; + The lady loafer with her draggling "trail," + That free translation of an ancient tail; + The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit, + Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot; + The painted actress throwing down the gage + To elder artists of the sylvan stage, + Proving that in the time of Noah's flood + Two ape-skins held her whole profession's blood; + The critic waiting, like a hungry pup, + To write the school—perhaps to eat it—up, + As chance or luck occasion may reveal + To earn a dollar or maraud a meal. + To view the school of apes these creatures go, + Unconscious that themselves are half the show. + These, if the simian his course but trim + To copy them as they have copied him, + Will call him "educated." Of a verity + There's much to learn by study of posterity. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0136" id="link2H_4_0136"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A POET'S HOPE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal + Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead. + He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding, + As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said. + + "Sacred stranger"—I addressed him with a reverence befitting + The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore; + 'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing + One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"— + + "Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection, + But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread. + How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander + By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?" + + Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making, + Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye + On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy, + Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply: + + "O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit— + I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head. + I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal + To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed. + + "Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me + And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more. + For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me, + Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'" + + Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection, + For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog. + So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman + Can appreciate the fashion of your merit—buy a dog." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0137" id="link2H_4_0137"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Man and Woman had been made, + All but the disposition, + The Devil to the workshop strayed, + And somehow gained admission. + + The Master rested from his work, + For this was on a Sunday, + The man was snoring like a Turk, + Content to wait till Monday. + + "Too bad!" the Woman cried; "Oh, why, + Does slumber not benumb me? + A disposition! Oh, I die + To know if 'twill become me!" + + The Adversary said: "No doubt + 'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am, + Though sure 'tis long to be without— + I beg to lend you mine, ma'am." + + The Devil's disposition when + She'd got, of course she wore it, + For she'd no disposition then, + Nor now has, to restore it. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0138" id="link2H_4_0138"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO ROGUES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost, + The sentry occupied his post, + To all the stirrings of the night + Alert of ear and sharp of sight. + A sudden something—sight or sound, + About, above, or underground, + He knew not what, nor where—ensued, + Thrilling the sleeping solitude. + The soldier cried: "Halt! Who goes there?" + The answer came: "Death—in the air." + "Advance, Death—give the countersign, + Or perish if you cross that line!" + To change his tone Death thought it wise— + Reminded him they 'd been allies + Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk, + In many a bloody bit of work. + "In short," said he, "in every weather + We've soldiered, you and I, together." + The sentry would not let him pass. + "Go back," he growled, "you tiresome ass— + Go back and rest till the next war, + Nor kill by methods all abhor: + Miasma, famine, filth and vice, + With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice, + Foul food, foul water, and foul gases, + Rank exhalations from morasses. + If you employ such low allies + This business you will vulgarize. + Renouncing then the field of fame + To wallow in a waste of shame, + I'll prostitute my strength and lurk + About the country doing work— + These hands to labor I'll devote, + Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0139" id="link2H_4_0139"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BEECHER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too— + Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds + Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds + That man has ever taught and never knew. + + When on this mighty instrument He laid + His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan + Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone + Grew more vivacious when the Devil played. + + No more those luring harmonies we hear, + And lo! already men forget the sound. + They turn, retracing all the dubious ground + O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0140" id="link2H_4_0140"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOT GUILTY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "I saw your charms in another's arms," + Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil; + "And he kissed you fair as he held you there, + A willing bird in a serpent's coil!" + + The maid looked up from the cinctured cup + Wherein she was crushing the berries red, + Pain and surprise in her honest eyes— + "It was only one o' those gods," she said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0141" id="link2H_4_0141"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PRESENTIMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + With saintly grace and reverent tread, + She walked among the graves with me; + Her every foot-fall seemed to be + A benediction on the dead. + + The guardian spirit of the place + She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn + Surprised in the untimely morn + She made with her resplendent face. + + Moved by some waywardness of will, + Three paces from the path apart + She stepped and stood—my prescient heart + Was stricken with a passing chill. + + The folk-lore of the years agone + Remembering, I smiled and thought: + "Who shudders suddenly at naught, + His grave is being trod upon." + + But now I know that it was more + Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, + I did not think such little feet + Could make a buried heart so sore! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0142" id="link2H_4_0142"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A STUDY IN GRAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I step from the door with a shiver + (This fog is uncommonly cold) + And ask myself: What did I give her?— + The maiden a trifle gone-old, + With the head of gray hair that was gold. + + Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, + And doubtless the change is correct, + Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller + Than what I'd a right to expect. + But you pay when you dine, I reflect. + + So I walk up the street—'twas a saunter + A score of years back, when I strolled + From this door; and our talk was all banter + Those days when her hair was of gold, + And the sea-fog less searching and cold. + + I button my coat (for I'm shaken, + And fevered a trifle, and flushed + With the wine that I ought to have taken,) + Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, + Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed. + + A score? Why, that isn't so very + Much time to have lost from a life. + There's reason enough to be merry: + I've not fallen down in the strife, + But marched with the drum and the fife. + + If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, + Had pushed at my shoulders instead, + And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, + Had laureled the worthiest head, + I could garland the years that are dead. + + Believe me, I've held my own, mostly + Through all of this wild masquerade; + But somehow the fog is more ghostly + To-night, and the skies are more grayed, + Like the locks of the restaurant maid. + + If ever I'd fainted and faltered + I'd fancy this did but appear; + But the climate, I'm certain, has altered— + Grown colder and more austere + Than it was in that earlier year. + + The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, + That lead from the street to the quay. + I think they'll go out—and I'm ready + To follow. Out there in the sea + The fog-bell is calling to me. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0143" id="link2H_4_0143"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PARADOX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "If life were not worth having," said the preacher, + "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature." + "An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: + What's not worth having cannot be worth taking." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0144" id="link2H_4_0144"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR MERIT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To Parmentier Parisians raise + A statue fine and large: + He cooked potatoes fifty ways, + Nor ever led a charge. + + "<i>Palmam qui meruit"</i>—the rest + You knew as well as I; + And best of all to him that best + Of sayings will apply. + + Let meaner men the poet's bays + Or warrior's medal wear; + Who cooks potatoes fifty ways + Shall bear the palm—de terre. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0145" id="link2H_4_0145"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BIT OF SCIENCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream + And he who dreams it is not overwise, + If colors are vibration they but seem, + And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, + Why, come, then—photograph my lady's eyes. + Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, + As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, + To naught but vibratory motion's due, + As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest. + How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making + In me so uncontrollable a shaking? +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0146" id="link2H_4_0146"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TABLES TURNED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Over the man the street car ran, + And the driver did never grin. + "O killer of men, pray tell me when + Your laughter means to begin. + + "Ten years to a day I've observed you slay, + And I never have missed before + Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels + Were spattered with human gore. + + "Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy, + And why do you make no sign + Of the merry mind that is dancing behind + A solemner face than mine?" + + The driver replied: "I would laugh till I cried + If I had bisected you; + But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain, + 'T is myself that I've cut in two." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0147" id="link2H_4_0147"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A DEJECTED POET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy gift, if that it be of God, + Thou hast no warrant to appraise, + Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways, + The road too stony to be trod." + + Not thine to call the labor hard + And the reward inadequate. + Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate + Is better bargainer than bard. + + What! count the effort labor lost + When thy good angel holds the reed? + It were a sorry thing indeed + To stay him till thy palm be crossed. + + "The laborer is worthy"—nay, + The sacred ministry of song + Is rapture!—'t were a grievous wrong + To fix a wages-rate for play. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0148" id="link2H_4_0148"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FOOL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Says Anderson, Theosophist: + "Among the many that exist + In modern halls, + Some lived in ancient Egypt's clime + And in their childhood saw the prime + Of Karnak's walls." + + Ah, Anderson, if that is true + 'T is my conviction, sir, that you + Are one of those + That once resided by the Nile, + Peer to the sacred Crocodile, + Heir to his woes. + + My judgment is, the holy Cat + Mews through your larynx (and your hat) + These many years. + Through you the godlike Onion brings + Its melancholy sense of things, + And moves to tears. + + In you the Bull divine again + Bellows and paws the dusty plain, + To nature true. + I challenge not his ancient hate + But, lowering my knurly pate, + Lock horns with you. + + And though Reincarnation prove + A creed too stubborn to remove, + And all your school + Of Theosophs I cannot scare— + All the more earnestly I swear + That you're a fool. + + You'll say that this is mere abuse + Without, in fraying you, a use. + That's plain to see + With only half an eye. Come, now, + Be fair, be fair,—consider how + It eases <i>me</i>! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0149" id="link2H_4_0149"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HUMORIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What is that, mother?" + "The funny man, child. + His hands are black, but his heart is mild." + + "May I touch him, mother?" + "'T were foolishly done: + He is slightly touched already, my son." + + "O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?" + "That's the outward sign of a joke within." + + "Will he crack it, mother?" + "Not so, my saint; + 'T is meant for the <i>Saturday Livercomplaint."</i> + + "Does he suffer, mother?" + "God help him, yes!— + A thousand and fifty kinds of distress." + + "What makes him sweat so?" + "The demons that lurk + In the fear of having to go to work." + + "Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?" + "Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0150" id="link2H_4_0150"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MONTEFIORE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw—'twas in a dream, the other night— + A man whose hair with age was thin and white: + One hundred years had bettered by his birth, + And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. + + Before him and about him pressed a crowd. + Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, + And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues + Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud. + + I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, + "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied + In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er + To want and worth had charity denied. + + So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan + He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan + A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, + And in a moment was a lonely man! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0151" id="link2H_4_0151"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WARNING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!— + The distance hither's brief indeed." + But Youth pressed on without delay— + The shout had reached but half the way. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0152" id="link2H_4_0152"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DISCRETION. + </h2> + <h3> + SHE: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I'm told that men have sometimes got + Too confidential, and + Have said to one another what + They—well, you understand. + I hope I don't offend you, sweet, + But are you sure that <i>you're</i> discreet? +</pre> + <h3> + HE: + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine + Their conquests <i>do</i> recall, + But none can truly say that mine + Are known to him at all. + I never, never talk you o'er— + In truth, I never get the floor. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0153" id="link2H_4_0153"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXILE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 'Tis the census enumerator + A-singing all forlorn: + It's ho! for the tall potater, + And ho! for the clustered corn. + The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine + Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine. + + "Some there must be to till the soil + And the widow's weeds keep down. + I wasn't cut out for rural toil + But they <i>won't</i> let me live in town! + They 're not so many by two or three, + As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me." + + Thus the census man, bowed down with care, + Warbled his wood-note high. + There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair, + But he had no blood in his eye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0154" id="link2H_4_0154"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Baffled he stands upon the track— + The automatic switches clack. + + Where'er he turns his solemn eyes + The interlocking signals rise. + + The trains, before his visage pale, + Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail. + + No splinter-spitted victim he + Hears uttering the note high C. + + In sorrow deep he hangs his head, + A-weary—would that he were dead. + + Now suddenly his spirits rise— + A great thought kindles in his eyes. + + Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare, + Splendors the path of his despair. + + His genius shines, the clouds roll back— + "I'll place obstructions on the track!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0155" id="link2H_4_0155"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PSYCHOGRAPHS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Says Gerald Massey: "When I write, a band + Of souls of the departed guides my hand." + How strange that poems cumbering our shelves, + Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0156" id="link2H_4_0156"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Newman, in you two parasites combine: + As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine. + When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt, + The pride of residence was all you felt + (What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knew + To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?) + And when the praises of the dead you've sung, + 'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue; + As ill-bred men when warming to their wine + Boast of its merit though it be but brine. + Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should— + Even charity would shun you if she could. + You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole, + But what you get you take by way of toll. + Vain to resist you—vermifuge alone + Has power to push you from your robber throne. + When to escape you he's compelled to die + Hey! presto!—in the twinkling of an eye + You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear + As graveworm and resume your curst career. + As host no more, to satisfy your need + He serves as dinner your unaltered greed. + O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame, + Son of servility and priest of shame, + While naught your mad ambition can abate + To lick the spittle of the rich and great; + While still like smoke your eulogies arise + To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes; + While still with holy oil, like that which ran + Down Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man, + I cannot choose but think it very odd + It ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0157" id="link2H_4_0157"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR WOUNDS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O bear me, gods, to some enchanted isle + Where woman's tears can antidote her smile. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0158" id="link2H_4_0158"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELECTION DAY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Despots effete upon tottering thrones + Unsteadily poised upon dead men's bones, + Walk up! walk up! the circus is free, + And this wonderful spectacle you shall see: + Millions of voters who mostly are fools— + Demagogues' dupes and candidates' tools, + Armies of uniformed mountebanks, + And braying disciples of brainless cranks. + Many a week they've bellowed like beeves, + Bitterly blackguarding, lying like thieves, + Libeling freely the quick and the dead + And painting the New Jerusalem red. + Tyrants monarchical—emperors, kings, + Princes and nobles and all such things— + Noblemen, gentlemen, step this way: + There's nothing, the Devil excepted, to pay, + And the freaks and curios here to be seen + Are very uncommonly grand and serene. + + No more with vivacity they debate, + Nor cheerfully crack the illogical pate; + No longer, the dull understanding to aid, + The stomach accepts the instructive blade, + Nor the stubborn heart learns what is what + From a revelation of rabbit-shot; + And vilification's flames—behold! + Burn with a bickering faint and cold. + + Magnificent spectacle!—every tongue + Suddenly civil that yesterday rung + (Like a clapper beating a brazen bell) + Each fair reputation's eternal knell; + Hands no longer delivering blows, + And noses, for counting, arrayed in rows. + + Walk up, gentlemen—nothing to pay— + The Devil goes back to Hell to-day. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0159" id="link2H_4_0159"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MILITIAMAN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O warrior with the burnished arms— + With bullion cord and tassel— + Pray tell me of the lurid charms + Of service and the fierce alarms: + The storming of the castle, + The charge across the smoking field, + The rifles' busy rattle— + What thoughts inspire the men who wield + The blade—their gallant souls how steeled + And fortified in battle." + + "Nay, man of peace, seek not to know + War's baleful fascination— + The soldier's hunger for the foe, + His dread of safety, joy to go + To court annihilation. + Though calling bugles blow not now, + Nor drums begin to beat yet, + One fear unmans me, I'll allow, + And poisons all my pleasure: How + If I should get my feet wet!" +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "A LITERARY METHOD." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + His poems Riley says that he indites + Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers, + Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writes + Upon his empty stomach empties ours! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0160" id="link2H_4_0160"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WELCOME. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and + There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,— + Because you thus by vain pretense degrade + To paltry purposes traditions grand,— + + Because to cheat the ignorant you say + The thing that's not, elated still to sway + The crass credulity of gaping fools + And women by fantastical display,— + + Because no sacred fires did ever warm + Your hearts, high knightly service to perform— + A woman's breast or coffer of a man + The only citadel you dare to storm,— + + Because while railing still at lord and peer, + At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer, + Each member of your order tries to graft + A peacock's tail upon his barren rear,— + + Because that all these things are thus and so, + I bid you welcome to our city. Lo! + You're free to come, and free to stay, and free + As soon as it shall please you, sirs—to go. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0161" id="link2H_4_0161"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SERENADE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Sas agapo sas agapo," + He sang beneath her lattice. + "'Sas agapo'?" she murmured—"O, + I wonder, now, what <i>that</i> is!" + + Was she less fair that she did bear + So light a load of knowledge? + Are loving looks got out of books, + Or kisses taught in college? + + Of woman's lore give me no more + Than how to love,—in many + A tongue men brawl: she speaks them all + Who says "I love," in any. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0162" id="link2H_4_0162"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WISE AND GOOD. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "O father, I saw at the church as I passed + The populace gathered in numbers so vast + That they couldn't get in; and their voices were low, + And they looked as if suffering terrible woe." + + "'Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead + For whom the great heart of humanity bled." + + "What made it bleed, father, for every day + Somebody passes forever away? + Do the newspaper men print a column or more + Of every person whose troubles are o'er?" + + "O, no; they could never do that—and indeed, + Though printers might print it, no reader would read. + To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne, + But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn." + + "That's right, father dear, but how can our eyes + Distinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?" + + "That's easy enough to the stupidest mind: + They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind." + + "Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green? + And takest thy son for a gaping marine? + Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the Good + Who are poor and lamented to babes in the wood." + + And that horrible youth as I hastened away + Was building a wink that affronted the day. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0163" id="link2H_4_0163"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LOST COLONEL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'Tis a woeful yarn," said the sailor man bold + Who had sailed the northern-lakes— + "No woefuler one has ever been told + Exceptin' them called 'fakes.'" + + "Go on, thou son of the wind and fog, + For I burn to know the worst!" + But his silent lip in a glass of grog + Was dreamily immersed. + + Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said: + "It's never like that I drinks + But what of the gallant gent that's dead + I truly mournful thinks. + + "He was a soldier chap—leastways + As 'Colonel' he was knew; + An' he hailed from some'rs where they raise + A grass that's heavenly blue. + + "He sailed as a passenger aboard + The schooner 'Henery Jo.' + O wild the waves and galeses roared, + Like taggers in a show! + + "But he sat at table that calm an' mild + As if he never had let + His sperit know that the waves was wild + An' everlastin' wet!— + + "Jest set with a bottle afore his nose, + As was labeled 'Total Eclipse' + (The bottle was) an' he frequent rose + A glass o' the same to his lips. + + "An' he says to me (for the steward slick + Of the 'Henery Jo' was I): + 'This sailor life's the very old Nick— + On the lakes it's powerful dry!' + + "I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch. + I hopes you'll outlast the trip.' + But if I'd been him—an' I said as much— + I'd 'a' took a faster ship. + + "His laughture, loud an' long an' free, + Rang out o'er the tempest's roar. + 'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he, + 'But it's powerful dry ashore!'" + + "O mariner man, why pause and don + A look of so deep concern? + Have another glass—go on, go on, + For to know the worst I burn." + + "One day he was leanin' over the rail, + When his footing some way slipped, + An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale), + He was accidental unshipped! + + "The empty boats was overboard hove, + As he swum in the 'Henery's wake'; + But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had drove + From sight on the ragin' lake!" + + "And so the poor gentleman was drowned— + And now I'm apprised of the worst." + "What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found— + In the yawl—stone dead o' thirst!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0164" id="link2H_4_0164"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOR TAT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, heavenly powers! will wonders never cease?— + Hair upon dogs and feathers upon geese! + The boys in mischief and the pigs in mire! + The drinking water wet! the coal on fire! + In meadows, rivulets surpassing fair, + Forever running, yet forever there! + A tail appended to the gray baboon! + A person coming out of a saloon! + Last, and of all most marvelous to see, + A female Yahoo flinging filth at me! + If 'twould but stick I'd bear upon my coat + May Little's proof that she is fit to vote. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0165" id="link2H_4_0165"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A DILEMMA. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, + For years I criticised their prose and verges: + Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, + Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then + Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! + + They said: "That's all that he can do—just sneer, + And pull to pieces and be analytic. + Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear, + Publish a book or two, and so appear + As one who has the right to be a critic? + + "Let him who knows it all forbear to tell + How little others know, but show his learning." + The public added: "Who has written well + May censure freely"—quoting Pope. I fell + Into the trap and books began out-turning,— + + Books by the score—fine prose and poems fair, + And not a book of them but was a terror, + They were so great and perfect; though I swear + I tried right hard to work in, here and there, + (My nature still forbade) a fault or error. + + 'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, + Professed to find—but that's a trifling matter. + Now, when the flood of noble books was out + I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout, + Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! + + (Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. + 'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em, + But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad + We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, + They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!) + + "Consistency, thou art a"—well, you're <i>paste</i>! + When next I felt my demon in possession, + And made the field of authorship a waste, + All said of me: "What execrable taste, + To rail at others of his own profession!" + + Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin + Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, + And hears a voice from Heaven say: "Pitch in"? + He finds himself—alas, poor son of sin— + Between the devil and the deep blue ocean! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0166" id="link2H_4_0166"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + METEMPSYCHOSIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Once with Christ he entered Salem, + Once in Moab bullied Balaam, + Once by Apuleius staged + He the pious much enraged. + And, again, his head, as beaver, + Topped the neck of Nick the Weaver. + Omar saw him (minus tether— + Free and wanton as the weather: + Knowing naught of bit or spur) + Stamping over Bahram-Gur. + Now, as Altgeld, see him joy + As Governor of Illinois! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0167" id="link2H_4_0167"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE SAINT AND THE MONK. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed + The tools and terrors of his awful trade; + The key, the frown as pitiless as night, + That slays intending trespassers at sight, + And, at his side in easy reach, the curled + Interrogation points all ready to be hurled. + + Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced + No others were about) a soul advanced— + A fat, orbicular and jolly soul + With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl— + A monk so prepossessing that the saint + Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint, + Forgot his frown and all his questions too, + Forgoing even the customary "Who?"— + Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin, + Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in." + + The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please— + Who's in there?" By insensible degrees + The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem, + As growing snores annihilate a dream. + The frown began to blacken on his brow, + His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?" + "O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained; + "I'm rather—well, particular. I've strained + A point in coming here at all; 'tis said + That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead + At last) and all her followers are here. + As company, they'd be—confess it—rather queer." + + The saint replied, his rising anger past: + "What can I do?—the law is hard-and-fast, + Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown— + An oral order issued from the Throne. + By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred + God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd." + + That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile, + Said, slowly turning on his heel the while: + "Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar— + I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are." + + 1895. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0168" id="link2H_4_0168"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE OPPOSING SEX. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing: + "No longer the 'masher' + Sees Widows of Ashur!" + So each is a lasher + Of Man's smallest failing. + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing. + + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling— + No wooing can gull 'em + In Cave of Adullam. + No angel can lull 'em + To cease their defiling + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling. + + At men they are cursing— + The Widows of Ashur; + Themselves, too, for nursing + The men they are cursing. + The praise they're rehearsing + Of every slasher + At men. <i>They</i> are cursing + The Widows of Ashur. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0169" id="link2H_4_0169"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WHIPPER-IN. + </h2> + <p> + [Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and + declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not regularly + attend.—<i>N.Y. World.]</i> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note, + Worthy of honor from a feeble pen + Blunted in service of all true, good men, + You serve the Lord—in courses, <i>table d'hôte: + Au, naturel,</i> as well as <i>à la Nick</i>— + "Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick." + + O, truly pious caterer, forbear + To push the Saviour and Him crucified + <i>(Brochette</i> you'd call it) into their inside + Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare. + The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion + Of aught that it has taken on compulsion. + + I search the Scriptures, but I do not find + That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings + For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings + To charm away the scruples of the mind. + It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"— + Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell! + + Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true: + We cower timidly beneath the rod + Lifted in menace by an angry God, + But won't endure it from an ape like you. + Detested simian with thumb prehensile, + Switch <i>me</i> and I would brain you with my pencil! + + Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back + On its transplendency to flog some wight + Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night + Your ugly shadow lays along his track. + O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin, + Behold what rascals try to scourge it in! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0170" id="link2H_4_0170"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUDGMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I drew aside the Future's veil + And saw upon his bier + The poet Whitman. Loud the wail + And damp the falling tear. + + "He's dead—he is no more!" one cried, + With sobs of sorrow crammed; + "No more? He's this much more," replied + Another: "he is damned!" + + 1885. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0171" id="link2H_4_0171"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand, + Played accordions as well as any lady in the land; + And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was such + That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch; + And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang + That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang. + This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine, + Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine. + She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet + When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet— + Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung + As to overtax the strength of any single human lung. + That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell, + Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell. + + One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smart + A chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part. + Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrude + It was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude. + Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to see + That he <i>was</i> a real Gent of an uncommon high degree. + That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regards + On this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards; + But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blind + To her many charms of person and the merits of her mind, + And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad, + And acted in a manner that in general was bad. + + One evening—'twas in summer—she was holding in her lap + Her accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap, + Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued, + Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude. + + Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to hum + And elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb. + Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled, + And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed. + "In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impassioned strain, + And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain, + Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round, + And going into session strove to magnify the sound. + He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rang + With the song that to <i>his</i> darling he impetuously sang! + Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes, + Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines, + From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog, + Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0172" id="link2H_4_0172"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN HIGH LIFE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea, + Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee. + The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare; + The fashion, the rank and the wealth were all there— + No person was absent of all whom one meets. + Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, + While good Sir John Satan attended the door + And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor, + Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, + Preserving the peace between poodle and pug. + Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle + To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; + Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom + To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom. + The rites were performed by the hand and the lip + Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, + Assisted by three able-bodied divines. + He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs. + Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such grace + Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place! + That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, + Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0173" id="link2H_4_0173"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BUBBLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore + Was a dame of superior mind, + With a gown which, modestly fitting before, + Was greatly puffed up behind. + + The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned + With an inspiration bright: + It magnified seven diameters and + Was remarkably nice and light. + + It was made of rubber and edged with lace + And riveted all with brass, + And the whole immense interior space + Inflated with hydrogen gas. + + The ladies all said when she hove in view + Like the round and rising moon: + "She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true, + And men called her the Captive Balloon. + + To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day + She went and she said: "O dear! + If I leave off <i>this</i> what will people say? + I shall look so uncommonly queer!" + + So a costume she had accordingly made + To take it all nicely in, + And when she appeared in that suit arrayed, + She was greeted with many a grin. + + Proudly and happily looking around, + She waded out into the wet, + But the water was very, very profound, + And her feet and her forehead met! + + As her bubble drifted away from the shore, + On the glassy billows borne, + All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore? + I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!" + + Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot, + Till it burst with a sullen roar, + And the sea like oil closed over the spot— + Farewell, O Mehitable Moore! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0174" id="link2H_4_0174"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A RENDEZVOUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nightly I put up this humble petition: + "Forgive me, O Father of Glories, + My sins of commission, my sins of omission, + My sins of the Mission Dolores." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0175" id="link2H_4_0175"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCINE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Did I believe the angels soon would call + You, my beloved, to the other shore, + And I should never see you any more, + I love you so I know that I should fall + Into dejection utterly, and all + Love's pretty pageantry, wherein we bore + Twin banners bravely in the tumult's fore, + Would seem as shadows idling on a wall. + So daintily I love you that my love + Endures no rumor of the winter's breath, + And only blossoms for it thinks the sky + Forever gracious, and the stars above + Forever friendly. Even the fear of death + Were frost wherein its roses all would die. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0176" id="link2H_4_0176"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN EXAMPLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + They were two deaf mutes, and they loved and they + Resolved to be groom and bride; + And they listened to nothing that any could say, + Nor ever a word replied. + + From wedlock when warned by the married men, + Maintain an invincible mind: + Be deaf and dumb until wedded—and then + Be deaf and dumb and blind. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0177" id="link2H_4_0177"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + REVENGE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A spitcat sate on a garden gate + And a snapdog fared beneath; + Careless and free was his mien, and he + Held a fiddle-string in his teeth. + + She marked his march, she wrought an arch + Of her back and blew up her tail; + And her eyes were green as ever were seen, + And she uttered a woful wail. + + The spitcat's plaint was as follows: "It ain't + That I am to music a foe; + For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside, + And I twang them soft and low. + + "But that dog has trifled with art and rifled + A kitten of mine, ah me! + That catgut slim was marauded from him: + 'Tis the string that men call E." +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Then she sounded high, in the key of Y, + A note that cracked the tombs; + And the missiles through the firmament flew + From adjacent sleeping-rooms. + + As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell + She followed it down to earth; + And that snapdog wears a placard that bears + The inscription: "Blind from birth." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0178" id="link2H_4_0178"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When Adam first saw Eve he said: + "O lovely creature, share my bed." + Before consenting, she her gaze + Fixed on the greensward to appraise, + As well as vision could avouch, + The value of the proffered couch. + And seeing that the grass was green + And neatly clipped with a machine— + Observing that the flow'rs were rare + Varieties, and some were fair, + The posts of precious woods, besprent + With fragrant balsams, diffluent, + And all things suited to her worth, + She raised her angel eyes from earth + To his and, blushing to confess, + Murmured: "I love you, Adam—yes." + Since then her daughters, it is said, + Look always down when asked to wed. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0179" id="link2H_4_0179"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN CONTUMACIAM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Och! Father McGlynn, + Ye appear to be in + Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; + An' there's divil a doubt + But he's knockin' ye out + While ye're hangin' onto the rope. + + An' soon ye'll lave home + To thravel to Rome, + For its bound to Canossa ye are. + Persistin' to shtay + When ye're ordered away— + Bedad! that is goin' too far! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0180" id="link2H_4_0180"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + RE-EDIFIED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Lord of the tempest, pray refrain + From leveling this church again. + Now in its doom, as so you've willed it, + We acquiesce. But <i>you'll</i> rebuild it. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0181" id="link2H_4_0181"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BULLETIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "Lothario is very low," + So all the doctors tell. + Nay, nay, not <i>so</i>—he will be, though, + If ever he get well. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0182" id="link2H_4_0182"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FROM THE MINUTES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When, with the force of a ram that discharges its ponderous body + Straight at the rear elevation of the luckless culler of simples, + The foot of Herculean Kilgore—statesman of surname suggestive + Or carnage unspeakable!—lit like a missile prodigious + Upon the Congressional door with a monstrous and mighty momentum, + Causing that vain ineffective bar to political freedom + To fly from its hinges, effacing the nasal excrescence of Dingley, + That luckless one, decently veiling the ruin with ready bandanna, + Lamented the loss of his eminence, sadly with sobs as follows: + "Ah, why was I ever elected to the halls of legislation, + So soon to be shown the door with pitiless emphasis? Truly, + I've leaned on a broken Reed, and the same has gone back on me meanly. + Where now is my prominence, erstwhile in council conspicuous, patent? + Alas, I did never before understand what I now see clearly, + To wit, that Democracy tends to level all human distinctions!" + His fate so untoward and sad the Pine-tree statesman, bewailing, + Stood in the corridor there while Democrats freed from confinement + Came trooping forth from the chamber, dissembling all, as they passed him, + Hilarious sentiments painful indeed to observe, and remarking: + "O friend and colleague of the Speaker, what ails the unjoyous proboscis?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0183" id="link2H_4_0183"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WOMAN IN POLITICS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What, madam, run for School Director? You? + And want my vote and influence? Well, well, + That beats me! Gad! where <i>are</i> we drifting to? + In all my life I never have heard tell + Of such sublime presumption, and I smell + A nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam; + We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam. + + But now you mention it—well, well, who knows? + We might, that's certain, give the sex a show. + I have a cousin—teacher. I suppose + If I stand in and you 're elected—no? + You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go! + But understand that school administration + Belongs to Politics, not Education. + + We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wise + To understand each other at the start. + You know my business—books and school supplies; + You'd hardly, if elected, have the heart + Some small advantage to deny me—part + Of all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing? + Please don't express yourself with so much feeling. + + You pain me, truly. Now one question more. + Suppose a fair young man should ask a place + As teacher—would you (pardon) shut the door + Of the Department in his handsome face + Until—I know not how to put the case— + Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor? + Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver. + + Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect: + A woman has no head for useful tricks. + My profitable offers you reject + And will not promise anything to fix + The opposition. That's not politics. + Good morning. Stay—I'm chaffing you, conceitedly. + Madam, I mean to vote for you—repeatedly. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0184" id="link2H_4_0184"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO AN ASPIRANT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! you a Senator—you, Mike de Young? + Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung? + Sir, if all Senators were such as you, + Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,— + (Shaped to the pocket for commercial work, + For literary, fitted to the dirk)— + So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers, + The toga's touch would give a man the shivers. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0185" id="link2H_4_0185"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives, + And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives, + Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame— + The assassinating wassail that has given him his name; + Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen + To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green, + While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread + With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head; + Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun, + And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run, + Lived a colony of settlers—old Missouri was the State + Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date. + + Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme + Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream. + + The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free, + And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea. + So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce, + And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use— + Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day, + Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way. + Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God create + Such a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state? + + Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he; + With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree; + So he knelt upon the <i>mesa</i> and he prayed with all his chin + That the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin. + + Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land, + And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand! + Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birth + Fitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth. + Astounded by the miracle, the people met that night + To celebrate it properly by some religious rite; + And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunk + Every man and every woman was devotionally drunk. + A half a standard gallon (says history) per head + Of the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed. + O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk. + By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke! + Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye, + And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky! + Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass, + Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass. + Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way, + To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say, + Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop, + To the head of population—and consumes it, every drop! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0186" id="link2H_4_0186"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A BUILDER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I saw the devil—he was working free: + A customs-house he builded by the sea. + "Why do you this?" The devil raised his head; + "Churches and courts I've built enough," he said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0187" id="link2H_4_0187"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN AUGURY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Upon my desk a single spray, + With starry blossoms fraught. + I write in many an idle way, + Thinking one serious thought. + + "O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear, + And with a fine Greek grace." + Be still, O heart, that turns to share + The sunshine of a face. + + "Have ye no messages—no brief, + Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?" + A sudden stir of stem and leaf— + A breath of heliotrope! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0188" id="link2H_4_0188"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + LUSUS POLITICUS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Come in, old gentleman. How do you do? + Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called. + I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you + Are a pleasant-appearing person, too, + With a head agreeably bald. + That's right—sit down in the scuttle of coal + And put up your feet in a chair. + It is better to have them there: + And I've always said that a hat of lead, + Such as I see you wear, + Was a better hat than a hat of glass. + And your boots of brass + Are a natural kind of boots, I swear. + "May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?" + Why, certainly, man, why not? + I rather expected you'd do it before, + When I saw you poking it in at the door. + It's dev'lish hot— + The weather, I mean. "You are twins"? + Why, that was evident at the start, + From the way that you paint your head + In stripes of purple and red, + With dots of yellow. + That proves you a fellow + With a love of legitimate art. + "You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"? + That's very sad, + But Longfellow's words I beg to recall: + Your lot is the common lot of all. + "Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"? + That, I fancy, is just as you please. + Some think that way and others hold + The opposite view; + I never quite knew, + For the matter o' that, + When everything's been said— + May I offer this mat + If you <i>will</i> stand on your head? + I suppose I look to be upside down + From your present point of view. + It's a giddy old world, from king to clown, + And a topsy-turvy, too. + But, worthy and now uninverted old man, + <i>You're</i> built, at least, on a normal plan + If ever a truth I spoke. + Smoke? + Your air and conversation + Are a liberal education, + And your clothes, including the metal hat + And the brazen boots—what's that? + + "You never could stomach a Democrat + Since General Jackson ran? + You're another sort, but you predict + That your party'll get consummately licked?" + Good God! what a queer old man! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0189" id="link2H_4_0189"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BEREAVEMENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A Countess (so they tell the tale) + Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale, + Where ladies, even of high degree, + Know more of love than of A.B.C, + Came once with a prodigious bribe + Unto the learned village scribe, + That most discreet and honest man + Who wrote for all the lover clan, + Nor e'er a secret had betrayed— + Save when inadequately paid. + "Write me," she sobbed—"I pray thee do— + A book about the Prince di Giu— + A book of poetry in praise + Of all his works and all his ways; + The godlike grace of his address, + His more than woman's tenderness, + His courage stern and lack of guile, + The loves that wantoned in his smile. + So great he was, so rich and kind, + I'll not within a fortnight find + His equal as a lover. O, + My God! I shall be drowned in woe!" + + "What! Prince di Giu has died!" exclaimed + The honest man for letters famed, + The while he pocketed her gold; + "Of what'?—if I may be so bold." + Fresh storms of tears the lady shed: + "I stabbed him fifty times," she said. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0190" id="link2H_4_0190"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN INSCRIPTION + </h2> + <h3> + FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A famous conqueror, in battle brave, + Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave. + His reign laid quantities of human dust: + He fell upon the just and the unjust. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0191" id="link2H_4_0191"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A PICKBRAIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What! imitate me, friend? Suppose that you + With agony and difficulty do + What I do easily—what then? You've got + A style I heartily wish <i>I</i> had not. + If I from lack of sense and you from choice + Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice, + No equal censure our deserts will suit— + We both are fools, but you're an ape to boot! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0192" id="link2H_4_0192"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CONVALESCENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "By good men's prayers see Grant restored!" + Shouts Talmage, pious creature! + Yes, God, by supplication bored + From every droning preacher, + Exclaimed: "So be it, tiresome crew— + But I've a crow to pick with <i>you</i>." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0193" id="link2H_4_0193"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He looked upon the ships as they + All idly lay at anchor, + Their sides with gorgeous workmen gay— + The riveter and planker— + + Republicans and Democrats, + Statesmen and politicians. + He saw the swarm of prudent rats + Swimming for land positions. + + He marked each "belted cruiser" fine, + Her poddy life-belts floating + In tether where the hungry brine + Impinged upon her coating. + + He noted with a proud regard, + As any of his class would, + The poplar mast and poplar yard + Above the hull of bass-wood. + + He saw the Eastlake frigate tall, + With quaintly carven gable, + Hip-roof and dormer-window—all + With ivy formidable. + + In short, he saw our country's hope + In best of all conditions— + Equipped, to the last spar and rope, + By working politicians. + + He boarded then the noblest ship + And from the harbor glided. + "Adieu, adieu!" fell from his lip. + Verdict: "He suicided." + + 1881. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0194" id="link2H_4_0194"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DETECTED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In Congress once great Mowther shone, + Debating weighty matters; + Now into an asylum thrown, + He vacuously chatters. + + If in that legislative hall + His wisdom still he 'd vented, + It never had been known at all + That Mowther was demented. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0195" id="link2H_4_0195"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BIMETALISM. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Ben Bulger was a silver man, + Though not a mine had he: + He thought it were a noble plan + To make the coinage free. + + "There hain't for years been sech a time," + Said Ben to his bull pup, + "For biz—the country's broke and I'm + The hardest kind of up. + + "The paper says that that's because + The silver coins is sea'ce, + And that the chaps which makes the laws + Puts gold ones in their place. + + "They says them nations always be + Most prosperatin' where + The wolume of the currency + Ain't so disgustin' rare." + + His dog, which hadn't breakfasted, + Dissented from his view, + And wished that he could swell, instead, + The volume of cold stew. + + "Nobody'd put me up," said Ben, + "With patriot galoots + Which benefits their feller men + By playin' warious roots; + + "But havin' all the tools about, + I'm goin' to commence + A-turnin' silver dollars out + Wuth eighty-seven cents. + + "The feller takin' 'em can't whine: + (No more, likewise, can I): + They're better than the genooine, + Which mostly satisfy. + + "It's only makin' coinage free, + And mebby might augment + The wolume of the currency + A noomerous per cent." + + I don't quite see his error nor + Malevolence prepense, + But fifteen years they gave him for + That technical offense. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0196" id="link2H_4_0196"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE RICH TESTATOR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + He lay on his bed and solemnly "signed," + Gasping—perhaps 'twas a jest he meant: + "This of a sound and disposing mind + Is the last ill-will and contestament." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0197" id="link2H_4_0197"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO METHODS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fed + The Priest delivers masses for the dead, + And even from estrays outside the fold + Death for the masses he would not withhold. + The Parson, loth alike to free or kill, + Forsakes the souls already on the grill, + And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming, + Spares living sinners for a harder damning. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0198" id="link2H_4_0198"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranks + Are played by sentimental cranks! + First this one mounts his hinder hoofs + And brays the chimneys off the roofs; + Then that one, with exalted voice, + Expounds the thesis of his choice, + Our understandings to bombard, + Till all the window panes are starred! + A third augments the vocal shock + Till steeples to their bases rock, + Confessing, as they humbly nod, + They hear and mark the will of God. + A fourth in oral thunder vents + His awful penury of sense + Till dogs with sympathetic howls, + And lowing cows, and cackling fowls, + Hens, geese, and all domestic birds, + Attest the wisdom of his words. + Cranks thus their intellects deflate + Of theories about the State. + This one avers 'tis built on Truth, + And that on Temperance. This youth + Declares that Science bears the pile; + That graybeard, with a holy smile, + Says Faith is the supporting stone; + While women swear that Love alone + Could so unflinchingly endure + The heavy load. And some are sure + The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock + Is the indubitable bedrock. + + Physicians once about the bed + Of one whose life was nearly sped + Blew up a disputatious breeze + About the cause of his disease: + This, that and t' other thing they blamed. + "Tut, tut!" the dying man exclaimed, + "What made me ill I do not care; + You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear. + And if you had the skill to make it + I'd see you hanged before I'd take it!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0199" id="link2H_4_0199"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN IMPOSTER. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain + Your worth, and all the reasons give again + Why black and red are similarly white, + And you and God identically right? + Still must our ears without redress submit + To hear you play the solemn hypocrite + Walking in spirit some high moral level, + Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil? + Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made + Your mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayed + To have an earless head. Since she did not, + Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot— + Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air + So delicately, mercifully rare + That when the fellow climbs that giddy hill, + As, for my sins, I know at last he will, + To utter twaddle in that void inane + His soundless organ he will play in vain. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0200" id="link2H_4_0200"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UNEXPOUNDED. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills, + On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills, + Lawyers great books indite; + The creaking of their busy quills + I've never heard on Right. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0201" id="link2H_4_0201"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FRANCE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive: + Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive; + A Prince who'd govern where he dares not dwell, + And who for power would his birthright sell— + Who, anxious o'er his enemies to reign, + Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain; + While pugnant factions mutually strive + By cutting throats to keep the land alive. + Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse— + To all a mistress, to thyself a curse; + Sweetheart of Europe! every sun's embrace + Matures the charm and poison of thy grace. + Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings: + In blood of citizens and blood of kings + The stones of thy stability are set, + And the fair fabric trembles at a threat. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0202" id="link2H_4_0202"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE EASTERN QUESTION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Looking across the line, the Grecian said: + "This border I will stain a Turkey red." + The Moslem smiled securely and replied: + "No Greek has ever for his country dyed." + While thus each patriot guarded his frontier, + The Powers stole all the country in his rear. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0203" id="link2H_4_0203"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A GUEST. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Death, are you well? I trust you have no cough + That's painful or in any way annoying— + No kidney trouble that may carry you off, + Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying + Your meals—and ours. 'T were very sad indeed + To have to quit the busy life you lead. + + You've been quite active lately for so old + A person, and not very strong-appearing. + I'm apprehensive, somehow, that my bold, + Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing. + And my two friends—I fear, sir, that you ran + Quite hard for them, especially the man. + + I crave your pardon: 'twas no fault of mine; + If you are overworked I'm sorry, very. + Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine. + What shall it be—Marsala, Port or Sherry? + What! just a mug of blood? That's funny grog + To ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0204" id="link2H_4_0204"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FALSE PROPHECY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil + (Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut), + They say that you're imperially ill, + And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut! + Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but + A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill + A man predestined to depart this life + By the assassin's bullet, bomb or knife. + + Sir, once there was a President who freed + Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar + Who freed five times as many serfs. Sins breed + The means of punishment, and tyrants are + Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car + If faster than the law allows they speed. + Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut; + <i>You</i> freed slaves too. Paralysis—tut-tut! + + 1885. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0205" id="link2H_4_0205"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWO TYPES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Courageous fool!—the peril's strength unknown. + Courageous man!—so conscious of your own. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0206" id="link2H_4_0206"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. + </h2> + <h3> + STEPHEN DORSEY. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst, + Where rests in Satan an offender first + In point of greatness, as in point of time, + Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime. + Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab + The dark arcana of each mighty grab, + And famed for lying from his early youth, + He sinned secure behind a veil of truth. + Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write + A damning record and conceal from sight; + Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it. + His way to keep a secret was to tell it. +</pre> + <h3> + STEPHEN J. FIELD. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here sleeps one of the greatest students + Of jurisprudence. + Nature endowed him with the gift + Of the juristhrift. + All points of law alike he threw + The dice to settle. + Those honest cubes were loaded true + With railway metal. +</pre> + <h3> + GENERAL B.F. BUTLER. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God, + We gave, O gallant brother; + And o'er thy grave the awkward squad + Fired into one another! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Beneath this monument which rears its head. + A giant note of admiration—dead, + His life extinguished like a taper's flame. + John Ericsson is lying in his fame. + Behold how massive is the lofty shaft; + How fine the product of the sculptor's craft; + The gold how lavishly applied; the great + Man's statue how impressive and sedate! + Think what the cost-was! It would ill become + Our modesty to specify the sum; + Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're giving + Of what we robbed him of when he was living. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk + Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk. + His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear, + But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead + He looked so natural that round his bed + + The people stood, in silence all, to weep. + They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid + The tools of his infernal trade— + His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude + They grew—so slack in gratitude, + His hand was wounded as he wrote, + And when he spoke he cut his throat. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Within this humble mausoleum + Poor Guiteau's flesh you'll find. + His bones are kept in a museum, + And Tillman has his mind. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Stranger, uncover; here you have in view + The monument of Chauncey M. Depew. + Eater and orator, the whole world round + For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned. + Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech, + Nothing he knew excepting how to teach. + But in default of something to impart + He multiplied his words with all his heart: + When least he had to say, instructive most— + A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost. + + Dining his way to eminence, he rowed + With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed + From lakes of favor—pulled with all his force + And found each river sweeter than the source. + Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor, + Gnawing and rising till obscure no more, + He ate his way to eminence, and Fame + Inscribes in gravy his immortal name. + A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly, + So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly. + Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him, + And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie; + Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why. + In '71 he filled the public eye, + In '72 he bade the world good-bye, + In God's good time, with a protesting sigh, + He came to life just long enough to die. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay, + Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray. + He joined the great Order and studied with zeal + The awful arcana he meant to reveal. + At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell— + There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0207" id="link2H_4_0207"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A HYMN OF THE MANY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + God's people sorely were oppressed, + I heard their lamentations long;— + I hear their singing, clear and strong, + I see their banners in the West! + + The captains shout the battle-cry, + The legions muster in their might; + They turn their faces to the light, + They lift their arms, they testify: + + "We sank beneath the Master's thong, + Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;— + Now clash your lances in the sun + And bless your banners with a song! + + "God bides his time with patient eyes + While tyrants build upon the land;— + He lifts his face, he lifts his hand, + And from the stones his temples rise. + + "Now Freedom waves her joyous wing + Beyond the foemen's shields of gold. + March forward, singing, for, behold, + The right shall rule while God is king!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0208" id="link2H_4_0208"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE MORNING. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Because that I am weak, my love, and ill, + I cannot follow the impatient feet + Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat + Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill + The hour appointed for the air to thrill + And brighten at your coming. O my sweet, + The tale of moments is at last complete— + The tryst is broken on the gusty hill! + O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed, + The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not; + Think rather that the clock and sun have lied + And all too early, you have sought the spot. + For lo! despair has darkened all the light, + And till I see your face it still is night. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0209" id="link2H_4_0209"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN ERROR. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream + How sweet the roses in the autumn seem! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0210" id="link2H_4_0210"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You 're grayer than one would have thought you: + The climate you have over there + In the East has apparently brought you + Disorders affecting the hair, + Which—pardon me—seems a thought spare. + + You'll not take offence at my giving + Expression to notions like these. + You might have been stronger if living + Out here in our sanative breeze. + It's unhealthy here for disease. + + No, I'm not as plump as a pullet. + But that's the old wound, you see. + Remember my paunching a bullet?— + And how that it didn't agree + With—well, honest hardtack for me. + + Just pass me the wine—I've a helly + And horrible kind of drouth! + When a fellow has that in his belly + Which didn't go in at his mouth + He's hotter than all Down South! + + Great Scott! what a nasty day <i>that</i> was— + When every galoot in our crack + Division who didn't lie flat was + Dissuaded from further attack + By the bullet's felicitous whack. + + 'Twas there that our major slept under + Some cannon of ours on the crest, + Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, + And he cursed them for breaking his rest, + And died in the midst of his jest. + + That night—it was late in November— + The dead seemed uncommonly chill + To the touch; and one chap I remember + Who took it exceedingly ill + When I dragged myself over his bill. + + Well, comrades, I'm off now—good morning. + Your talk is as pleasant as pie, + But, pardon me, one word of warning: + Speak little of self, say I. + That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0211" id="link2H_4_0211"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE KING OF BORES. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Abundant bores afflict this world, and some + Are bores of magnitude that-come and—no, + They're always coming, but they never go— + Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum + Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum, + Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow. + But one superb tormentor I can show— + Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum. + He the johndonkey is who, when I pen + Amorous verses in an idle mood + To nobody, or of her, reads them through + And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then + Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood + This tender sonnet's application too. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0212" id="link2H_4_0212"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HISTORY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice, + Another indolence, another dice. + Emascle says polygamy. "Not so," + Says Impycu—"'twas luxury and show." + The parson, lifting up a brow of brass, + Swears superstition gave the <i>coup de grâce</i>, + Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms + 'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: "'T was worms") + And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars, + Averring the no coins were silver dollars. + Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack + Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back, + Holds a new "autopsy" and finds that death + Resulted partly from the want of breath, + But chiefly from some visitation sad + That points his argument or serves his fad. + They're all in error—never human mind + The cause of the disaster has divined. + What slew the Roman power? Well, provided + You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0213" id="link2H_4_0213"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HERMIT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + To a hunter from the city, + Overtaken by the night, + Spake, in tones of tender pity + For himself, an aged wight: + + "I have found the world a fountain + Of deceit and Life a sham. + I have taken to the mountain + And a Holy Hermit am. + + "Sternly bent on Contemplation, + Far apart from human kind—— + In the hill my habitation, + In the Infinite my mind. + + "Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing, + Growing bald and bent with dole. + Vainly seeking for a Something + To engage my gloomy soul. + + "Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you + Eat, and quaff my simple drink, + Please suggest whatever suits you + As a Theme for me to Think." + + Then the hunter answered gravely: + "From distraction free, and strife, + You could ponder very bravely + On the Vanity of Life." + + "O, thou wise and learned Teacher, + You have solved the Problem well— + You have saved a grateful creature + From the agonies of hell. + + "Take another root, another + Cup of water: eat and drink. + Now I have a Subject, brother, + Tell me What, and How, to think." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0214" id="link2H_4_0214"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Affronting fool, subdue your transient light; + When Wisdom's dull dares Folly to be bright: + If Genius stumble in the path to fame, + 'Tis decency in dunces to go lame. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0215" id="link2H_4_0215"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE YEARLY LIE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A merry Christmas? Prudent, as I live!— + You wish me something that you need not give. + + Merry or sad, what does it signify? + To you 't is equal if I laugh, or die. + + Your hollow greeting, like a parrot's jest, + Finds all its meaning in the ear addressed. + + Why "merry" Christmas? Faith, I'd rather frown + Than grin and caper like a tickled clown. + + When fools are merry the judicious weep; + The wise are happy only when asleep. + + A present? Pray you give it to disarm + A man more powerful to do you harm. + + 'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot let + You pay for favors that you'll never get. + + Perish the savage custom of the gift, + Founded in terror and maintained in thrift! + + What men of honor need to aid their weal + They purchase, or, occasion serving, steal. + + Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies, + Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies. + + Let Santa Claus descend again the flue; + If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true. + + "A lie well stuck to is as good as truth," + And God's too old to legislate for youth. + + Hail Christmas! On my knees and fowl I fall: + For greater grace and better gravy call. + <i>Vive l'Humbug!</i>—that's to say, God bless us all! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0216" id="link2H_4_0216"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + COOPERATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + No more the swindler singly seeks his prey; + To hunt in couples is the modern way— + A rascal, from the public to purloin, + An honest man to hide away the coin. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0217" id="link2H_4_0217"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN APOLOGUE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A traveler observed one day + A loaded fruit-tree by the way. + And reining in his horse exclaimed: + "The man is greatly to be blamed + Who, careless of good morals, leaves + Temptation in the way of thieves. + Now lest some villain pass this way + And by this fruit be led astray + To bag it, I will kindly pack + It snugly in my saddle-sack." + He did so; then that Salt o' the Earth + Rode on, rejoicing in his worth. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0218" id="link2H_4_0218"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIAGNOSIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, pray + Compose my spirits' strife: + O what may be my chances, say, + Of living all my life? + + "For lately I have dreamed of high + And hempen dissolution! + O doctor, doctor, how can I + Amend my constitution?" + + The learned leech replied: "You're young + And beautiful and strong— + Permit me to inspect your tongue: + H'm, ah, ahem!—'tis long." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0219" id="link2H_4_0219"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FALLEN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O, hadst thou died when thou wert great, + When at thy feet a nation knelt + To sob the gratitude it felt + And thank the Saviour of the State, + Gods might have envied thee thy fate! + + Then was the laurel round thy brow, + And friend and foe spoke praise of thee, + While all our hearts sang victory. + Alas! thou art too base to bow + To hide the shame that brands it now. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0220" id="link2H_4_0220"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + DIES IRAE. + </h2> + <p> + A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing + translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches + into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me to + undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to attempt + that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have attempted + before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me to hope + that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The fault of + previous translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. Dix, has been, + I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the delicate irony + and subtle humor of the immortal poem—though doubtless these + admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators—have + been utterly sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions + that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of + insincerity pervading the whole prayer,—the cool effrontery of the + suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of + salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission to the + punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing characteristics of + this amusing work, being most imperfectly conveyed. By permitting myself a + reasonable freedom of rendering—in many cases boldly supplying that + "missing link" between the sublime and the ridiculous which the author, + writing for the acute monkish apprehension of the 13th century, did not + deem it necessary to insert—I have hoped at least partially to + liberate the lurking devil of humor from his fetters, letting him caper, + not, certainly, as he does in the Latin, but as he probably would have + done had his creator written in English. In preserving the metre and + double rhymes of the original, I have acted from the same reverent regard + for the music with which, in the liturgy of the Church, the verses have + become inseparably wedded that inspired Gen. Dix; seeking rather to + surmount the obstacles to success by honest effort, than to avoid them by + the adoption of an easier versification which would have deprived my + version of all utility in religious service. + </p> + <p> + I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the + first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been + purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the very boundary + of the alluring domain. I have got over the inhibition—somehow—but + David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me if they find themselves + represented merely by the names of those conspicuous personal qualities to + which they probably owed, respectively, their powers of prophecy, as + Samson's strength lay in his hair. + </p> + <h3> + DIES IRAE. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Dies irae! dies ilia! + Solvet saeclum in favilla + Teste David cum Sibylla. + + Quantus tremor est futurus, + Quando Judex est venturus. + Cuncta stricte discussurus. + + Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchra regionem, + Coget omnes ante thronum. + + Mors stupebit, et Natura, + Quum resurget creatura + Judicanti responsura. + + Liber scriptus proferetur, + In quo totum continetur, + Unde mundus judicetur. + + Judex ergo quum sedebit, + Quicquid latet apparebit, + Nil inultum remanebit. + + Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, + Quem patronem rogaturus, + Quum vix justus sit securus? + + Rex tremendae majestatis, + Qui salvandos salvas gratis; + Salva me, Fons pietatis + + Recordare, Jesu pie + Quod sum causa tuae viae; + Ne me perdas illa die. + + Quarens me sedisti lassus + Redimisti crucem passus, + Tantus labor non sit cassus. + + Juste Judex ultionis, + Donum fac remissionis + Ante diem rationis. + + Ingemisco tanquam reus, + Culpa rubet vultus meus; + Supplicanti parce, Deus. + + Qui Mariam absolvisti + Et latronem exaudisti, + Mihi quoque spem dedisti. + + Preces meae non sunt dignae, + Sed tu bonus fac benigne + Ne perenni cremer igne. + + Inter oves locum praesta. + Et ab haedis me sequestra, + Statuens in parte dextra. + + Confutatis maledictis, + Flammis acribus addictis, + Voca me cum benedictis. + + Oro supplex et acclinis, + Cor contritum quasi cinis; + Gere curam mei finis. + + Lacrymosa dies illa + Qua resurgent et favilla, + Judicandus homo reus + Huic ergo parce, Deus! +</pre> + <h3> + THE DAY OF WRATH. + </h3> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Day of Satan's painful duty! + Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; + So says Virtue, so says Beauty. + + Ah! what terror shall be shaping + When the Judge the truth's undraping! + Cats from every bag escaping! + + Now the trumpet's invocation + Calls the dead to condemnation; + All receive an invitation. + + Death and Nature now are quaking, + And the late lamented, waking, + In their breezy shrouds are shaking. + + Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, + And the Clerk, to them referring, + Makes it awkward for the erring. + + When the Judge appears in session, + We shall all attend confession, + Loudly preaching non-suppression. + + How shall I then make romances + Mitigating circumstances? + Even the just must take their chances. + + King whose majesty amazes. + Save thou him who sings thy praises; + Fountain, quench my private blazes. + + Pray remember, sacred Savior, + Mine the playful hand that gave your + Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. + + Seeking me fatigue assailed thee, + Calvary's outlook naught availed thee: + Now 't were cruel if I failed thee. + + Righteous judge and learned brother, + Pray thy prejudices smother + Ere we meet to try each other. + + Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, + And my face vermilion flushes; + Spare me for my pretty blushes. + + Thief and harlot, when repenting, + Thou forgav'st—be complimenting + Me with sign of like relenting. + + If too bold is my petition + I'll receive with due submission + My dismissal—from perdition. + + When thy sheep thou hast selected + From the goats, may I, respected, + Stand amongst them undetected. + + When offenders are indicted, + And with trial-flames ignited, + Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. + + Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful, + When of death I see the air full, + Lest I perish, too, be careful. + + On that day of lamentation, + When, to enjoy the conflagration. + Men come forth, O, be not cruel. + Spare me, Lord—make them thy fuel. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0221" id="link2H_4_0221"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed + For revolution! + To foil their villainous crusade + Unsheathe again the sacred blade + Of persecution. + + What though through long disuse 't is grown + A trifle rusty? + 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone + Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, + It still is trusty. + + Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, + Unapprehensive, + Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; + Our zealots chiefly to the nose + Assume the offensive. + + Then wield the blade their necks to hack, + Nor ever spare one. + Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, + But see that every martyr lack + The head to wear one. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0222" id="link2H_4_0222"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull: + There's nothing happening at all—a lull + After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife + Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. + A fire on Blank Street and some babies—one, + Two, three or four, I don't remember, done + To quite a delicate and lovely brown. + A husband shot by woman of the town— + The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. + The crew, all saved—or lost. Uncommon drouth + Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud— + Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. + 'T is feared some bank will burst—or else it won't + They always burst, I fancy—or they don't; + Who cares a cent?—the banker pays his coin + And takes his chances: bullet in the groin— + But that's another item—suicide— + Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. + Heigh-ho! there's noth—Jerusalem! what's this: + Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss + Of ruin!—owes me seven hundred clear! + Was ever such a damned disastrous year! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0223" id="link2H_4_0223"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IN THE BINNACLE. + </h2> + <p> + [The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly + and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.—<i>Religious + Weekly.</i>] + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The Church's compass, if you please, + Has two or three (or more) degrees + Of variation; + And many a soul has gone to grief + On this or that or t'other reef + Through faith unreckoning or brief + Miscalculation. + Misguidance is of perils chief + To navigation. + + The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark, + Obeisance through a little arc + Of declination; + For Satan, fearing witches, drew + From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe, + And nailed it to his door to undo + Their machination. + Since then the needle dips to woo + His habitation. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0224" id="link2H_4_0224"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HUMILITY. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Great poets fire the world with fagots big + That make a crackling racket, + But I'm content with but a whispering twig + To warm some single jacket. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0225" id="link2H_4_0225"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ONE PRESIDENT. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child— + Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild." + + "What are they that way for, father?" "Last fall, + 'Our candidate's better,' they said, 'than all!'" + + "What did they say he was, father?" "A man + Built on a straight incorruptible plan— + Believing that none for an office would do + Unless he were honest and capable too." + + "Poor gentlemen—<i>so</i> disappointed!" "Yes, lad, + That is the feeling that's driving them mad; + They're weeping and wailing and gnashing because + They find that he's all that they said that he was." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0226" id="link2H_4_0226"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BRIDE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse + I made a second marriage in my house— + Divorced old barren Reason from my bed + And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse." + + So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam + Of light that made her like an angel seem, + The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myself + Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream." +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0227" id="link2H_4_0227"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + STRAINED RELATIONS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Says England to Germany: "Africa's ours." + Says Germany: "Ours, I opine." + Says Africa: "Tell me, delectable Pow'rs, + What is it that ought to be mine?" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0228" id="link2H_4_0228"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN BORN BLIND. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A man born blind received his sight + By a painful operation; + And these are things he saw in the light + Of an infant observation. + + He saw a merchant, good and wise. + And greatly, too, respected, + Who looked, to those imperfect eyes, + Like a swindler undetected. + + He saw a patriot address + A noisy public meeting. + And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess. + That for the teat is bleating." + + A doctor stood beside a bed + And shook his summit sadly. + "O see that foul assassin!" said + The man who saw so badly. + + He saw a lawyer pleading for + A thief whom they'd been jailing, + And said: "That's an accomplice, or + My sight again is failing." + + Upon the Bench a Justice sat, + With nothing to restrain him; + "'Tis strange," said the observer, "that + They ventured to unchain him." + + With theologic works supplied, + He saw a solemn preacher; + "A burglar with his kit," he cried, + "To rob a fellow creature." + + A bluff old farmer next he saw + Sell produce in a village, + And said: "What, what! is there no law + To punish men for pillage?" + + A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed, + Who many charms united; + He thanked his stars his lot was cast + Where sepulchers were whited. + + He saw a soldier stiff and stern, + "Full of strange oaths" and toddy; + But was unable to discern + A wound upon his body. + + Ten square leagues of rolling ground + To one great man belonging, + Looked like one little grassy mound + With worms beneath it thronging. + + A palace's well-carven stones, + Where Dives dwelt contented, + Seemed built throughout of human bones + With human blood cemented. + + He watched the yellow shining thread + A silk-worm was a-spinning; + "That creature's coining gold." he said, + "To pay some girl for sinning." + + His eyes were so untrained and dim + All politics, religions, + Arts, sciences, appeared to him + But modes of plucking pigeons. + + And so he drew his final breath, + And thought he saw with sorrow + Some persons weeping for his death + Who'd be all smiles to-morrow. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0229" id="link2H_4_0229"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A NIGHTMARE. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by: + The world forgot that such a man as I + Had ever lived and written: other names + Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die. + + Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew. + Its roots transpierced my body, through and through, + My substance fed its growth. From many lands + Men came in troops that giant tree to view. + + 'T was sacred to my memory and fame— + My monument. But Allen Forman came, + Filled with the fervor of a new untruth, + And carved upon the trunk his odious name! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0230" id="link2H_4_0230"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WET SEASON. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Horas non numero nisi serenas. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth, + And man's in danger. + O that my mother at my birth + Had borne a stranger! + The flooded ground is all around. + The depth uncommon. + How blest I'd be if only she + Had borne a salmon. + + If still denied the solar glow + 'T were bliss ecstatic + To be amphibious—but O, + To be aquatic! + We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they + That faith are firm of. + O, then, be just: show me some dust + To be a worm of. + + The pines are chanting overhead + A psalm uncheering. + It's O, to have been for ages dead + And hard of hearing! + Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours + The dial reckoned; + 'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime— + Rameses II. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0231" id="link2H_4_0231"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Tut-tut! give back the flags—how can you care + You veterans and heroes? + Why should you at a kind intention swear + Like twenty Neroes? + + Suppose the act was not so overwise— + Suppose it was illegal— + Is 't well on such a question to arise + And pinch the Eagle? + + Nay, let's economize his breath to scold + And terrify the alien + Who tackles him, as Hercules of old + The bird Stymphalian. + + Among the rebels when we made a breach + Was it to get their banners? + That was but incidental—'t was to teach + Them better manners. + + They know the lesson well enough to-day; + Now, let us try to show them + That we 're not only stronger far than they. + (How we did mow them!) + + But more magnanimous. You see, my lads, + 'T was an uncommon riot; + The warlike tribes of Europe fight for "fads," + We fought for quiet. + + If we were victors, then we all must live + With the same flag above us; + 'Twas all in vain unless we now forgive + And make them love us. + + Let kings keep trophies to display above + Their doors like any savage; + The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love, + Despite war's ravage. + + "Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll find + You can't, in right and reason, + While "Washington" and "treason" are combined— + "Hugo" and "treason." + + All human governments must take the chance + And hazard of sedition. + O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advance + To blind submission. + + It may be wrong, it may be right, to rise + In warlike insurrection: + The loyalty that fools so dearly prize + May mean subjection. + + Be loyal to your country, yes—but how + If tyrants hold dominion? + The South believed they did; can't you allow + For that opinion? + + He who will never rise though rulers plods + His liberties despising + How is he manlier than the <i>sans culottes</i> + Who's always rising? + + Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fell + Too valiant to forsake them. + Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well, + I helped to take them. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0232" id="link2H_4_0232"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HAEC FABULA DOCET. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A rat who'd gorged a box of bane + And suffered an internal pain, + Came from his hole to die (the label + Required it if the rat were able) + And found outside his habitat + A limpid stream. Of bane and rat + 'T was all unconscious; in the sun + It ran and prattled just for fun. + Keen to allay his inward throes, + The beast immersed his filthy nose + And drank—then, bloated by the stream, + And filled with superheated steam, + Exploded with a rascal smell, + Remarking, as his fragments fell + Astonished in the brook: "I'm thinking + This water's damned unwholesome drinking!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0233" id="link2H_4_0233"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EXONERATION. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + When men at candidacy don't connive, + From that suspicion if their friends would free 'em, + The teeth and nails with which they did not strive + Should be exhibited in a museum. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0234" id="link2H_4_0234"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AZRAEL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The moon in the field of the keel-plowed main + Was watching the growing tide: + A luminous peasant was driving his wain, + And he offered my soul a ride. + + But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall, + And I fixed him fast with mine eye. + "O, peasant," I sang with a dying fall, + "Go leave me to sing and die." + + The water was weltering round my feet, + As prone on the beach they lay. + I chanted my death-song loud and sweet; + "Kioodle, ioodle, iay!" + + Then I heard the swish of erecting ears + Which caught that enchanted strain. + The ocean was swollen with storms of tears + That fell from the shining swain. + + "O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand, + "That ravishing song would make + The devil a saint." He held out his hand + And solemnly added: "Shake." + + We shook. "I crave a victim, you see," + He said—"you came hither to die." + The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he! + And the victim he crove was I! + + 'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard; + And he knocked me on the head. + O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard, + For I didn't want to be dead. + + "You'll sing no worser for that," said he, + And he drove with my soul away, + O, death-song singers, be warned by me, + Kioodle, ioodle, iay! +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0235" id="link2H_4_0235"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AGAIN. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, I've met her again—at the Mission. + She'd told me to see her no more; + It was not a command—a petition; + I'd granted it once before. + + Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. + Repenting her virtuous freak— + Subdued myself daily and nightly + For the better part of a week. + + And then ('twas my duty to spare her + The shame of recalling me) I + Just sought her again to prepare her + For an everlasting good-bye. + + O, that evening of bliss—shall I ever + Forget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe! + She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never + To see me again. And now go." + + As we parted with kisses 'twas human + And natural for me to smile + As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: + She'll send for me after a while." + + But she didn't; and so—well, the Mission + Is fine, picturesque and gray; + It's an excellent place for contrition— + And sometimes she passes that way. + + That's how it occurred that I met her, + And that's ah there is to tell— + Except that I'd like to forget her + Calm way of remarking: "I'm well." + + It was hardly worth while, all this keying + My soul to such tensions and stirs + To learn that her food was agreeing + With that little stomach of hers. +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0236" id="link2H_4_0236"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOMO PODUNKENSIS. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + As the poor ass that from his paddock strays + Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, + Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, + Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, + Mistaking for the world's assent the clang + Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; + So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, + Visits the city on the ocean's marge, + Expands his eyes and marvels to remark + Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; + Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares + That native merchants sell imported wares, + Nor comprehends how in his very view + A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; + Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, + Swears it superior to aught on earth, + Sighs for the temples locally renowned— + The village school-house and the village pound— + And chalks upon the palaces of Rome + The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!" +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0237" id="link2H_4_0237"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SOCIAL CALL. + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you, + With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue? + Less redness in the nose—nay, even some blue + Would not, I think, particularly hurt you. + When seen close to, not mounted in your car, + You look the drunkard and the pig you are. + + No matter, sit you down, for I am not + In a gray study, as you sometimes find me. + Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot, + But there's another year of pain behind me. + That's something to be thankful for: the more + There are behind, the fewer are before. + + I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp, + But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation + With an affinity to every tramp + That walks the world and steals its admiration. + For admiration is like linen left + Upon the line—got easiest by theft. + + Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood, + With brains and honesty, some five-and-twenty + Long years as champion of all that's good, + And taken on the mazzard thwacks a-plenty. + Yet now whose praises do the people bawl? + Those of the fellows whom I live to maul! + + Why, this is odd!—the more I try to talk + Of you the more my tongue grows egotistic + To prattle of myself! I'll try to balk + Its waywardness and be more altruistic. + So let us speak of others—how they sin, + And what a devil of a state they 're in! + + That's all I have to say. Good-bye, old man. + Next year you possibly may find me scolding— + Or miss me altogether: Nature's plan + Includes, as I suppose, a final folding + Of these poor empty hands. Then drop a tear + To think they'll never box another ear. +</pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> +<pre> + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES OF CLAY *** + +***** This file should be named 12658-h.htm or 12658-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/5/12658/ + +Etext produced by Rick Niles, Kat Jeter, John Hagerson and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + +HTML file produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Shapes of Clay + +Author: Ambrose Bierce + +Release Date: June 19, 2004 [EBook #12658] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES OF CLAY *** + + + + +Produced by Rick Niles, Kat Jeter, John Hagerson and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + + + + + +[Illustration: Ambrose Bierce.] + +SHAPES OF CLAY + +BY + +AMBROSE BIERCE + +AUTHOR OF "IN THE MIDST OF LIFE," "CAN SUCH THINGS BE?" "BLACK BEETLES +IN AMBER," AND "FANTASTIC FABLES" + +1903 + + + + +DEDICATION. + +WITH PRIDE IN THEIR WORK, FAITH IN THEIR FUTURE AND AFFECTION FOR +THEMSELVES, AN OLD WRITER DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS AND +PUPILS, GEORGE STERLING AND HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. A.B. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that +part the names of real persons being used without their assent, it seems +fit that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems +well to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface +of another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its +character. I quote from "Black Beetles in Amber:" + +"Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable +alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in +now republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, +except with reference to those who since my first censure of them have +passed away. To one having only a reader's interest in the matter it may +easily seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been +omitted from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any +considerable part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth +which by this attempt to preserve some of it I have assumed, their +permanent suppression is impossible, and it is only a question of when +and by whom they will be republished. Some one will surely search them +out and put them in circulation. + +"I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work +collected in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one +whose work, necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed +to challenge as unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined +before time has effaced the evidence. For the death of a man of whom +I have written what I may venture to think worthy to live I am no way +responsible; and however sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent +that it shall affect my literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not +accept the remarkable doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should +spare the sinner, were bound to let the life of his work be coterminous +with that of his subject his were a lot of peculiar hardship. + +"Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint +even certain 'epitaphs' which, once of the living, are now of the dead, +as all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms +of applied satire--my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at +least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of +matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown +by abundant instance and example." + +In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless +to classify them according to character, as "Serious," "Comic," +"Sentimental," "Satirical," and so forth. I do the reader the honor to +think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; +and I entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without +disappointment to that of his author. + +AMBROSE BIERCE. + + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + THE PASSING SHOW + + ELIXIR VITAE + + CONVALESCENT + + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS + + NOVUM ORGANUM + + GEOTHEOS + + YORICK + + A VISION OF DOOM + + POLITICS + + POESY + + IN DEFENSE + + AN INVOCATION + + RELIGION + + A MORNING FANCY + + VISIONS OF SIN + + THE TOWN OF DAE + + AN ANARCHIST + + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE + + ARMA VIRUMQUE + + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY + + A DEMAND + + THE WEATHER WIGHT + + T.A.H. + + MY MONUMENT + + MAD + + HOSPITALITY + + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC + + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS + + MAGNANIMITY + + TO HER + + TO A SUMMER POET + + ARTHUR MCEWEN + + CHARLES AND PETER + + CONTEMPLATION + + CREATION + + BUSINESS + + A POSSIBILITY + + TO A CENSOR + + THE HESITATING VETERAN + + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES + + INSPIRATION + + TO-DAY + + AN ALIBI + + REBUKE + + J.F.B. + + THE DYING STATESMAN + + THE DEATH OF GRANT + + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED + + LAUS LUCIS + + NANINE + + TECHNOLOGY + + A REPLY TO A LETTER + + TO OSCAR WILDE + + PRAYER + + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN" + + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE + + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS + + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT + + AN EPITAPH + + THE POLITICIAN + + AN INSCRIPTION + + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS + + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON" + + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT + + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES + + IN MEMORIAM + + THE STATESMEN + + THE BROTHERS + + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + + CORRECTED NEWS + + AN EXPLANATION + + JUSTICE + + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY + + TO MY LAUNDRESS + + FAME + + OMNES VANITAS + + ASPIRATION + + DEMOCRACY + + THE NEW "ULALUME" + + CONSOLATION + + FATE + + PHILOSOPHER BIMM + + REMINDED + + SALVINI IN AMERICA + + ANOTHER WAY + + ART + + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER + + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY + + THE DEBTOR ABROAD + + FORESIGHT + + A FAIR DIVISION + + GENESIS + + LIBERTY + + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD + + TO MAUDE + + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE + + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN + + THE SCURRIL PRESS + + STANLEY + + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX + + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN + + A LACKING FACTOR + + THE ROYAL JESTER + + A CAREER IN LETTERS + + THE FOLLOWING PAIR + + POLITICAL ECONOMY + + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW + + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN + + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT + + TEMPORA MUTANTUR + + CONTENTMENT + + THE NEW ENOCH + + DISAVOWAL + + AN AVERAGE + + WOMAN + + INCURABLE + + THE PUN + + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST + + TO NANINE + + VICE VERSA + + A BLACK-LIST + + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC + + AUTHORITY + + THE PSORIAD + + ONEIROMANCY + + PEACE + + THANKSGIVING + + L'AUDACE + + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT + + THE AESTHETES + + JULY FOURTH + + WITH MINE OWN PETARD + + CONSTANCY + + SIRES AND SONS + + A CHALLENGE + + TWO SHOWS + + A POET'S HOPE + + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL + + TWO ROGUES + + BEECHER + + NOT GUILTY + + PRESENTIMENT + + A STUDY IN GRAY + + A PARADOX + + FOR MERIT + + A BIT OF SCIENCE + + THE TABLES TURNED + + TO A DEJECTED POET + + A FOOL + + THE HUMORIST + + MONTEFIORE + + A WARNING + + DISCRETION + + AN EXILE + + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT + + PSYCHOGRAPHS + + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST + + FOR WOUNDS + + ELECTION DAY + + THE MILITIAMAN + + A LITERARY METHOD + + A WELCOME + + A SERENADE + + THE WISE AND GOOD + + THE LOST COLONEL + + FOR TAT + + A DILEMMA + + METEMPSYCHOSIS + + THE SAINT AND THE MONK + + THE OPPOSING SEX + + A WHIPPER-IN + + JUDGMENT + + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN + + IN HIGH LIFE + + A BUBBLE + + A RENDEZVOUS + + FRANCINE + + AN EXAMPLE + + REVENGE + + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT + + IN CONTUMACIAM + + RE-EDIFIED + + A BULLETIN + + FROM THE MINUTES + + WOMAN IN POLITICS + + TO AN ASPIRANT + + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE + + A BUILDER + + AN AUGURY + + LUSUS POLITICUS + + BEREAVEMENT + + AN INSCRIPTION + + A PICKBRAIN + + CONVALESCENT + + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR + + DETECTED + + BIMETALISM + + THE RICH TESTATOR + + TWO METHODS + + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + + IN IMPOSTER + + UNEXPOUNDED + + FRANCE + + THE EASTERN QUESTION + + A GUEST + + A FALSE PROPHECY + + TWO TYPES + + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS + + A HYMN OF THE MANY + + ONE MORNING + + AN ERROR + + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT" + + THE KING OF BORES + + HISTORY + + THE HERMIT + + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON + + THE YEARLY LIE + + CO-OPERATION + + AN APOLOGUE + + DIAGNOSIS + + FALLEN + + DIES IRAE + + THE DAY OF WRATH + + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION + + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS + + IN THE BINNACLE + + HUMILITY + + ONE PRESIDENT + + THE BRIDE + + STRAINED RELATIONS + + THE MAN BORN BLIND + + A NIGHTMARE + + A WET SEASON + + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS + + HAEC FARULA DOCET + + EXONERATION + + AZRAEL + + AGAIN + + HOMO PODUNKENSIS + + A SOCIAL CALL + + + + + + + SHAPES OF CLAY + + + + + THE PASSING SHOW. + + I. + + + I know not if it was a dream. I viewed + A city where the restless multitude, + Between the eastern and the western deep + Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude. + + Colossal palaces crowned every height; + Towers from valleys climbed into the light; + O'er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes + Hung in the blue, barbarically bright. + + But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day + Touched the black masses with a grace of gray, + Dim spires of temples to the nation's God + Studding high spaces of the wide survey. + + Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep + Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep, + Yet whispered of an hour-when sleepers wake, + The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep. + + The gardens greened upon the builded hills + Above the tethered thunders of the mills + With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet + By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills. + + A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space, + Looked on the builder's blocks about his base + And bared his wounded breast in sign to say: + "Strike! 't is my destiny to lodge your race. + + "'T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed + Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed + Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness, + While on their foeman's offal they caroused." + + Ships from afar afforested the bay. + Within their huge and chambered bodies lay + The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed + The hardy argosies to far Cathay. + + Beside the city of the living spread-- + Strange fellowship!--the city of the dead; + And much I wondered what its humble folk, + To see how bravely they were housed, had said. + + Noting how firm their habitations stood, + Broad-based and free of perishable wood-- + How deep in granite and how high in brass + The names were wrought of eminent and good, + + I said: "When gold or power is their aim, + The smile of beauty or the wage of shame, + Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare + When they would conquer an abiding fame." + + From the red East the sun--a solemn rite-- + Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height + Above the dead; and then with all his strength + Struck the great city all aroar with light! + + + II. + + I know not if it was a dream. I came + Unto a land where something seemed the same + That I had known as 't were but yesterday, + But what it was I could not rightly name. + + It was a strange and melancholy land. + Silent and desolate. On either hand + Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead, + And dead above it seemed the hills to stand, + + Grayed all with age, those lonely hills--ah me, + How worn and weary they appeared to be! + Between their feet long dusty fissures clove + The plain in aimless windings to the sea. + + One hill there was which, parted from the rest, + Stood where the eastern water curved a-west. + Silent and passionless it stood. I thought + I saw a scar upon its giant breast. + + The sun with sullen and portentous gleam + Hung like a menace on the sea's extreme; + Nor the dead waters, nor the far, bleak bars + Of cloud were conscious of his failing beam. + + It was a dismal and a dreadful sight, + That desert in its cold, uncanny light; + No soul but I alone to mark the fear + And imminence of everlasting night! + + All presages and prophecies of doom + Glimmered and babbled in the ghastly gloom, + And in the midst of that accursed scene + A wolf sat howling on a broken tomb. + + + + + ELIXER VITAE. + + + Of life's elixir I had writ, when sleep + (Pray Heaven it spared him who the writing read!) + Sealed upon my senses with so deep + A stupefaction that men thought me dead. + The centuries stole by with noiseless tread, + Like spectres in the twilight of my dream; + I saw mankind in dim procession sweep + Through life, oblivion at each extreme. + Meanwhile my beard, like Barbarossa's growing, + Loaded my lap and o'er my knees was flowing. + + The generations came with dance and song, + And each observed me curiously there. + Some asked: "Who was he?" Others in the throng + Replied: "A wicked monk who slept at prayer." + Some said I was a saint, and some a bear-- + These all were women. So the young and gay, + Visibly wrinkling as they fared along, + Doddered at last on failing limbs away; + Though some, their footing in my beard entangled, + Fell into its abysses and were strangled. + + At last a generation came that walked + More slowly forward to the common tomb, + Then altogether stopped. The women talked + Excitedly; the men, with eyes agloom + Looked darkly on them with a look of doom; + And one cried out: "We are immortal now-- + How need we these?" And a dread figure stalked, + Silent, with gleaming axe and shrouded brow, + And all men cried: "Decapitate the women, + Or soon there'll be no room to stand or swim in!" + + So (in my dream) each lovely head was chopped + From its fair shoulders, and but men alone + Were left in all the world. Birth being stopped, + Enough of room remained in every zone, + And Peace ascended Woman's vacant throne. + Thus, life's elixir being found (the quacks + Their bread-and-butter in it gladly sopped) + 'Twas made worth having by the headsman's axe. + Seeing which, I gave myself a hearty shaking, + And crumbled all to powder in the waking. + + + + + CONVALESCENT. + + + What! "Out of danger?" Can the slighted Dame + Or canting Pharisee no more defame? + Will Treachery caress my hand no more, + Nor Hatred He alurk about my door?-- + Ingratitude, with benefits dismissed, + Not close the loaded palm to make a fist? + Will Envy henceforth not retaliate + For virtues it were vain to emulate? + Will Ignorance my knowledge fail to scout, + Not understanding what 'tis all about, + Yet feeling in its light so mean and small + That all his little soul is turned to gall? + + What! "Out of danger?" Jealousy disarmed? + Greed from exaction magically charmed? + Ambition stayed from trampling whom it meets, + Like horses fugitive in crowded streets? + The Bigot, with his candle, book and bell, + Tongue-tied, unlunged and paralyzed as well? + The Critic righteously to justice haled, + His own ear to the post securely nailed-- + What most he dreads unable to inflict, + And powerless to hawk the faults he's picked? + The liar choked upon his choicest lie, + And impotent alike to villify + Or flatter for the gold of thrifty men + Who hate his person but employ his pen-- + Who love and loathe, respectively, the dirt + Belonging to his character and shirt? + + What! "Out of danger?"--Nature's minions all, + Like hounds returning to the huntsman's call, + Obedient to the unwelcome note + That stays them from the quarry's bursting throat?-- + Famine and Pestilence and Earthquake dire, + Torrent and Tempest, Lightning, Frost and Fire, + The soulless Tiger and the mindless Snake, + The noxious Insect from the stagnant lake + (Automaton malevolences wrought + Out of the substance of Creative Thought)-- + These from their immemorial prey restrained, + Their fury baffled and their power chained? + + I'm safe? Is that what the physician said? + What! "Out of danger?" Then, by Heaven, I'm dead! + + + + + AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS. + + + 'Twas a Venerable Person, whom I met one Sunday morning, + All appareled as a prophet of a melancholy sect; + And in a jeremaid of objurgatory warning + He lifted up his _jodel_ to the following effect: + + O ye sanguinary statesmen, intermit your verbal tussles + O ye editors and orators, consent to hear my lay! + And a little while the digital and maxillary muscles + And attend to what a Venerable Person has to say. + + Cease your writing, cease your shouting, cease your wild unearthly lying; + Cease to bandy such expressions as are never, never found + In the letter of a lover; cease "exposing" and "replying"-- + Let there be abated fury and a decrement of sound. + + For to-morrow will be Monday and the fifth day of November-- + Only day of opportunity before the final rush. + _Carpe diem!_ go conciliate each person who's a member + Of the other party--do it while you can without a blush. + + "Lo! the time is close upon you when the madness of the season + Having howled itself to silence, like a Minnesota 'clone, + Will at last be superseded by the still, small voice of reason, + When the whelpage of your folly you would willingly disown. + + "Ah, 'tis mournful to consider what remorses will be thronging, + With a consciousness of having been so ghastly indiscreet, + When by accident untoward two ex-gentlemen belonging + To the opposite political denominations meet! + + "Yes, 'tis melancholy, truly, to forecast the fierce, unruly + Supersurging of their blushes, like the flushes upon high + When Aurora Borealis lights her circumpolar palace + And in customary manner sets her banner in the sky. + + "Each will think: 'This falsifier knows that I too am a liar. + Curse him for a son of Satan, all unholily compound! + Curse my leader for another! Curse that pelican, my mother! + Would to God that I when little in my victual had been drowned!'" + + Then that Venerable Person went away without returning + And, the madness of the season having also taken flight, + All the people soon were blushing like the skies to crimson burning + When Aurora Borealis fires her premises by night. + + + + + NOVUM ORGANUM. + + + In Bacon see the culminating prime + Of Anglo-Saxon intellect and crime. + He dies and Nature, settling his affairs, + Parts his endowments among us, his heirs: + To every one a pinch of brain for seed, + And, to develop it, a pinch of greed. + Each thrifty heir, to make the gift suffice, + Buries the talent to manure the vice. + + + + + GEOTHEOS. + + + As sweet as the look of a lover + Saluting the eyes of a maid, + That blossom to blue as the maid + Is ablush to the glances above her, + The sunshine is gilding the glade + And lifting the lark out of shade. + + Sing therefore high praises, and therefore + Sing songs that are ancient as gold, + Of Earth in her garments of gold; + Nor ask of their meaning, nor wherefore + They charm as of yore, for behold! + The Earth is as fair as of old. + + Sing songs of the pride of the mountains, + And songs of the strength of the seas, + And the fountains that fall to the seas + From the hands of the hills, and the fountains + That shine in the temples of trees, + In valleys of roses and bees. + + Sing songs that are dreamy and tender, + Of slender Arabian palms, + And shadows that circle the palms, + Where caravans, veiled from the splendor, + Are kneeling in blossoms and balms, + In islands of infinite calms. + + Barbaric, O Man, was thy runing + When mountains were stained as with wine + By the dawning of Time, and as wine + Were the seas, yet its echoes are crooning, + Achant in the gusty pine + And the pulse of the poet's line. + + + + + YORICK. + + + Hard by an excavated street one sat + In solitary session on the sand; + And ever and anon he spake and spat + And spake again--a yellow skull in hand, + To which that retrospective Pioneer + Addressed the few remarks that follow here: + + "Who are you? Did you come 'der blains agross,' + Or 'Horn aroundt'? In days o' '49 + Did them thar eye-holes see the Southern Cross + From the Antarctic Sea git up an' shine? + Or did you drive a bull team 'all the way + From Pike,' with Mr. Joseph Bowers?--say! + + "Was you in Frisco when the water came + Up to Montgum'ry street? and do you mind + The time when Peters run the faro game-- + Jim Peters from old Mississip--behind + Wells Fargo's, where he subsequent was bust + By Sandy, as regards both bank and crust? + + "I wonder was you here when Casey shot + James King o' William? And did you attend + The neck-tie dance ensuin'? _I_ did not, + But j'ined the rush to Go Creek with my friend + Ed'ard McGowan; for we was resolved + In sech diversions not to be involved. + + "Maybe I knowed you; seems to me I've seed + Your face afore. I don't forget a face, + But names I disremember--I'm that breed + Of owls. I'm talking some'at into space + An' maybe my remarks is too derned free, + Seein' yer name is unbeknown to me. + + "Ther' was a time, I reckon, when I knowed + Nigh onto every dern galoot in town. + That was as late as '50. Now she's growed + Surprisin'! Yes, me an' my pardner, Brown, + Was wide acquainted. If ther' was a cuss + We didn't know, the cause was--he knowed us. + + "Maybe you had that claim adjoinin' mine + Up thar in Calaveras. Was it you + To which Long Mary took a mighty shine, + An' throwed squar' off on Jake the Kangaroo? + I guess if she could see ye now she'd take + Her chance o' happiness along o' Jake. + + "You ain't so purty now as you was then: + Yer eyes is nothin' but two prospect holes, + An' women which are hitched to better men + Would hardly for sech glances damn their souls, + As Lengthie did. By G----! I _hope_ it's you, + For" _(kicks the skull)_ "I'm Jake the Kangaroo." + + + + + A VISION OF DOOM. + + + I stood upon a hill. The setting sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with some horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom-- + The ghosts of blasphemies long ages stilled, + And shrieks of women, and men's curses. All + These visible shapes, and sounds no mortal ear + Had ever heard, some spiritual sense + Interpreted, though brokenly; for I + Was haunted by a consciousness of crime, + Some giant guilt, but whose I knew not. All + These things malign, by sight and sound revealed, + Were sin-begotten; that I knew--no more-- + And that but dimly, as in dreadful dreams + The sleepy senses babble to the brain + Imperfect witness. As I stood a voice, + But whence it came I knew not, cried aloud + Some words to me in a forgotten tongue, + Yet straight I knew me for a ghost forlorn, + Returned from the illimited inane. + Again, but in a language that I knew, + As in reply to something which in me + Had shaped itself a thought, but found no words, + It spake from the dread mystery about: + "Immortal shadow of a mortal soul + That perished with eternity, attend. + What thou beholdest is as void as thou: + The shadow of a poet's dream--himself + As thou, his soul as thine, long dead, + But not like thine outlasted by its shade. + His dreams alone survive eternity + As pictures in the unsubstantial void. + Excepting thee and me (and we because + The poet wove us in his thought) remains + Of nature and the universe no part + Or vestige but the poet's dreams. This dread, + Unspeakable land about thy feet, with all + Its desolation and its terrors--lo! + 'T is but a phantom world. So long ago + That God and all the angels since have died + That poet lived--yourself long dead--his mind + Filled with the light of a prophetic fire, + And standing by the Western sea, above + The youngest, fairest city in the world, + Named in another tongue than his for one + Ensainted, saw its populous domain + Plague-smitten with a nameless shame. For there + Red-handed murder rioted; and there + The people gathered gold, nor cared to loose + The assassin's fingers from the victim's throat, + But said, each in his vile pursuit engrossed: + 'Am I my brother's keeper? Let the Law + Look to the matter.' But the Law did not. + And there, O pitiful! the babe was slain + Within its mother's breast and the same grave + Held babe and mother; and the people smiled, + Still gathering gold, and said: 'The Law, the Law,' + Then the great poet, touched upon the lips + With a live coal from Truth's high altar, raised + His arms to heaven and sang a song of doom-- + Sang of the time to be, when God should lean + Indignant from the Throne and lift his hand, + And that foul city be no more!--a tale, + A dream, a desolation and a curse! + No vestige of its glory should survive + In fact or memory: its people dead, + Its site forgotten, and its very name + Disputed." + + "Was the prophecy fulfilled?" + The sullen disc of the declining sun + Was crimson with a curse and a portent, + And scarce his angry ray lit up the land + That lay below, whose lurid gloom appeared + Freaked with a moving mist, which, reeking up + From dim tarns hateful with a horrid ban, + Took shapes forbidden and without a name. + Gigantic night-birds, rising from the reeds + With cries discordant, startled all the air, + And bodiless voices babbled in the gloom. + But not to me came any voice again; + And, covering my face with thin, dead hands, + I wept, and woke, and cried aloud to God! + + + + + POLITICS. + + + That land full surely hastens to its end + Where public sycophants in homage bend + The populace to flatter, and repeat + The doubled echoes of its loud conceit. + Lowly their attitude but high their aim, + They creep to eminence through paths of shame, + Till fixed securely in the seats of pow'r, + The dupes they flattered they at last devour. + + + + + POESY. + + + Successive bards pursue Ambition's fire + That shines, Oblivion, above thy mire. + The latest mounts his predecessor's trunk, + And sinks his brother ere himself is sunk. + So die ingloriously Fame's _elite_, + But dams of dunces keep the line complete. + + + + + IN DEFENSE. + + + You may say, if you please, Johnny Bull, that our girls + Are crazy to marry your dukes and your earls; + But I've heard that the maids of your own little isle + Greet bachelor lords with a favoring smile. + + Nay, titles, 'tis said in defense of our fair, + Are popular here because popular there; + And for them our ladies persistently go + Because 'tis exceedingly English, you know. + + Whatever the motive, you'll have to confess + The effort's attended with easy success; + And--pardon the freedom--'tis thought, over here, + 'Tis mortification you mask with a sneer. + + It's all very well, sir, your scorn to parade + Of the high nasal twang of the Yankee maid, + But, ah, to my lord when he dares to propose + No sound is so sweet as that "Yes" from the nose. + + Our ladies, we grant, walk alone in the street + (Observe, by-the-by, on what delicate feet!) + 'Tis a habit they got here at home, where they say + The men from politeness go seldom astray. + + Ah, well, if the dukes and the earls and that lot + Can stand it (God succor them if they cannot!) + Your commoners ought to assent, I am sure, + And what they 're not called on to suffer, endure. + + "'Tis nothing but money?" "Your nobles are bought?" + As to that, I submit, it is commonly thought + That England's a country not specially free + Of Croesi and (if you'll allow it) Croesae. + + You've many a widow and many a girl + With money to purchase a duke or an earl. + 'Tis a very remarkable thing, you'll agree, + When goods import buyers from over the sea. + + Alas for the woman of Albion's isle! + She may simper; as well as she can she may smile; + She may wear pantalettes and an air of repose-- + But my lord of the future will talk through his nose. + + + + + AN INVOCATION. + + [Read at the Celebration of Independence Day in San + Francisco, in 1888.] + + + Goddess of Liberty! O thou + Whose tearless eyes behold the chain, + And look unmoved upon the slain, + Eternal peace upon thy brow,-- + + Before thy shrine the races press, + Thy perfect favor to implore-- + The proudest tyrant asks no more, + The ironed anarchist no less. + + Thine altar-coals that touch the lips + Of prophets kindle, too, the brand + By Discord flung with wanton hand + Among the houses and the ships. + + Upon thy tranquil front the star + Burns bleak and passionless and white, + Its cold inclemency of light + More dreadful than the shadows are. + + Thy name we do not here invoke + Our civic rites to sanctify: + Enthroned in thy remoter sky, + Thou heedest not our broken yoke. + + Thou carest not for such as we: + Our millions die to serve the still + And secret purpose of thy will. + They perish--what is that to thee? + + The light that fills the patriot's tomb + Is not of thee. The shining crown + Compassionately offered down + To those who falter in the gloom, + + And fall, and call upon thy name, + And die desiring--'tis the sign + Of a diviner love than thine, + Rewarding with a richer fame. + + To him alone let freemen cry + Who hears alike the victor's shout, + The song of faith, the moan of doubt, + And bends him from his nearer sky. + + God of my country and my race! + So greater than the gods of old-- + So fairer than the prophets told + Who dimly saw and feared thy face,-- + + Who didst but half reveal thy will + And gracious ends to their desire, + Behind the dawn's advancing fire + Thy tender day-beam veiling still,-- + + To whom the unceasing suns belong, + And cause is one with consequence,-- + To whose divine, inclusive sense + The moan is blended with the song,-- + + Whose laws, imperfect and unjust, + Thy just and perfect purpose serve: + The needle, howsoe'er it swerve, + Still warranting the sailor's trust,-- + + God, lift thy hand and make us free + To crown the work thou hast designed. + O, strike away the chains that bind + Our souls to one idolatry! + + The liberty thy love hath given + We thank thee for. We thank thee for + Our great dead fathers' holy war + Wherein our manacles were riven. + + We thank thee for the stronger stroke + Ourselves delivered and incurred + When--thine incitement half unheard-- + The chains we riveted we broke. + + We thank thee that beyond the sea + The people, growing ever wise, + Turn to the west their serious eyes + And dumbly strive to be as we. + + As when the sun's returning flame + Upon the Nileside statue shone, + And struck from the enchanted stone + The music of a mighty fame, + + Let Man salute the rising day + Of Liberty, but not adore. + 'Tis Opportunity--no more-- + A useful, not a sacred, ray. + + It bringeth good, it bringeth ill, + As he possessing shall elect. + He maketh it of none effect + Who walketh not within thy will. + + Give thou or more or less, as we + Shall serve the right or serve the wrong. + Confirm our freedom but so long + As we are worthy to be free. + + But when (O, distant be the time!) + Majorities in passion draw + Insurgent swords to murder Law, + And all the land is red with crime; + + Or--nearer menace!--when the band + Of feeble spirits cringe and plead + To the gigantic strength of Greed, + And fawn upon his iron hand;-- + + Nay, when the steps to state are worn + In hollows by the feet of thieves, + And Mammon sits among the sheaves + And chuckles while the reapers mourn; + + Then stay thy miracle!--replace + The broken throne, repair the chain, + Restore the interrupted reign + And veil again thy patient face. + + Lo! here upon the world's extreme + We stand with lifted arms and dare + By thine eternal name to swear + Our country, which so fair we deem-- + + Upon whose hills, a bannered throng, + The spirits of the sun display + Their flashing lances day by day + And hear the sea's pacific song-- + + Shall be so ruled in right and grace + That men shall say: "O, drive afield + The lawless eagle from the shield, + And call an angel to the place!" + + + + + RELIGION. + + + Hassan Bedreddin, clad in rags, ill-shod, + Sought the great temple of the living God. + The worshippers arose and drove him forth, + And one in power beat him with a rod. + + "Allah," he cried, "thou seest what I got; + Thy servants bar me from the sacred spot." + "Be comforted," the Holy One replied; + "It is the only place where I am not." + + + + + A MORNING FANCY. + + + I drifted (or I seemed to) in a boat + Upon the surface of a shoreless sea + Whereon no ship nor anything did float, + Save only the frail bark supporting me; + And that--it was so shadowy--seemed to be + Almost from out the very vapors wrought + Of the great ocean underneath its keel; + And all that blue profound appeared as naught + But thicker sky, translucent to reveal, + Miles down, whatever through its spaces glided, + Or at the bottom traveled or abided. + + Great cities there I saw--of rich and poor, + The palace and the hovel; mountains, vales, + Forest and field, the desert and the moor, + Tombs of the good and wise who'd lived in jails, + And seas of denser fluid, white with sails + Pushed at by currents moving here and there + And sensible to sight above the flat + Of that opaquer deep. Ah, strange and fair + The nether world that I was gazing at + With beating heart from that exalted level, + And--lest I founder--trembling like the devil! + + The cities all were populous: men swarmed + In public places--chattered, laughed and wept; + And savages their shining bodies warmed + At fires in primal woods. The wild beast leapt + Upon its prey and slew it as it slept. + Armies went forth to battle on the plain + So far, far down in that unfathomed deep + The living seemed as silent as the slain, + Nor even the widows could be heard to weep. + One might have thought their shaking was but laughter; + And, truly, most were married shortly after. + + Above the wreckage of that silent fray + Strange fishes swam in circles, round and round-- + Black, double-finned; and once a little way + A bubble rose and burst without a sound + And a man tumbled out upon the ground. + Lord! 'twas an eerie thing to drift apace + On that pellucid sea, beneath black skies + And o'er the heads of an undrowning race; + And when I woke I said--to her surprise + Who came with chocolate, for me to drink it: + "The atmosphere is deeper than you think it." + + + + + VISIONS OF SIN. + + KRASLAJORSK, SIBERIA, March 29. + + "My eyes are better, and I shall travel slowly toward home." + DANENHOWER. + + + From the regions of the Night, + Coming with recovered sight-- + From the spell of darkness free, + What will Danenhower see? + + He will see when he arrives, + Doctors taking human lives. + He will see a learned judge + Whose decision will not budge + Till both litigants are fleeced + And his palm is duly greased. + Lawyers he will see who fight + Day by day and night by night; + Never both upon a side, + Though their fees they still divide. + Preachers he will see who teach + That it is divine to preach-- + That they fan a sacred fire + And are worthy of their hire. + He will see a trusted wife + + (Pride of some good husband's life) + Enter at a certain door + And--but he will see no more. + He will see Good Templars reel-- + See a prosecutor steal, + And a father beat his child. + He'll perhaps see Oscar Wilde. + + From the regions of the Night + Coming with recovered sight-- + From the bliss of blindness free, + That's what Danenhower'll see. + + 1882. + + + + + THE TOWN OF DAE. + + + _Swains and maidens, young and old, + You to me this tale have told._ + + Where the squalid town of Dae + Irks the comfortable sea, + Spreading webs to gather fish, + As for wealth we set a wish, + Dwelt a king by right divine, + Sprung from Adam's royal line, + Town of Dae by the sea, + Divers kinds of kings there be. + + Name nor fame had Picklepip: + Ne'er a soldier nor a ship + Bore his banners in the sun; + Naught knew he of kingly sport, + And he held his royal court + Under an inverted tun. + Love and roses, ages through, + Bloom where cot and trellis stand; + Never yet these blossoms grew-- + Never yet was room for two-- + In a cask upon the strand. + + So it happened, as it ought, + That his simple schemes he wrought + Through the lagging summer's day + In a solitary way. + So it happened, as was best, + That he took his nightly rest + With no dreadful incubus + This way eyed and that way tressed, + Featured thus, and thus, and thus, + Lying lead-like on a breast + By cares of State enough oppressed. + Yet in dreams his fancies rude + Claimed a lordly latitude. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Dreamers mate above their state + And waken back to their degree. + + Once to cask himself away + He prepared at close of day. + As he tugged with swelling throat + At a most unkingly coat-- + Not to get it off, but on, + For the serving sun was gone-- + Passed a silk-appareled sprite + Toward her castle on the height, + Seized and set the garment right. + Turned the startled Picklepip-- + Splendid crimson cheek and lip! + Turned again to sneak away, + + But she bade the villain stay, + Bade him thank her, which he did + With a speech that slipped and slid, + Sprawled and stumbled in its gait + As a dancer tries to skate. + Town of Dae by the sea, + In the face of silk and lace + Rags too bold should never be. + + Lady Minnow cocked her head: + "Mister Picklepip," she said, + "Do you ever think to wed?" + Town of Dae by the sea, + No fair lady ever made a + Wicked speech like that to me! + + Wretched little Picklepip + Said he hadn't any ship, + Any flocks at his command, + Nor to feed them any land; + Said he never in his life + Owned a mine to keep a wife. + But the guilty stammer so + That his meaning wouldn't flow; + So he thought his aim to reach + By some figurative speech: + Said his Fate had been unkind + Had pursued him from behind + (How the mischief could it else?) + + Came upon him unaware, + Caught him by the collar--there + Gushed the little lady's glee + Like a gush of golden bells: + "Picklepip, why, that is _me_!" + Town of Dae by the sea, + Grammar's for great scholars--she + Loved the summer and the lea. + + Stupid little Picklepip + Allowed the subtle hint to slip-- + Maundered on about the ship + That he did not chance to own; + Told this grievance o'er and o'er, + Knowing that she knew before; + Told her how he dwelt alone. + Lady Minnow, for reply, + Cut him off with "So do I!" + But she reddened at the fib; + Servitors had she, _ad lib._ + Town of Dae by the sea, + In her youth who speaks no truth + Ne'er shall young and honest be. + + Witless little Picklepip + Manned again his mental ship + And veered her with a sudden shift. + Painted to the lady's thought + How he wrestled and he wrought + + Stoutly with the swimming drift + By the kindly river brought + From the mountain to the sea, + Fuel for the town of Dae. + Tedious tale for lady's ear: + From her castle on the height, + She had watched her water-knight + Through the seasons of a year, + Challenge more than met his view + And conquer better than he knew. + Now she shook her pretty pate + And stamped her foot--'t was growing late: + "Mister Picklepip, when I + Drifting seaward pass you by; + When the waves my forehead kiss + And my tresses float above-- + Dead and drowned for lack of love-- + You'll be sorry, sir, for this!" + And the silly creature cried-- + Feared, perchance, the rising tide. + Town of Dae by the sea, + Madam Adam, when she had 'em, + May have been as bad as she. + + _Fiat lux!_ Love's lumination + Fell in floods of revelation! + Blinded brain by world aglare, + Sense of pulses in the air, + + Sense of swooning and the beating + Of a voice somewhere repeating + Something indistinctly heard! + And the soul of Picklepip + Sprang upon his trembling lip, + But he spake no further word + Of the wealth he did not own; + In that moment had outgrown + Ship and mine and flock and land-- + Even his cask upon the strand. + Dropped a stricken star to earth, + Type of wealth and worldly worth. + Clomb the moon into the sky, + Type of love's immensity! + Shaking silver seemed the sea, + Throne of God the town of Dae! + Town of Dae by the sea, + From above there cometh love, + Blessing all good souls that be. + + + + + AN ANARCHIST. + + + False to his art and to the high command + God laid upon him, Markham's rebel hand + Beats all in vain the harp he touched before: + It yields a jingle and it yields no more. + No more the strings beneath his finger-tips + Sing harmonies divine. No more his lips, + Touched with a living coal from sacred fires, + Lead the sweet chorus of the golden wires. + The voice is raucous and the phrases squeak; + They labor, they complain, they sweat, they reek! + The more the wayward, disobedient song + Errs from the right to celebrate the wrong, + More diligently still the singer strums, + To drown the horrid sound, with all his thumbs. + Gods, what a spectacle! The angels lean + Out of high Heaven to view the sorry scene, + And Israfel, "whose heart-strings are a lute," + Though now compassion makes their music mute, + Among the weeping company appears, + Pearls in his eyes and cotton in his ears. + + + + + AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE. + + + Once I "dipt into the future far as human eye could see," + And saw--it was not Sandow, nor John Sullivan, but she-- + The Emancipated Woman, who was weeping as she ran + Here and there for the discovery of Expurgated Man. + But the sun of Evolution ever rose and ever set, + And that tardiest of mortals hadn't evoluted yet. + Hence the tears that she cascaded, hence the sighs that tore apart + All the tendinous connections of her indurated heart. + Cried Emancipated Woman, as she wearied of the search: + "In Advancing I have left myself distinctly in the lurch! + Seeking still a worthy partner, from the land of brutes and dudes + I have penetrated rashly into manless solitudes. + Now without a mate of any kind where am I?--that's to say, + Where shall I be to-morrow?--where exert my rightful sway + And the purifying strength of my emancipated mind? + Can solitude be lifted up, vacuity refined? + Calling, calling from the shadows in the rear of my Advance-- + From the Region of Unprogress in the Dark Domain of Chance-- + Long I heard the Unevolvable beseeching my return + To share the degradation he's reluctant to unlearn. + But I fancy I detected--though I pray it wasn't that-- + A low reverberation, like an echo in a hat. + So I've held my way regardless, evoluting year by year, + Till I'm what you now behold me--or would if you were here-- + A condensed Emancipation and a Purifier proud + An Independent Entity appropriately loud! + Independent? Yes, in spirit, but (O, woful, woful state!) + Doomed to premature extinction by privation of a mate-- + To extinction or reversion, for Unexpurgated Man + Still awaits me in the backward if I sicken of the van. + O the horrible dilemma!--to be odiously linked + With an Undeveloped Species, or become a Type Extinct!" + + As Emancipated Woman wailed her sorrow to the air, + Stalking out of desolation came a being strange and rare-- + Plato's Man!--bipedal, featherless from mandible to rump, + Its wings two quilless flippers and its tail a plumeless stump. + First it scratched and then it clucked, as if in hospitable terms + It invited her to banquet on imaginary worms. + Then it strutted up before her with a lifting of the head, + And in accents of affection and of sympathy it said: + "My estate is some 'at 'umble, but I'm qualified to draw + Near the hymeneal altar and whack up my heart and claw + To Emancipated Anything as walks upon the earth; + And them things is at your service for whatever they are worth. + I'm sure to be congenial, marm, nor e'er deserve a scowl-- + I'm Emancipated Rooster, I am Expurgated Fowl!" + + From the future and its wonders I withdrew my gaze, and then + Wrote this wild unfestive prophecy about the Coming Hen. + + + + + ARMA VIRUMQUE. + + + "Ours is a Christian Army"; so he said + A regiment of bangomen who led. + "And ours a Christian Navy," added he + Who sailed a thunder-junk upon the sea. + Better they know than men unwarlike do + What is an army and a navy, too. + Pray God there may be sent them by-and-by + The knowledge what a Christian is, and why. + For somewhat lamely the conception runs + Of a brass-buttoned Jesus firing guns. + + + + + ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY. + + + When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf + Between two cities, some ambitious fool, + Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave + To push his clumsy feet upon the span, + That men in after years may single him, + Saying: "Behold the fool who first went o'er!" + So be it when, as now the promise is, + Next summer sees the edifice complete + Which some do name a crematorium, + Within the vantage of whose greater maw's + Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm + And circumvent the handed mole who loves, + With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, + To mine our mortal parts in all their dips + And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth + To link his name with this fair enterprise, + As first decarcassed by the flame. And if + With rival greedings for the fiery fame + They push in clamoring multitudes, or if + With unaccustomed modesty they all + Hold off, being something loth to qualify, + Let me select the fittest for the rite. + By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise + And excellent censure of their true deserts, + And such a searching canvass of their claims, + That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice + Upon the main and general of those + Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, + Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn + God's gracious images, designed to rot, + And bellowed for the right of way for each + Distempered carrion through the water pipes. + With such a sturdy, boisterous exclaim + They did discharge themselves from their own throats + Against the splintered gates of audience + 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth + Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible + And seasoned substances--trunks, legs and arms, + Blent indistinguishable in a mass, + Like winter-woven serpents in a pit-- + None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point + Of precedence, and all alive--shall serve + As fueling to fervor the retort + For after cineration of true men. + + + + + A DEMAND. + + + You promised to paint me a picture, + Dear Mat, + And I was to pay you in rhyme. + Although I am loth to inflict your + Most easy of consciences, I'm + Of opinion that fibbing is awful, + And breaking a contract unlawful, + Indictable, too, as a crime, + A slight and all that. + + If, Lady Unbountiful, any + Of that + By mortals called pity has part + In your obdurate soul--if a penny + You care for the health of my heart, + By performing your undertaking + You'll succor that organ from breaking-- + And spare it for some new smart, + As puss does a rat. + + Do you think it is very becoming, + Dear Mat, + To deny me my rights evermore + And--bless you! if I begin summing + Your sins they will make a long score! + You never were generous, madam, + If you had been Eve and I Adam + You'd have given me naught but the core, + And little of that. + + Had I been content with a Titian, + A cat + By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, + No doubt I'd have had your permission + To take it--by purchase abroad. + But why should I sail o'er the ocean + For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion + All's bad that the critics belaud. + I wanted a Mat. + + Presumption's a sin, and I suffer + For that: + But still you _did_ say that sometime, + If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher-- + That's more than enough) of rhyme + You'd paint me a picture. I pay you + Hereby in advance; and I pray you + Condone, while you can, your crime, + And send me a Mat. + + But if you don't do it I warn you, + Dear Mat, + I'll raise such a clamor and cry + On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you + As mocker of poets and fly + With bitter complaints to Apollo: + "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, + Her beauty"--they'll hardly deny, + On second thought, _that_! + + + + + THE WEATHER WIGHT. + + + The way was long, the hill was steep, + My footing scarcely I could keep. + + The night enshrouded me in gloom, + I heard the ocean's distant boom-- + + The trampling of the surges vast + Was borne upon the rising blast. + + "God help the mariner," I cried, + "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" + + Then from the impenetrable dark + A solemn voice made this remark: + + "For this locality--warm, bright; + Barometer unchanged; breeze light." + + "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, + "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, + + "Thanks--but my care is somewhat less + For Jack's, than for my own, distress. + + "Could I but find a friendly roof, + Small odds what weather were aloof. + + "For he whose comfort is secure + Another's woes can well endure." + + "The latch-string's out," the voice replied, + "And so's the door--jes' step inside." + + Then through the darkness I discerned + A hovel, into which I turned. + + Groping about beneath its thatch, + I struck my head and then a match. + + A candle by that gleam betrayed + Soon lent paraffinaceous aid. + + A pallid, bald and thin old man + I saw, who this complaint began: + + "Through summer suns and winter snows + I sets observin' of my toes. + + "I rambles with increasin' pain + The path of duty, but in vain. + + "Rewards and honors pass me by-- + No Congress hears this raven cry!" + + Filled with astonishment, I spoke: + "Thou ancient raven, why this croak? + + "With observation of your toes + What Congress has to do, Heaven knows! + + "And swallow me if e'er I knew + That one could sit and ramble too!" + + To answer me that ancient swain + Took up his parable again: + + "Through winter snows and summer suns + A Weather Bureau here I runs. + + "I calls the turn, and can declare + Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair. + + "Three times a day I sings out clear + The probs to all which wants to hear. + + "Some weather stations run with light + Frivolity is seldom right. + + "A scientist from times remote, + In Scienceville my birth is wrote. + + "And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign + Jes' take your clo'es in off the line." + + "Not mine, O marvelous old man, + The methods of your art to scan, + + "Yet here no instruments there be-- + Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see. + + "Did you (if questions you permit) + At the asylum leave your kit?" + + That strange old man with motion rude + Grew to surprising altitude. + + "Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns-- + I tells the weather by my corns. + + "No doors and windows here you see-- + The wind and m'isture enters free. + + "No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur + Here falsifies the tempercher. + + "My corns unleathered I expose + To feel the rain's foretellin' throes. + + "No stockin' from their ears keeps out + The comin' tempest's warnin' shout. + + "Sich delicacy some has got + They know next summer's to be hot. + + "This here one says (for that he's best): + 'Storm center passin' to the west.' + + "This feller's vitals is transfixed + With frost for Janawary sixt'. + + "One chap jes' now is occy'pied + In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide. + + "I've shaved this cuss so thin and true + He'll spot a fog in South Peru. + + "Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell + Observatory can excel. + + "By long a-studyin' their throbs + I catches onto all the probs." + + Much more, no doubt, he would have said, + But suddenly he turned and fled; + + For in mine eye's indignant green + Lay storms that he had not foreseen, + + Till all at once, with silent squeals, + His toes "caught on" and told his heels. + + + + + T.A.H. + + + Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer-- + Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all; + Lived like a fool, or a philosopher. + And had whatever's needful for a fall. + As rough inflections on a planet merge + In the true bend of the gigantic sphere, + Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge, + So in the survey of his worth the small + Asperities of spirit disappear, + Lost in the grander curves of character. + He lately was hit hard: none knew but I + The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke-- + Not even herself. He uttered not a cry, + But set his teeth and made a revelry; + Drank like a devil--staining sometimes red + The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread, + Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke + His welcome in a tongue so long forgot + That even his ancient guest remembered not + What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend + Still conjugating with each failing sense + The verb "to die" in every mood and tense, + Pursued his awful humor to the end. + When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke + From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled, + And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead. + + + + + MY MONUMENT. + + + It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink + A-drying along my paper, + That a monument fine will surely be mine + When death has extinguished my taper. + + From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe + Purged clean of all sentiments narrow, + A pebble will mark his respect for the stark + Stiff body that's under the barrow. + + By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone + Will make my celebrity deathless. + O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink, + They'd wait till my carcass is breathless. + + + + + MAD. + + + O ye who push and fight + To hear a wanton sing-- + Who utter the delight + That has the bogus ring,-- + + O men mature in years, + In understanding young, + The membranes of whose ears + She tickles with her tongue,-- + + O wives and daughters sweet, + Who call it love of art + To kiss a woman's feet + That crush a woman's heart,-- + + O prudent dams and sires, + Your docile young who bring + To see how man admires + A sinner if she sing,-- + + O husbands who impart + To each assenting spouse + The lesson that shall start + The buds upon your brows,-- + + All whose applauding hands + Assist to rear the fame + That throws o'er all the lands + The shadow of its shame,-- + + Go drag her car!--the mud + Through which its axle rolls + Is partly human blood + And partly human souls. + + Mad, mad!--your senses whirl + Like devils dancing free, + Because a strolling girl + Can hold the note high C. + + For this the avenging rod + Of Heaven ye dare defy, + And tear the law that God + Thundered from Sinai! + + + + + HOSPITALITY. + + + Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine + (Unless to praise your rascal wine) + Yet never ask some luckless sinner + Who needs, as I do not, a dinner? + + + + + FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC. + + + Let lowly themes engage my humble pen-- + Stupidities of critics, not of men. + Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace + Of the expounders' self-directed race-- + Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine, + Of diligent vacuity the sign. + Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse + The moral meaning of the random verse + That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen + To be half-blotted by ambitious men + Who hope with his their meaner names to link + By writing o'er it in another ink + The thoughts unreal which they think they think, + Until the mental eye in vain inspects + The hateful palimpsest to find the text. + + The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long + Sings to the dawning day his wanton song. + The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, + Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: + Explains its principles, design--in brief, + Pronounces it a parable of grief! + + The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh + With pollen from a hollyhock near by, + Declares he never heard in terms so just + The labor problem thoughtfully discussed! + The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle + To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!" + Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing + And innocently asks: "What!--did I sing?" + + O literary parasites! who thrive + Upon the fame of better men, derive + Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, + And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,-- + Who find it half is profit, half delight, + To write about what you could never write,-- + Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes + Of famine and discomfiture in those + You write of if they had been critics, too, + And doomed to write of nothing but of you! + + Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, + To see the lion resolutely bent! + The prosing showman who the beast displays + Grows rich and richer daily in its praise. + But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, + The lion owned the show and showed the showman? + + + + + RELIGIOUS PROGRESS. + + + Every religion is important. When men rise above existing + conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better + than the old one.--_Professor Howison_. + + + Professor dear, I think it queer + That all these good religions + ('Twixt you and me, some two or three + Are schemes for plucking pigeons)-- + + I mean 'tis strange that every change + Our poor minds to unfetter + Entails a new religion--true + As t' other one, and better. + + From each in turn the truth we learn, + That wood or flesh or spirit + May justly boast it rules the roast + Until we cease to fear it. + + Nay, once upon a time long gone + Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: + His God he'd find in any kind + Of beast, from a to izzard. + + When risen above his early love + Of dirt and blood and slumber, + He pulled down these vain deities, + And made one out of lumber. + + "Far better that than even a cat," + The Howisons all shouted; + "When God is wood religion's good!" + But one poor cynic doubted. + + "A timber God--that's very odd!" + Said Progress, and invented + The simple plan to worship Man, + Who, kindly soul! consented. + + But soon our eye we lift asky, + Our vows all unregarded, + And find (at least so says the priest) + The Truth--and Man's discarded. + + Along our line of march recline + Dead gods devoid of feeling; + And thick about each sun-cracked lout + Dried Howisons are kneeling. + + + + + MAGNANIMITY. + + + "To the will of the people we loyally bow!" + That's the minority shibboleth now. + O noble antagonists, answer me flat-- + What would you do if you didn't do that? + + + + + TO HER. + + + O, Sinner A, to me unknown + Be such a conscience as your own! + To ease it you to Sinner B + Confess the sins of Sinner C. + + + + + TO A SUMMER POET. + + + Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, + With a him. + And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, + On the limb; + Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking + And the dudelet is a-smoking + Cigarettes; + And the hackman is a-hacking + And the showman is a-cracking + Up his pets; + Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore + And the snapdog--we have heard it o'er and o'er; + Yes, my poet, + Well we know it-- + Know the spooners how they spoon + In the bright + Dollar light + Of the country tavern moon; + Yes, the caterpillars fall + From the trees (we know it all), + And with beetles all the shelves + Are alive. + + Please unbuttonhole us--O, + Have the grace to let us go, + For we know + How you Summer poets thrive, + By the recapitulation + And insistent iteration + Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among + Ourselves! + So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss. + For you, poor human linnet, + There's a half a living in it, + But there's not a copper cent in it for us! + + + + + ARTHUR McEWEN. + + + Posterity with all its eyes + Will come and view him where he lies. + Then, turning from the scene away + With a concerted shrug, will say: + "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus-- + What interest has that to us? + We can't admire at all, at all, + A tumble-bug without its ball." + And then a sage will rise and say: + "Good friends, you err--turn back, I pray: + This freak that you unwisely shun + Is bug and ball rolled into one." + + + + + CHARLES AND PETER. + + + Ere Gabriel's note to silence died + All graves of men were gaping wide. + + Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun," + Rose slowly from the deepest one. + + "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ," + Quoth he--"ick, bick, ban, doe,--I'm It!" + + (His headstone, footstone, counted slow, + Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe": + + Of beating Nick the subtle art + Was part of his immortal part.) + + Then straight to Heaven he took his flight, + Arriving at the Gates of Light. + + There Warden Peter, in the throes + Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose. + + "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried-- + "I've an engagement there inside." + + The Saint arose and scratched his head. + "I recollect your face," he said. + + "(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard), + But----" Dana handed him a card. + + "Ah, yes, I now remember--bless + My soul, how dull I am I--yes, yes, + + "We've nothing better here than bliss. + Walk in. But I must tell you this: + + "We've rest and comfort, though, and peace." + "H'm--puddles," Dana said, "for geese. + + "Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no," + Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below. + + "'T is not included in our scheme-- + 'T is but a preacher's idle dream." + + The great man slowly moved away. + "I'll call," he said, "another day. + + "On earth I played it, o'er and o'er, + And Heaven without it were a bore." + + "O, stuff!--come in. You'll make," said Pete, + "A hell where'er you set your feet." + + 1885. + + + + + CONTEMPLATION. + + + I muse upon the distant town + In many a dreamy mood. + Above my head the sunbeams crown + The graveyard's giant rood. + The lupin blooms among the tombs. + The quail recalls her brood. + + Ah, good it is to sit and trace + The shadow of the cross; + It moves so still from place to place + O'er marble, bronze and moss; + With graves to mark upon its arc + Our time's eternal loss. + + And sweet it is to watch the bee + That reve's in the rose, + And sense the fragrance floating free + On every breeze that blows + O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound, + Mine enemies repose. + + + + + CREATION. + + + God dreamed--the suns sprang flaming into place, + And sailing worlds with many a venturous race! + He woke--His smile alone illumined space. + + + + + BUSINESS. + + + Two villains of the highest rank + Set out one night to rob a bank. + They found the building, looked it o'er, + Each window noted, tried each door, + Scanned carefully the lidded hole + For minstrels to cascade the coal-- + In short, examined five-and-twenty + Good paths from poverty to plenty. + But all were sealed, they saw full soon, + Against the minions of the moon. + "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied." + The other, smiling fair and wide, + Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you: + No burglar ever can get through. + Fate surely prospers our design-- + The booty all is yours and mine." + So, full of hope, the following day + To the exchange they took their way + And bought, with manner free and frank, + Some stock of that devoted bank; + And they became, inside the year, + One President and one Cashier. + + Their crime I can no further trace-- + The means of safety to embrace, + I overdrew and left the place. + + + + + A POSSIBILITY. + + + If the wicked gods were willing + (Pray it never may be true!) + That a universal chilling + Should ensue + Of the sentiment of loving,-- + If they made a great undoing + Of the plan of turtle-doving, + Then farewell all poet-lore, + Evermore. + If there were no more of billing + There would be no more of cooing + And we all should be but owls-- + Lonely fowls + Blinking wonderfully wise, + With our great round eyes-- + Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two, + As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo; + With regard to being mated, + Asking still with aggravated + Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?" + + + + + TO A CENSOR. + + "The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of + our judges is responsible for half the murders."--_Daily Newspaper_. + + + Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend, + Impeach Delay and you will make an end. + Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot + For doing all the things that it should not. + Put not good-natured judges under bond, + But make Delay in damages respond. + Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled + Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold-- + Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled + To "lash the rascals naked through the world." + The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing + Above whose back your knotted scourges sing. + _Your_ satire, truly, like a razor keen, + "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;" + For naught that you assail with falchion free + Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see. + Against abstractions evermore you charge + You hack no helmet and you need no targe. + That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice, + That wrong's not right and foulness never nice, + Fearless affirm. All consequences dare: + Smite the offense and the offender spare. + When Ananias and Sapphira lied + Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died. + When money-changers in the Temple sat, + At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat" + (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen) + And all the brokers would have cried amen! + + Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame + Have you no courage, or has he no name? + Upon his method will you wreak your wrath, + Himself all unmolested in his path? + Fall to! fall to!--your club no longer draw + To beat the air or flail a man of straw. + Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall + Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall. + Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal-- + Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel! + + We know that judges are corrupt. We know + That crimes are lively and that laws are slow. + We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay; + That priests and preachers are but birds of pray; + That merchants cheat and journalists for gold + Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold. + 'Tis all familiar as the simple lore + That two policemen and two thieves make four. + + But since, while some are wicked, some are good, + (As trees may differ though they all are wood) + Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit, + The bad would sentence and the good acquit. + In sparing everybody none you spare: + Rebukes most personal are least unfair. + To fire at random if you still prefer, + And swear at Dog but never kick a cur, + Permit me yet one ultimate appeal + To something that you understand and feel: + Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade-- + You might be read if you would learn your trade. + + Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed + Not one of you but all are here addressed) + Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart + Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart + Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green, + Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen. + + + + + THE HESITATING VETERAN. + + + + When I was young and full of faith + And other fads that youngsters cherish + A cry rose as of one that saith + With unction: "Help me or I perish!" + 'Twas heard in all the land, and men + The sound were each to each repeating. + It made my heart beat faster then + Than any heart can now be beating. + + For the world is old and the world is gray-- + Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty. + She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say, + And doesn't now go in for Pity. + Besides, the melancholy cry + Was that of one, 'tis now conceded, + Whose plight no one beneath the sky + Felt half so poignantly as he did. + + Moreover, he was black. And yet + That sentimental generation + With an austere compassion set + Its face and faith to the occasion. + Then there were hate and strife to spare, + And various hard knocks a-plenty; + And I ('twas more than my true share, + I must confess) took five-and-twenty. + + That all is over now--the reign + Of love and trade stills all dissensions, + And the clear heavens arch again + Above a land of peace and pensions. + The black chap--at the last we gave + Him everything that he had cried for, + Though many white chaps in the grave + 'Twould puzzle to say what they died for. + + I hope he's better off--I trust + That his society and his master's + Are worth the price we paid, and must + Continue paying, in disasters; + But sometimes doubts press thronging round + ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching) + If war for union was a sound + And profitable undertaking. + + 'Tis said they mean to take away + The Negro's vote for he's unlettered. + 'Tis true he sits in darkness day + And night, as formerly, when fettered; + But pray observe--howe'er he vote + To whatsoever party turning, + He'll be with gentlemen of note + And wealth and consequence and learning. + With Hales and Morgans on each side, + How could a fool through lack of knowledge, + Vote wrong? If learning is no guide + Why ought one to have been in college? + O Son of Day, O Son of Night! + What are your preferences made of? + I know not which of you is right, + Nor which to be the more afraid of. + + The world is old and the world is bad, + And creaks and grinds upon its axis; + And man's an ape and the gods are mad!-- + There's nothing sure, not even our taxes. + No mortal man can Truth restore, + Or say where she is to be sought for. + I know what uniform I wore-- + O, that I knew which side I fought for! + + + + + A YEAR'S CASUALTIES. + + + Slain as they lay by the secret, slow, + Pitiless hand of an unseen foe, + Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed + The river to join the loved and lost. + In the space of a year their spirits fled, + Silent and white, to the camp of the dead. + + One after one, they fall asleep + And the pension agents awake to weep, + And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail + As the souls flit by on the evening gale. + O Father of Battles, pray give us release + From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace! + + + + + INSPIRATION. + + + + O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand: + I fain would view the lettered stone. + What carvest thou?--perchance some grand + And solemn fancy all thine own. + For oft to know the fitting word + Some humble worker God permits. + "Jain Ann Meginnis, + Agid 3rd. + He givith His beluved fits." + + + + + TO-DAY. + + + I saw a man who knelt in prayer, + And heard him say: + "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare + To-day. + + "Lord, for to-morrow and its need + I do not pray; + Let me upon my neighbor feed + To-day. + + "Let me my duty duly shirk + And run away + From any form or phase of work + To-day. + + "From Thy commands exempted still + Let me obey + The promptings of my private will + To-day. + + "Let me no word profane, no lie + Unthinking say + If anyone is standing by + To-day. + + "My secret sins and vices grave + Let none betray; + The scoffer's jeers I do not crave + To-day. + + "And if to-day my fortune all + Should ebb away, + Help me on other men's to fall + To-day. + + "So, for to-morrow and its mite + I do not pray; + Just give me everything in sight + To-day." + + I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran + Like oil away. + I said: "I've seen an honest man + To-day." + + + + + AN ALIBI. + + + A famous journalist, who long + Had told the great unheaded throng + Whate'er they thought, by day or night. + Was true as Holy Writ, and right, + Was caught in--well, on second thought, + It is enough that he was caught, + And being thrown in jail became + The fuel of a public flame. + + "_Vox populi vox Dei_," said + The jailer. Inxling bent his head + Without remark: that motto good + In bold-faced type had always stood + Above the columns where his pen + Had rioted in praise of men + And all they said--provided he + Was sure they mostly did agree. + Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife + To take, or save, the culprit's life + Or liberty (which, I suppose, + Was much the same to him) arose + Outside. The journal that his pen + Adorned denounced his crime--but then + Its editor in secret tried + To have the indictment set aside. + The opposition papers swore + His father was a rogue before, + And all his wife's relations were + Like him and similar to her. + They begged their readers to subscribe + A dollar each to make a bribe + That any Judge would feel was large + Enough to prove the gravest charge-- + Unless, it might be, the defense + Put up superior evidence. + The law's traditional delay + Was all too short: the trial day + Dawned red and menacing. The Judge + Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge, + And all the motions counsel made + Could not move _him_--and there he stayed. + "The case must now proceed," he said, + "While I am just in heart and head, + It happens--as, indeed, it ought-- + Both sides with equal sums have bought + My favor: I can try the cause + Impartially." (Prolonged applause.) + + The prisoner was now arraigned + And said that he was greatly pained + To be suspected--_he_, whose pen + Had charged so many other men + With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why," + He said, a tear in either eye, + "If men who live by crying out + 'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt + Of their integrity exempt, + Let all forego the vain attempt + To make a reputation! Sir, + I'm innocent, and I demur." + Whereat a thousand voices cried + Amain he manifestly lied-- + _Vox populi_ as loudly roared + As bull by _picadores_ gored, + In his own coin receiving pay + To make a Spanish holiday. + + The jury--twelve good men and true-- + Were then sworn in to see it through, + And each made solemn oath that he + As any babe unborn was free + From prejudice, opinion, thought, + Respectability, brains--aught + That could disqualify; and some + Explained that they were deaf and dumb. + A better twelve, his Honor said, + Was rare, except among the dead. + The witnesses were called and sworn. + The tales they told made angels mourn, + And the Good Book they'd kissed became + Red with the consciousness of shame. + + Whenever one of them approached + The truth, "That witness wasn't coached, + Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both. + "Strike out his testimony," quoth + The learned judge: "This Court denies + Its ear to stories which surprise. + I hold that witnesses exempt + From coaching all are in contempt." + Both Prosecution and Defense + Applauded the judicial sense, + And the spectators all averred + Such wisdom they had never heard: + 'Twas plain the prisoner would be + Found guilty in the first degree. + Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed + The nameless terrors in his breast. + He felt remorseful, too, because + He wasn't half they said he was. + "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused + On opportunities unused, + "I might have easily become + As wealthy as Methusalum." + This journalist adorned, alas, + The middle, not the Bible, class. + + With equal skill the lawyers' pleas + Attested their divided fees. + Each gave the other one the lie, + Then helped him frame a sharp reply. + + Good Lord! it was a bitter fight, + And lasted all the day and night. + When once or oftener the roar + Had silenced the judicial snore + The speaker suffered for the sport + By fining for contempt of court. + Twelve jurors' noses good and true + Unceasing sang the trial through, + And even _vox populi_ was spent + In rattles through a nasal vent. + Clerk, bailiff, constables and all + Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call + To arms--his arms--and all fell in + Save counsel for the Man of Sin. + That thaumaturgist stood and swayed + The wand their faculties obeyed-- + That magic wand which, like a flame. + Leapt, wavered, quivered and became + A wonder-worker--known among + The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue. + + How long, O Lord, how long my verse + Runs on for better or for worse + In meter which o'ermasters me, + Octosyllabically free!-- + A meter which, the poets say, + No power of restraint can stay;-- + A hard-mouthed meter, suited well + To him who, having naught to tell, + Must hold attention as a trout + Is held, by paying out and out + The slender line which else would break + Should one attempt the fish to take. + Thus tavern guides who've naught to show + But some adjacent curio + By devious trails their patrons lead + And make them think 't is far indeed. + Where was I? + + While the lawyer talked + The rogue took up his feet and walked: + While all about him, roaring, slept, + Into the street he calmly stepped. + In very truth, the man who thought + The people's voice from heaven had caught + God's inspiration took a change + Of venue--it was passing strange! + Straight to his editor he went + And that ingenious person sent + A Negro to impersonate + The fugitive. In adequate + Disguise he took his vacant place + And buried in his arms his face. + When all was done the lawyer stopped + And silence like a bombshell dropped + Upon the Court: judge, jury, all + Within that venerable hall + (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed, + And one or two whom death had freed) + Awoke and tried to look as though + Slumber was all they did not know. + + And now that tireless lawyer-man + Took breath, and then again began: + "Your Honor, if you did attend + To what I've urged (my learned friend + Nodded concurrence) to support + The motion I have made, this court + May soon adjourn. With your assent + I've shown abundant precedent + For introducing now, though late, + New evidence to exculpate + My client. So, if you'll allow, + I'll prove an _alibi_!" "What?--how?" + Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't + Deny your showing, and I grant + The motion. Do I understand + You undertake to prove--good land!-- + That when the crime--you mean to show + Your client wasn't _there_?" "O, no, + I cannot quite do that, I find: + My _alibi's_ another kind + Of _alibi_,--I'll make it clear, + Your Honor, that he isn't _here_." + The Darky here upreared his head, + Tranquillity affrighted fled + And consternation reigned instead! + + + + + REBUKE. + + + When Admonition's hand essays + Our greed to curse, + Its lifted finger oft displays + Our missing purse. + + + + + J.F.B. + + + How well this man unfolded to our view + The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell-- + This man whose own convictions none could tell, + Nor if his maze of reason had a clew. + Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew + The fair philosophies of doubt so well + That while we listened to his words there fell + Some that were strangely comforting, though true. + Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt, + We said: "If so, by groping in the night, + He can proclaim some certain paths of trust, + How great our profit if he saw about + His feet the highways leading to the light." + Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust! + + + + + THE DYING STATESMAN. + + + It is a politician man-- + He draweth near his end, + And friends weep round that partisan, + Of every man the friend. + + Between the Known and the Unknown + He lieth on the strand; + The light upon the sea is thrown + That lay upon the land. + + It shineth in his glazing eye, + It burneth on his face; + God send that when we come to die + We know that sign of grace! + + Upon his lips his blessed sprite + Poiseth her joyous wing. + "How is it with thee, child of light? + Dost hear the angels sing?" + + "The song I hear, the crown I see, + And know that God is love. + Farewell, dark world--I go to be + A postmaster above!" + + For him no monumental arch, + But, O, 'tis good and brave + To see the Grand Old Party march + To office o'er his grave! + + + + + THE DEATH OF GRANT. + + + Father! whose hard and cruel law + Is part of thy compassion's plan, + Thy works presumptuously we scan + For what the prophets say they saw. + + Unbidden still the awful slope + Walling us in we climb to gain + Assurance of the shining plain + That faith has certified to hope. + + In vain!--beyond the circling hill + The shadow and the cloud abide. + Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide + To trust the Record and be still. + + To trust it loyally as he + Who, heedful of his high design, + Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine, + But wrought thy will unconsciously, + + Disputing not of chance or fate, + Nor questioning of cause or creed; + For anything but duty's deed + Too simply wise, too humbly great. + + The cannon syllabled his name; + His shadow shifted o'er the land, + Portentous, as at his command + Successive cities sprang to flame! + + He fringed the continent with fire, + The rivers ran in lines of light! + Thy will be done on earth--if right + Or wrong he cared not to inquire. + + His was the heavy hand, and his + The service of the despot blade; + His the soft answer that allayed + War's giant animosities. + + Let us have peace: our clouded eyes, + Fill, Father, with another light, + That we may see with clearer sight + Thy servant's soul in Paradise. + + + + + THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED. + + + Of Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + The Muse of History records + That he'd get drunk as twenty lords. + + He'd get so truly drunk that men + Stood by to marvel at him when + His slow advance along the street + Was but a vain cycloidal feat. + + And when 'twas fated that he fall + With a wide geographical sprawl, + They signified assent by sounds + Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds. + + And yet this Mr. Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Cast not on wine his thirsty eyes + When it was red or otherwise. + + All malt, or spirituous, tope + He loathed as cats dissent from soap; + And cider, if it touched his lip, + Evoked a groan at every sip. + + But still, as heretofore explained, + He not infrequently was grained. + (I'm not of those who call it "corned." + Coarse speech I've always duly scorned.) + + Though truth to say, and that's but right, + Strong drink (it hath an adder's bite!) + Was what had put him in the mud, + The only kind he used was blood! + + Alas, that an immortal soul + Addicted to the flowing bowl, + The emptied flagon should again + Replenish from a neighbor's vein. + + But, Mr. Shanahan was so + Constructed, and his taste that low. + Nor more deplorable was he + In kind of thirst than in degree; + + For sometimes fifty souls would pay + The debt of nature in a day + To free him from the shame and pain + Of dread Sobriety's misreign. + + His native land, proud of its sense + Of his unique inabstinence, + Abated something of its pride + At thought of his unfilled inside. + + And some the boldness had to say + 'Twere well if he were called away + To slake his thirst forevermore + In oceans of celestial gore. + + But Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Knew that his thirst was mortal; so + Remained unsainted here below-- + + Unsainted and unsaintly, for + He neither went to glory nor + To abdicate his power deigned + Where, under Providence, he reigned, + + But kept his Boss's power accurst + To serve his wild uncommon thirst. + Which now had grown so truly great + It was a drain upon the State. + + Soon, soon there came a time, alas! + When he turned down an empty glass-- + All practicable means were vain + His special wassail to obtain. + + In vain poor Decimation tried + To furnish forth the needful tide; + And Civil War as vainly shed + Her niggard offering of red. + + Poor Shanahan! his thirst increased + Until he wished himself deceased, + Invoked the firearm and the knife, + But could not die to save his life! + + He was so dry his own veins made + No answer to the seeking blade; + So parched that when he would have passed + Away he could not breathe his last. + + 'Twas then, when almost in despair, + (Unlaced his shoon, unkempt his hair) + He saw as in a dream a way + To wet afresh his mortal clay. + + Yes, Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Saw freedom, and with joy and pride + "Thalassa! (or Thalatta!)" cried. + + Straight to the Aldermen went he, + With many a "pull" and many a fee, + And many a most corrupt "combine" + (The Press for twenty cents a line + + Held out and fought him--O, God, bless + Forevermore the holy Press!) + Till he had franchises complete + For trolley lines on every street! + + The cars were builded and, they say, + Were run on rails laid every way-- + Rhomboidal roads, and circular, + And oval--everywhere a car-- + + Square, dodecagonal (in great + Esteem the shape called Figure 8) + And many other kinds of shapes + As various as tails of apes. + + No other group of men's abodes + E'er had such odd electric roads, + That winding in and winding out, + Began and ended all about. + + No city had, unless in Mars, + That city's wealth of trolley cars. + They ran by day, they flew by night, + And O, the sorry, sorry sight! + + And Hans Pietro Shanahan + (Who was a most ingenious man) + Incessantly, the Muse records, + Lay drunk as twenty thousand lords! + + + + + LAUS LUCIS. + + Theosophists are about to build a "Temple for the revival of the + Mysteries of Antiquity."--_Vide the Newspapers, passim_. + + + Each to his taste: some men prefer to play + At mystery, as others at piquet. + Some sit in mystic meditation; some + Parade the street with tambourine and drum. + One studies to decipher ancient lore + Which, proving stuff, he studies all the more; + Another swears that learning is but good + To darken things already understood, + Then writes upon Simplicity so well + That none agree on what he wants to tell, + And future ages will declare his pen + Inspired by gods with messages to men. + To found an ancient order those devote + Their time--with ritual, regalia, goat, + Blankets for tossing, chairs of little ease + And all the modern inconveniences; + These, saner, frown upon unmeaning rites + And go to church for rational delights. + So all are suited, shallow and profound, + The prophets prosper and the world goes round. + For me--unread in the occult, I'm fain + To damn all mysteries alike as vain, + Spurn the obscure and base my faith upon + The Revelations of the good St. John. + + 1897. + + + + + NANINE. + + + We heard a song-bird trilling-- + 'T was but a night ago. + Such rapture he was rilling + As only we could know. + + This morning he is flinging + His music from the tree, + But something in the singing + Is not the same to me. + + His inspiration fails him, + Or he has lost his skill. + Nanine, Nanine, what ails him + That he should sing so ill? + + Nanine is not replying-- + She hears no earthly song. + The sun and bird are lying + And the night is, O, so long! + + + + + TECHNOLOGY. + + + 'Twas a serious person with locks of gray + And a figure like a crescent; + His gravity, clearly, had come to stay, + But his smile was evanescent. + + He stood and conversed with a neighbor, and + With (likewise) a high falsetto; + And he stabbed his forefinger into his hand + As if it had been a stiletto. + + His words, like the notes of a tenor drum, + Came out of his head unblended, + And the wonderful altitude of some + Was exceptionally splendid. + + While executing a shake of the head, + With the hand, as it were, of a master, + This agonizing old gentleman said: + "'Twas a truly sad disaster! + + "Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all, + Went down"--he paused and snuffled. + A single tear was observed to fall, + And the old man's drum was muffled. + + "A very calamitous year," he said. + And again his head-piece hoary + He shook, and another pearl he shed, + As if he wept _con amore._ + + "O lacrymose person," I cried, "pray why + Should these failures so affect you? + With speculators in stocks no eye + That's normal would ever connect you." + + He focused his orbs upon mine and smiled + In a sinister sort of manner. + "Young man," he said, "your words are wild: + I spoke of the steamship 'Hanner.' + + "For she has went down in a howlin' squall, + And my heart is nigh to breakin'-- + Four hundred and ten longs and shorts in all + Will never need undertakin'! + + "I'm in the business myself," said he, + "And you've mistook my expression; + For I uses the technical terms, you see, + Employed in my perfession." + + That old undertaker has joined the throng + On the other side of the River, + But I'm still unhappy to think I'm a "long," + And a tape-line makes me shiver. + + + + + A REPLY TO A LETTER. + + + O nonsense, parson--tell me not they thrive + And jubilate who follow your dictation. + The good are the unhappiest lot alive-- + I know they are from careful observation. + If freedom from the terrors of damnation + Lengthens the visage like a telescope, + And lacrymation is a sign of hope, + Then I'll continue, in my dreadful plight, + To tread the dusky paths of sin, and grope + Contentedly without your lantern's light; + And though in many a bog beslubbered quite, + Refuse to flay me with ecclesiastic soap. + + You say 'tis a sad world, seeing I'm condemned, + With many a million others of my kidney. + Each continent's Hammed, Japheted and Shemmed + With sinners--worldlings like Sir Philip Sidney + And scoffers like Voltaire, who thought it bliss + To simulate respect for Genesis-- + Who bent the mental knee as if in prayer, + But mocked at Moses underneath his hair, + And like an angry gander bowed his head to hiss. + + Seeing such as these, who die without contrition, + Must go to--beg your pardon, sir--perdition, + The sons of light, you tell me, can't be gay, + But count it sin of the sort called omission + The groan to smother or the tear to stay + Or fail to--what is that they live by?--pray. + So down they flop, and the whole serious race is + Put by divine compassion on a praying basis. + + Well, if you take it so to heart, while yet + Our own hearts are so light with nature's leaven, + You'll weep indeed when we in Hades sweat, + And you look down upon us out of Heaven. + In fancy, lo! I see your wailing shades + Thronging the crystal battlements. Cascades + Of tears spring singing from each golden spout, + Run roaring from the verge with hoarser sound, + Dash downward through the glimmering profound, + Quench the tormenting flame and put the Devil out! + + Presumptuous ass! to you no power belongs + To pitchfork me to Heaven upon the prongs + Of a bad pen, whose disobedient sputter, + With less of ink than incoherence fraught + Befits the folly that it tries to utter. + Brains, I observe, as well as tongues, can stutter: + You suffer from impediment of thought. + + When next you "point the way to Heaven," take care: + Your fingers all being thumbs, point, Heaven knows where! + Farewell, poor dunce! your letter though I blame, + Bears witness how my anger I can tame: + I've called you everything except your hateful name! + + + + + TO OSCAR WILDE. + + + Because from Folly's lips you got + Some babbled mandate to subdue + The realm of Common Sense, and you + Made promise and considered not-- + + Because you strike a random blow + At what you do not understand, + And beckon with a friendly hand + To something that you do not know, + + I hold no speech of your desert, + Nor answer with porrected shield + The wooden weapon that you wield, + But meet you with a cast of dirt. + + Dispute with such a thing as you-- + Twin show to the two-headed calf? + Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, + 'T is more than half the world can do. + + 1882. + + + + + PRAYER. + + + Fear not in any tongue to call + Upon the Lord--He's skilled in all. + But if He answereth my plea + He speaketh one unknown to me. + + + + + A "BORN LEADER OF MEN." + + + Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh + Is a statesman of world-wide fame, + With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh + To glorify somebody's name-- + Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters + To succor the country from divers disasters + Portentous to Mr. Mahosh. + + Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee + Is in the political swim. + He cares not a button for men, not he: + Great principles captivate him-- + Principles cleverly cut out and fitted + To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, + And fought for by Mr. Cabee. + + Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse + Holds office the most of his life. + For men nor for principles cares he a curse, + But much for his neighbor's wife. + The Ship of State leaks, but _he_ doesn't pump any, + Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company + Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse. + + + + + TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE. + + + O Liberty, God-gifted-- + Young and immortal maid-- + In your high hand uplifted; + The torch declares your trade. + + Its crimson menace, flaming + Upon the sea and shore, + Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming + That Law shall be no more. + + Austere incendiary, + We're blinking in the light; + Where is your customary + Grenade of dynamite? + + Where are your staves and switches + For men of gentle birth? + Your mask and dirk for riches? + Your chains for wit and worth? + + Perhaps, you've brought the halters + You used in the old days, + When round religion's altars + You stabled Cromwell's bays? + + Behind you, unsuspected, + Have you the axe, fair wench, + Wherewith you once collected + A poll-tax from the French? + + America salutes you-- + Preparing to disgorge. + Take everything that suits you, + And marry Henry George. + + 1894 + + + + AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS. + + + Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year. + One place it never comes, and that is here. + Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, + No well-worn greetings tediously ring-- + For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: + The hollower they are they ring the more. + Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, + Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, + No trinket-laden vegetable come, + No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum. + No shrilling children shall their voices rear. + Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer! + + No presents, if you please--I know too well + What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell + (I know not if he did) yet might have told + Of present-giving in the days of old, + When Early Man with gifts propitiated + The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, + Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude + Advantage from the taker's gratitude. + Since thus the Gift its origin derives + (How much of its first character survives + You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, + My pocket buttoned--with my soul inside. + I save my money and I save my pride. + + Dinner? Yes; thank you--just a human body + Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy + To give me appetite; and as for drink, + About a half a jug of blood, I think, + Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, + Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine + Fretting the satin surface of its flood. + O tope of kings--divine Falernian--blood! + + Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, + The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn! + Has not a pagan rights to be regarded-- + His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded + With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan + Even in his demonium would ban? + + No, friends--no Christmas here, for I have sworn + To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn. + Enough you have of jester, player, priest: + I as the skeleton attend your feast, + In the mad revelry to make a lull + With shaken finger and with bobbing skull. + However you my services may flout, + Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, + I mean to hold in customary state, + My dismal revelry and celebrate + My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, + Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom + And cultivate an oasis of gloom. + + + + + BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT. + + + Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes + Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; + Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown + Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; + Justice denied, authority abused, + And the one honest person the accused-- + Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, + Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears. + + + + + AN EPITAPH. + + + Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse-- + So small a tenant of so big a house! + He joyed in fighting with his eyes (his fist + Prudently pendent from a peaceful wrist) + And loved to loll on the Parnassian mount, + His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count,-- + What poetry he'd written but for lack + Of skill, when he had counted, to count back! + Alas, no more he'll climb the sacred steep + To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep! + To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs + And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings. + No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine, + Spread wide their ears and hiccough "That's divine!" + The genius of his purse no longer draws + The pleasing thunders of a paid applause. + All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains, + Though riddances of worms improve his brains. + All his no talents to the earth revert, + And Fame concludes the record: "Dirt to dirt!" + + + + + THE POLITICIAN. + + + "Let Glory's sons manipulate + The tiller of the Ship of State. + Be mine the humble, useful toil + To work the tiller of the soil." + + + + + AN INSCRIPTION + + For a Proposed Monument in Washington to Him who + Made it Beautiful. + + + Erected to "Boss" Shepherd by the dear + Good folk he lived and moved among in peace-- + Guarded on either hand by the police, + With soldiers in his front and in his rear. + + + + + FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS. + + + The polecat, sovereign of its native wood, + Dashes damnation upon bad and good; + The health of all the upas trees impairs + By exhalations deadlier than theirs; + Poisons the rattlesnake and warts the toad-- + The creeks go rotten and the rocks corrode! + She shakes o'er breathless hill and shrinking dale + The horrid aspergillus of her tail! + From every saturated hair, till dry, + The spargent fragrances divergent fly, + Deafen the earth and scream along the sky! + + Removed to alien scenes, amid the strife + Of urban odors to ungladden life-- + Where gas and sewers and dead dogs conspire + The flesh to torture and the soul to fire-- + Where all the "well defined and several stinks" + Known to mankind hold revel and high jinks-- + Humbled in spirit, smitten with a sense + Of lost distinction, leveled eminence, + She suddenly resigns her baleful trust, + Nor ever lays again our mortal dust. + Her powers atrophied, her vigor sunk, + She lives deodorized, a sweeter skunk. + + + + + A "MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON." + + + "O, I'm the Unaverage Man, + But you never have heard of me, + For my brother, the Average Man, outran + My fame with rapiditee, + And I'm sunk in Oblivion's sea, + But my bully big brother the world can span + With his wide notorietee. + I do everything that I can + To make 'em attend to me, + But the papers ignore the Unaverage Man + With a weird uniformitee." + + So sang with a dolorous note + A voice that I heard from the beach; + On the sable waters it seemed to float + Like a mortal part of speech. + The sea was Oblivion's sea, + And I cried as I plunged to swim: + "The Unaverage Man shall reside with me." + But he didn't--I stayed with him! + + + + + THE FREE TRADER'S LAMENT. + + + Oft from a trading-boat I purchased spice + And shells and corals, brought for my inspection + From the fair tropics--paid a Christian price + And was content in my fool's paradise, + Where never had been heard the word "Protection." + + 'T was my sole island; there I dwelt alone-- + No customs-house, collector nor collection, + But a man came, who, in a pious tone + Condoled with me that I had never known + The manifest advantage of Protection. + + So, when the trading-boat arrived one day, + He threw a stink-pot into its mid-section. + The traders paddled for their lives away, + Nor came again into that haunted bay, + The blessed home thereafter of Protection. + + Then down he sat, that philanthropic man, + And spat upon some mud of his selection, + And worked it, with his knuckles in a pan, + To shapes of shells and coral things, and span + A thread of song in glory of Protection. + + He baked them in the sun. His air devout + Enchanted me. I made a genuflexion: + "God help you, gentle sir," I said. "No doubt," + He answered gravely, "I'll get on without + Assistance now that we have got Protection." + + Thenceforth I bought his wares--at what a price + For shells and corals of such imperfection! + "Ah, now," said he, "your lot is truly nice." + But still in all that isle there was no spice + To season to my taste that dish, Protection. + + + + + SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES. + + + I died. As meekly in the earth I lay, + With shriveled fingers reverently folded, + The worm--uncivil engineer!--my clay + Tunneled industriously, and the mole did. + My body could not dodge them, but my soul did; + For that had flown from this terrestrial ball + And I was rid of it for good and all. + + So there I lay, debating what to do-- + What measures might most usefully be taken + To circumvent the subterranean crew + Of anthropophagi and save my bacon. + My fortitude was all this while unshaken, + But any gentleman, of course, protests + Against receiving uninvited guests. + + However proud he might be of his meats, + Not even Apicius, nor, I think, Lucullus, + Wasted on tramps his culinary sweets; + "_Aut Caesar_," say judicious hosts, "_aut nullus_." + And though when Marcius came unbidden Tullus + Aufidius feasted him because he starved, + Marcius by Tullus afterward was carved. + + We feed the hungry, as the book commands + (For men might question else our orthodoxy) + But do not care to see the outstretched hands, + And so we minister to them by proxy. + When Want, in his improper person, knocks he + Finds we're engaged. The graveworm's very fresh + To think we like his presence in the flesh. + + So, as I said, I lay in doubt; in all + That underworld no judges could determine + My rights. When Death approaches them they fall, + And falling, naturally soil their ermine. + And still below ground, as above, the vermin + That work by dark and silent methods win + The case--the burial case that one is in. + + Cases at law so slowly get ahead, + Even when the right is visibly unclouded, + That if all men are classed as quick and dead, + The judges all are dead, though some unshrouded. + Pray Jove that when they're actually crowded + On Styx's brink, and Charon rows in sight, + His bark prove worse than Cerberus's bite. + + Ah! Cerberus, if you had but begot + A race of three-mouthed dogs for man to nourish + And woman to caress, the muse had not + Lamented the decay of virtues currish, + And triple-hydrophobia now would flourish, + For barking, biting, kissing to employ + Canine repeaters were indeed a joy. + + Lord! how we cling to this vile world! Here I, + Whose dust was laid ere I began this carping, + By moles and worms and such familiar fry + Run through and through, am singing still and harping + Of mundane matters--flatting, too, and sharping. + I hate the Angel of the Sleeping Cup: + So I'm for getting--and for shutting--up. + + + + + IN MEMORIAM + + + Beauty (they called her) wasn't a maid + Of many things in the world afraid. + She wasn't a maid who turned and fled + At sight of a mouse, alive or dead. + She wasn't a maid a man could "shoo" + By shouting, however abruptly, "Boo!" + She wasn't a maid who'd run and hide + If her face and figure you idly eyed. + She was'nt a maid who'd blush and shake + When asked what part of the fowl she'd take. + (I blush myself to confess she preferred, + And commonly got, the most of the bird.) + She wasn't a maid to simper because + She was asked to sing--if she ever was. + + In short, if the truth must be displayed + _In puris_--Beauty wasn't a maid. + Beauty, furry and fine and fat, + Yawny and clawy, sleek and all that, + Was a pampered and spoiled Angora cat! + + I loved her well, and I'm proud that she + Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me; + In fact I have sometimes gone so far + (You know, mesdames, how silly men are) + As to think she preferred--excuse the conceit-- + _My_ legs upon which to sharpen her feet. + Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much, + But I started and thrilled beneath her touch! + + Ah, well, that's ancient history now: + The fingers of Time have touched my brow, + And I hear with never a start to-day + That Beauty has passed from the earth away. + Gone!--her death-song (it killed her) sung. + Gone!--her fiddlestrings all unstrung. + Gone to the bliss of a new _regime_ + Of turkey smothered in seas of cream; + Of roasted mice (a superior breed, + To science unknown and the coarser need + Of the living cat) cooked by the flame + Of the dainty soul of an erring dame + Who gave to purity all her care, + Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,-- + Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice + By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise; + A very digestible sort of mice. + + Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold + That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold, + To eat and eat, forever and aye, + On a velvet rug from a golden tray. + But the human spirit--that is my creed-- + Rots in the ground like a barren seed. + That is my creed, abhorred by Man + But approved by Cat since time began. + Till Death shall kick at me, thundering "Scat!" + I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that. + + + + + THE STATESMEN. + + + How blest the land that counts among + Her sons so many good and wise, + To execute great feats of tongue + When troubles rise. + + Behold them mounting every stump + Our liberty by speech to guard. + Observe their courage:--see them jump + And come down hard! + + "Walk up, walk up!" each cries aloud, + "And learn from me what you must do + To turn aside the thunder cloud, + The earthquake too. + + "Beware the wiles of yonder quack + Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. + I--I alone can show that black + Is white as grass." + + They shout through all the day and break + The silence of the night as well. + They'd make--I wish they'd _go_ and make-- + Of Heaven a Hell. + + A advocates free silver, B + Free trade and C free banking laws. + Free board, clothes, lodging would from me + Win warm applause. + + Lo, D lifts up his voice: "You see + The single tax on land would fall + On all alike." More evenly + No tax at all. + + "With paper money" bellows E + "We'll all be rich as lords." No doubt-- + And richest of the lot will be + The chap without. + + As many "cures" as addle wits + Who know not what the ailment is! + Meanwhile the patient foams and spits + Like a gin fizz. + + Alas, poor Body Politic, + Your fate is all too clearly read: + To be not altogether quick, + Nor very dead. + + You take your exercise in squirms, + Your rest in fainting fits between. + 'T is plain that your disorder's worms-- + Worms fat and lean. + + Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell + Within your maw and muscle's scope. + Their quarrels make your life a Hell, + Your death a hope. + + God send you find not such an end + To ills however sharp and huge! + God send you convalesce! God send + You vermifuge. + + + + + THE BROTHERS. + + + Scene--_A lawyer's dreadful den. + Enter stall-fed citizen._ + + LAWYER.--'Mornin'. How-de-do? + + CITIZEN.--Sir, same to you. + Called as counsel to retain you + In a case that I'll explain you. + Sad, _so_ sad! Heart almost broke. + Hang it! where's my kerchief? Smoke? + Brother, sir, and I, of late, + Came into a large estate. + Brother's--h'm, ha,--rather queer + Sometimes _(tapping forehead) _here. + What he needs--you know--a "writ"-- + Something, eh? that will permit + Me to manage, sir, in fine, + His estate, as well as mine. + 'Course he'll _kick_; 't will break, I fear, + His loving heart--excuse this tear. + + LAWYER.--Have you nothing more? + All of this you said before-- + When last night I took your case. + + CITIZEN.--Why, sir, your face + Ne'er before has met my view! + + LAWYER.--Eh? The devil! True: + My mistake--it was your brother. + But you're very like each other. + + + + + THE CYNIC'S BEQUEST + + + In that fair city, Ispahan, + There dwelt a problematic man, + Whose angel never was released, + Who never once let out his beast, + But kept, through all the seasons' round, + Silence unbroken and profound. + No Prophecy, with ear applied + To key-hole of the future, tried + Successfully to catch a hint + Of what he'd do nor when begin 't; + As sternly did his past defy + Mild Retrospection's backward eye. + Though all admired his silent ways, + The women loudest were in praise: + For ladies love those men the most + Who never, never, never boast-- + Who ne'er disclose their aims and ends + To naughty, naughty, naughty friends. + + Yet, sooth to say, the fame outran + The merit of this doubtful man, + For taciturnity in him, + Though not a mere caprice or whim, + Was not a virtue, such as truth, + High birth, or beauty, wealth or youth. + + 'Twas known, indeed, throughout the span + Of Ispahan, of Gulistan-- + These utmost limits of the earth + Knew that the man was dumb from birth. + + Unto the Sun with deep salaams + The Parsee spreads his morning palms + (A beacon blazing on a height + Warms o'er his piety by night.) + The Moslem deprecates the deed, + Cuts off the head that holds the creed, + Then reverently goes to grass, + Muttering thanks to Balaam's Ass + For faith and learning to refute + Idolatry so dissolute! + But should a maniac dash past, + With straws in beard and hands upcast, + To him (through whom, whene'er inclined + To preach a bit to Madmankind, + The Holy Prophet speaks his mind) + Our True Believer lifts his eyes + Devoutly and his prayer applies; + But next to Solyman the Great + Reveres the idiot's sacred state. + Small wonder then, our worthy mute + Was held in popular repute. + Had he been blind as well as mum, + Been lame as well as blind and dumb, + No bard that ever sang or soared + Could say how he had been adored. + More meagerly endowed, he drew + An homage less prodigious. True, + No soul his praises but did utter-- + All plied him with devotion's butter, + But none had out--'t was to their credit-- + The proselyting sword to spread it. + I state these truths, exactly why + The reader knows as well as I; + They've nothing in the world to do + With what I hope we're coming to + If Pegasus be good enough + To move when he has stood enough. + Egad! his ribs I would examine + Had I a sharper spur than famine, + Or even with that if 'twould incline + To examine his instead of mine. + Where was I? Ah, that silent man + Who dwelt one time in Ispahan-- + He had a name--was known to all + As Meerza Solyman Zingall. + + There lived afar in Astrabad, + A man the world agreed was mad, + So wickedly he broke his joke + Upon the heads of duller folk, + So miserly, from day to day, + He gathered up and hid away + In vaults obscure and cellars haunted + What many worthy people wanted, + A stingy man!--the tradesmen's palms + Were spread in vain: "I give no alms + Without inquiry"--so he'd say, + And beat the needy duns away. + The bastinado did, 'tis true, + Persuade him, now and then, a few + Odd tens of thousands to disburse + To glut the taxman's hungry purse, + But still, so rich he grew, his fear + Was constant that the Shah might hear. + (The Shah had heard it long ago, + And asked the taxman if 'twere so, + Who promptly answered, rather airish, + The man had long been on the parish.) + The more he feared, the more he grew + A cynic and a miser, too, + Until his bitterness and pelf + Made him a terror to himself; + Then, with a razor's neckwise stroke, + He tartly cut his final joke. + So perished, not an hour too soon, + The wicked Muley Ben Maroon. + + From Astrabad to Ispahan + At camel speed the rumor ran + That, breaking through tradition hoar, + And throwing all his kinsmen o'er, + The miser'd left his mighty store + Of gold--his palaces and lands-- + To needy and deserving hands + (Except a penny here and there + To pay the dervishes for prayer.) + 'Twas known indeed throughout the span + Of earth, and into Hindostan, + That our beloved mute was the + Residuary legatee. + The people said 'twas very well, + And each man had a tale to tell + Of how he'd had a finger in 't + By dropping many a friendly hint + At Astrabad, you see. But ah, + They feared the news might reach the Shah! + To prove the will the lawyers bore 't + Before the Kadi's awful court, + Who nodded, when he heard it read, + Confirmingly his drowsy head, + Nor thought, his sleepiness so great, + Himself to gobble the estate. + "I give," the dead had writ, "my all + To Meerza Solyman Zingall + Of Ispahan. With this estate + I might quite easily create + Ten thousand ingrates, but I shun + Temptation and create but one, + In whom the whole unthankful crew + The rich man's air that ever drew + To fat their pauper lungs I fire + Vicarious with vain desire! + From foul Ingratitude's base rout + I pick this hapless devil out, + Bestowing on him all my lands, + My treasures, camels, slaves and bands + Of wives--I give him all this loot, + And throw my blessing in to boot. + Behold, O man, in this bequest + Philanthropy's long wrongs redressed: + To speak me ill that man I dower + With fiercest will who lacks the power. + Allah il Allah! now let him bloat + With rancor till his heart's afloat, + Unable to discharge the wave + Upon his benefactor's grave!" + + Forth in their wrath the people came + And swore it was a sin and shame + To trick their blessed mute; and each + Protested, serious of speech, + That though _he'd_ long foreseen the worst + He'd been against it from the first. + By various means they vainly tried + The testament to set aside, + Each ready with his empty purse + To take upon himself the curse; + For _they_ had powers of invective + Enough to make it ineffective. + The ingrates mustered, every man, + And marched in force to Ispahan + (Which had not quite accommodation) + And held a camp of indignation. + + The man, this while, who never spoke-- + On whom had fallen this thunder-stroke + Of fortune, gave no feeling vent + Nor dropped a clue to his intent. + Whereas no power to him came + His benefactor to defame, + Some (such a length had slander gone to) + Even whispered that he didn't want to! + But none his secret could divine; + If suffering he made no sign, + Until one night as winter neared + From all his haunts he disappeared-- + Evanished in a doubtful blank + Like little crayfish in a bank, + Their heads retracting for a spell, + And pulling in their holes as well. + + All through the land of Gul, the stout + Young Spring is kicking Winter out. + The grass sneaks in upon the scene, + Defacing it with bottle-green. + + The stumbling lamb arrives to ply + His restless tail in every eye, + Eats nasty mint to spoil his meat + And make himself unfit to eat. + Madly his throat the bulbul tears-- + In every grove blasphemes and swears + As the immodest rose displays + Her shameless charms a dozen ways. + Lo! now, throughout the utmost span + Of Ispahan--of Gulistan-- + A big new book's displayed in all + The shops and cumbers every stall. + The price is low--the dealers say 'tis-- + And the rich are treated to it gratis. + Engraven on its foremost page + These title-words the eye engage: + "The Life of Muley Ben Maroon, + Of Astrabad--Rogue, Thief, Buffoon + And Miser--Liver by the Sweat + Of Better Men: A Lamponette + Composed in Rhyme and Written all + By Meerza Solyman Zingall!" + + + + + CORRECTED NEWS. + + + 'T was a maiden lady (the newspapers say) + Pious and prim and a bit gone-gray. + She slept like an angel, holy and white, + Till ten o' the clock in the shank o' the night + (When men and other wild animals prey) + And then she cried in the viewless gloom: + "There's a man in the room, a man in the room!" + And this maiden lady (they make it appear) + Leapt out of the window, five fathom sheer! + + Alas, that lying is such a sin + When newspaper men need bread and gin + And none can be had for less than a lie! + For the maiden lady a bit gone-gray + Saw the man in the room from across the way, + And leapt, not out of the window but in-- + _Ten_ fathom sheer, as I hope to die! + + + + + AN EXPLANATION. + + + "I never yet exactly could determine + Just how it is that the judicial ermine + Is kept so safely from predacious vermin." + + "It is not so, my friend: though in a garret + 'Tis kept in camphor, and you often air it, + The vermin will get into it and wear it." + + + + + JUSTICE. + + + Jack Doe met Dick Roe, whose wife he loved, + And said: "I will get the best of him." + So pulling a knife from his boot, he shoved + It up to the hilt in the breast of him. + + Then he moved that weapon forth and back, + Enlarging the hole he had made with it, + Till the smoking liver fell out, and Jack + Merrily, merrily played with it. + + Then he reached within and he seized the slack + Of the lesser bowel, and, traveling + Hither and thither, looked idly back + On that small intestine, raveling. + + The wretched Richard, with many a grin + Laid on with exceeding suavity, + Curled up and died, and they ran John in + And charged him with sins of gravity. + + The case was tried and a verdict found: + The jury, with great humanity, + Acquitted the prisoner on the ground + Of extemporary insanity. + + + + + MR. FINK'S DEBATING DONKEY. + + + Of a person known as Peters I will humbly crave your leave + An unusual adventure into narrative to weave-- + Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel, + A public educator and an orator as well. + Mr. Peters had a weakness which, 'tis painful to relate, + Was a strong predisposition to the pleasures of debate. + He would foster disputation wheresoever he might be; + In polygonal contention none so happy was as he. + 'Twas observable, however, that the exercises ran + Into monologue by Peters, that rhetorical young man. + And the Muscatelian rustics who assisted at the show, + By involuntary silence testified their overthrow-- + Mr. Peters, all unheedful of their silence and their grief, + Still effacing every vestige of erroneous belief. + O, he was a sore affliction to all heretics so bold + As to entertain opinions that he didn't care to hold. + + One day--'t was in pursuance of a pedagogic plan + For the mental elevation of Uncultivated Man-- + Mr. Peters, to his pupils, in dismissing them, explained + That the Friday evening following (unless, indeed, it rained) + Would be signalized by holding in the schoolhouse a debate + Free to all who their opinions might desire to ventilate + On the question, "Which is better, as a serviceable gift, + Speech or hearing, from barbarity the human mind to lift?" + The pupils told their fathers, who, forehanded always, met + At the barroom to discuss it every evening, dry or wet, + They argued it and argued it and spat upon the stove, + And the non-committal "barkeep" on their differences throve. + And I state it as a maxim in a loosish kind of way: + You'll have the more to back your word the less you have to say. + Public interest was lively, but one Ebenezer Fink + Of the Rancho del Jackrabbit, only seemed to sit and think. + + On the memorable evening all the men of Muscatel + Came to listen to the logic and the eloquence as well-- + All but William Perry Peters, whose attendance there, I fear. + Was to wreak his ready rhetoric upon the public ear, + And prove (whichever side he took) that hearing wouldn't lift + The human mind as ably as the other, greater gift. + The judges being chosen and the disputants enrolled, + The question he proceeded _in extenso_ to unfold: + "_Resolved_--The sense of hearing lifts the mind up out of reach + Of the fogs of error better than the faculty of speech." + This simple proposition he expounded, word by word, + Until they best understood it who least perfectly had heard. + Even the judges comprehended as he ventured to explain-- + The impact of a spit-ball admonishing in vain. + Beginning at a period before Creation's morn, + He had reached the bounds of tolerance and Adam yet unborn. + As down the early centuries of pre-historic time + He tracked important principles and quoted striking rhyme, + And Whisky Bill, prosaic soul! proclaiming him a jay, + Had risen and like an earthquake, "reeled unheededly away," + And a late lamented cat, when opportunity should serve, + Was preparing to embark upon her parabolic curve, + A noise arose outside--the door was opened with a bang + And old Ebenezer Fink was heard ejaculating "G'lang!" + Straight into that assembly gravely marched without a wink + An ancient ass--the property it was of Mr. Fink. + Its ears depressed and beating time to its infestive tread, + Silent through silence moved amain that stately quadruped! + It stopped before the orator, and in the lamplight thrown + Upon its tail they saw that member weighted with a stone. + Then spake old Ebenezer: "Gents, I heern o' this debate + On w'ether v'ice or y'ears is best the mind to elevate. + Now 'yer's a bird ken throw some light uponto that tough theme: + He has 'em both, I'm free to say, oncommonly extreme. + He wa'n't invited for to speak, but he will not refuse + (If t'other gentleman ken wait) to exposay his views." + + Ere merriment or anger o'er amazement could prevail; + He cut the string that held the stone on that canary's tail. + Freed from the weight, that member made a gesture of delight, + Then rose until its rigid length was horizontal quite. + With lifted head and level ears along his withers laid, + Jack sighed, refilled his lungs and then--to put it mildly--brayed! + He brayed until the stones were stirred in circumjacent hills, + And sleeping women rose and fled, in divers kinds of frills. + 'T is said that awful bugle-blast--to make the story brief-- + Wafted William Perry Peters through the window, like a leaf! + + Such is the tale. If anything additional occurred + 'Tis not set down, though, truly, I remember to have heard + That a gentleman named Peters, now residing at Soquel, + A considerable distance from the town of Muscatel, + Is opposed to education, and to rhetoric, as well. + + + + + TO MY LAUNDRESS. + + + Saponacea, wert thou not so fair + I'd curse thee for thy multitude of sins-- + For sending home my clothes all full of pins-- + A shirt occasionally that's a snare + And a delusion, got, the Lord knows where, + The Lord knows why--a sock whose outs and ins + None know, nor where it ends nor where begins, + And fewer cuffs than ought to be my share. + But when I mark thy lilies how they grow, + And the red roses of thy ripening charms, + I bless the lovelight in thy dark eyes dreaming. + I'll never pay thee, but I'd gladly go + Into the magic circle of thine arms, + Supple and fragrant from repeated steaming. + + + + + FAME. + + + One thousand years I slept beneath the sod, + My sleep in 1901 beginning, + Then, by the action of some scurvy god + Who happened then to recollect my sinning, + I was revived and given another inning. + On breaking from my grave I saw a crowd-- + A formless multitude of men and women, + Gathered about a ruin. Clamors loud + I heard, and curses deep enough to swim in; + And, pointing at me, one said: "Let's put _him_ in." + Then each turned on me with an evil look, + As in my ragged shroud I stood and shook. + + "Nay, good Posterity," I cried, "forbear! + If that's a jail I fain would be remaining + Outside, for truly I should little care + To catch my death of cold. I'm just regaining + The life lost long ago by my disdaining + To take precautions against draughts like those + That, haply, penetrate that cracked and splitting + Old structure." Then an aged wight arose + From a chair of state in which he had been sitting, + And with preliminary coughing, spitting + And wheezing, said: "'T is not a jail, we're sure, + Whate'er it may have been when it was newer. + + "'T was found two centuries ago, o'ergrown + With brush and ivy, all undoored, ungated; + And in restoring it we found a stone + Set here and there in the dilapidated + And crumbling frieze, inscribed, in antiquated + Big characters, with certain uncouth names, + Which we conclude were borne of old by awful + Rapscallions guilty of all sinful games-- + Vagrants engaged in purposes unlawful, + And orators less sensible than jawful. + So each ten years we add to the long row + A name, the most unworthy that we know." + + "But why," I asked, "put _me_ in?" He replied: + "You look it"--and the judgment pained me greatly; + Right gladly would I then and there have died, + But that I'd risen from the grave so lately. + But on examining that solemn, stately + Old ruin I remarked: "My friend, you err-- + The truth of this is just what I expected. + This building in its time made quite a stir. + I lived (was famous, too) when 't was erected. + The names here first inscribed were much respected. + This is the Hall of Fame, or I'm a stork, + And this goat pasture once was called New York." + + + + + OMNES VANITAS. + + + Alas for ambition's possessor! + Alas for the famous and proud! + The Isle of Manhattan's best dresser + Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud. + + The world has forgotten his glory; + The wagoner sings on his wain, + And Chauncey Depew tells a story, + And jackasses laugh in the lane. + + + + + ASPIRATION. + + No man can truthfully say that he would not like to + be President.--_William C. Whitney._ + + + Lo! the wild rabbit, happy in the pride + Of qualities to meaner beasts denied, + Surveys the ass with reverence and fear, + Adoring his superior length of ear, + And says: "No living creature, lean or fat, + But wishes in his heart to be like That!" + + + + + DEMOCRACY. + + + Let slaves and subjects with unvaried psalms + Before their sovereign execute salaams; + The freeman scorns one idol to adore-- + Tom, Dick and Harry and himself are four. + + + + + THE NEW "ULALUME." + + + The skies they were ashen and sober, + The leaves they were crisped and sere,-- + " " " withering " " + It was night in the lonesome October + Of my most immemorial year; + It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,-- + " " down " " dark tarn " " + In the misty mid region of Weir,-- + " " ghoul-haunted woodland " " + + + + + CONSOLATION. + + + Little's the good to sit and grieve + Because the serpent tempted Eve. + Better to wipe your eyes and take + A club and go out and kill a snake. + + What do you gain by cursing Nick + For playing her such a scurvy trick? + Better go out and some villain find + Who serves the devil, and beat him blind. + + But if you prefer, as I suspect, + To philosophize, why, then, reflect: + If the cunning rascal upon the limb + Hadn't tempted her she'd have tempted him. + + + + + FATE. + + + Alas, alas, for the tourist's guide!-- + He turned from the beaten trail aside, + Wandered bewildered, lay down and died. + + O grim is the Irony of Fate: + It switches the man of low estate + And loosens the dogs upon the great. + + It lights the fireman to roast the cook; + The fisherman squirms upon the hook, + And the flirt is slain with a tender look. + + The undertaker it overtakes; + It saddles the cavalier, and makes + The haughtiest butcher into steaks. + + Assist me, gods, to balk the decree! + Nothing I'll do and nothing I'll be, + In order that nothing be done to me. + + + + + PHILOSOPHER BIMM. + + + Republicans think Jonas Bimm + A Democrat gone mad, + And Democrats consider him + Republican and bad. + + The Tough reviles him as a Dude + And gives it him right hot; + The Dude condemns his crassitude + And calls him _sans culottes._ + + Derided as an Anglophile + By Anglophobes, forsooth, + As Anglophobe he feels, the while, + The Anglophilic tooth. + + The Churchman calls him Atheist; + The Atheists, rough-shod, + Have ridden o'er him long and hissed + "The wretch believes in God!" + + The Saints whom clergymen we call + Would kill him if they could; + The Sinners (scientists and all) + Complain that he is good. + + All men deplore the difference + Between themselves and him, + And all devise expedients + For paining Jonas Bimm. + + I too, with wild demoniac glee, + Would put out both his eyes; + For Mr. Bimm appears to me + Insufferably wise! + + + + + REMINDED. + + + Beneath my window twilight made + Familiar mysteries of shade. + Faint voices from the darkening down + Were calling vaguely to the town. + Intent upon a low, far gleam + That burned upon the world's extreme, + I sat, with short reprieve from grief, + And turned the volume, leaf by leaf, + Wherein a hand, long dead, had wrought + A million miracles of thought. + My fingers carelessly unclung + The lettered pages, and among + Them wandered witless, nor divined + The wealth in which, poor fools, they mined. + The soul that should have led their quest + Was dreaming in the level west, + Where a tall tower, stark and still, + Uplifted on a distant hill, + Stood lone and passionless to claim + Its guardian star's returning flame. + + I know not how my dream was broke, + But suddenly my spirit woke + Filled with a foolish fear to look + Upon the hand that clove the book, + Significantly pointing; next + I bent attentive to the text, + And read--and as I read grew old-- + The mindless words: "Poor Tom's a-cold!" + + Ah me! to what a subtle touch + The brimming cup resigns its clutch + Upon the wine. Dear God, is 't writ + That hearts their overburden bear + Of bitterness though thou permit + The pranks of Chance, alurk in nooks, + And striking coward blows from books, + And dead hands reaching everywhere? + + + + + SALVINI IN AMERICA. + + + Come, gentlemen--your gold. + Thanks: welcome to the show. + To hear a story told + In words you do not know. + + Now, great Salvini, rise + And thunder through your tears, + Aha! friends, let your eyes + Interpret to your ears. + + Gods! 't is a goodly game. + Observe his stride--how grand! + When legs like his declaim + Who can misunderstand? + + See how that arm goes round. + It says, as plain as day: + "I love," "The lost is found," + "Well met, sir," or, "Away!" + + And mark the drawing down + Of brows. How accurate + The language of that frown: + Pain, gentlemen--or hate. + + Those of the critic trade + Swear it is all as clear + As if his tongue were made + To fit an English ear. + + Hear that Italian phrase! + Greek to your sense, 't is true; + But shrug, expression, gaze-- + Well, they are Grecian too. + + But it is Art! God wot + Its tongue to all is known. + Faith! he to whom 't were not + Would better hold his own. + + Shakespeare says act and word + Must match together true. + From what you've seen and heard, + How can you doubt they do? + + Enchanting drama! Mark + The crowd "from pit to dome", + One box alone is dark-- + The prompter stays at home. + + Stupendous artist! You + Are lord of joy and woe: + We thrill if you say "Boo," + And thrill if you say "Bo." + + + + + ANOTHER WAY. + + + I lay in silence, dead. A woman came + And laid a rose upon my breast and said: + "May God be merciful." She spoke my name, + And added: "It is strange to think him dead. + + "He loved me well enough, but 't was his way + To speak it lightly." Then, beneath her breath: + "Besides"--I knew what further she would say, + But then a footfall broke my dream of death. + + To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose + Upon her breast, and speak her name and deem + It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows + I had more pleasure in the other dream. + + + + + ART. + + + For Gladstone's portrait five thousand pounds + Were paid, 't is said, to Sir John Millais. + I cannot help thinking that such fine pay + Transcended reason's uttermost bounds. + + For it seems to me uncommonly queer + That a painted British stateman's price + Exceeds the established value thrice + Of a living statesman over here. + + + + + AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER. + + + A is defrauded of his land by B, + Who's driven from the premises by C. + D buys the place with coin of plundered E. + "That A's an Anarchist!" says F to G. + + + + + TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY. + + + When at your window radiant you've stood + I've sometimes thought--forgive me if I've erred-- + That some slight thought of me perhaps has stirred + Your heart to beat less gently than it should. + I know you beautiful; that you are good + I hope--or fear--I cannot choose the word, + Nor rightly suit it to the thought. I've heard + Reason at love's dictation never could. + Blindly to this dilemma so I grope, + As one whose every pathway has a snare: + If you are minded in the saintly fashion + Of your pure face my passion's without hope; + If not, alas! I equally despair, + For what to me were hope without the passion? + + + + + THE DEBTOR ABROAD. + + + Grief for an absent lover, husband, friend, + Is barely felt before it comes to end: + A score of early consolations serve + To modify its mouth's dejected curve. + But woes of creditors when debtors flee + Forever swell the separating sea. + When standing on an alien shore you mark + The steady course of some intrepid bark, + How sweet to think a tear for you abides, + Not all unuseful, in the wave she rides!-- + That sighs for you commingle in the gale + Beneficently bellying her sail! + + + + + FORESIGHT. + + + An "actors' cemetery"! Sure + The devil never tires + Of planning places to procure + The sticks to feed his fires. + + + + + A FAIR DIVISION. + + + Another Irish landlord gone to grass, + Slain by the bullets of the tenant class! + Pray, good agrarians, what wrong requires + Such foul redress? Between you and the squires + All Ireland's parted with an even hand-- + For you have all the ire, they all the land. + + + + + GENESIS. + + + God said: "Let there be Man," and from the clay + Adam came forth and, thoughtful, walked away. + The matrix whence his body was obtained, + An empty, man-shaped cavity, remained + All unregarded from that early time + Till in a recent storm it filled with slime. + Now Satan, envying the Master's power + To make the meat himself could but devour, + Strolled to the place and, standing by the pool, + Exerted all his will to make a fool. + A miracle!--from out that ancient hole + Rose Morehouse, lacking nothing but a soul. + "To give him that I've not the power divine," + Said Satan, sadly, "but I'll lend him mine." + He breathed it into him, a vapor black, + And to this day has never got it back. + + + + + LIBERTY. + + + "'Let there be Liberty!' God said, and, lo! + The red skies all were luminous. The glow + Struck first Columbia's kindling mountain peaks + One hundred and eleven years ago!" + + So sang a patriot whom once I saw + Descending Bunker's holy hill. With awe + I noted that he shone with sacred light, + Like Moses with the tables of the Law. + + One hundred and eleven years? O small + And paltry period compared with all + The tide of centuries that flowed and ebbed + To etch Yosemite's divided wall! + + Ah, Liberty, they sing you always young + Whose harps are in your adoration strung + (Each swears you are his countrywoman, too, + And speak no language but his mother tongue). + + And truly, lass, although with shout and horn + Man has all-hailed you from creation's morn, + I cannot think you old--I think, indeed, + You are by twenty centuries unborn. + + 1886. + + + + + THE PASSING OF "BOSS" SHEPHERD. + + + The sullen church-bell's intermittent moan, + The dirge's melancholy monotone, + The measured march, the drooping flags, attest + A great man's progress to his place of rest. + Along broad avenues himself decreed + To serve his fellow men's disputed need-- + Past parks he raped away from robbers' thrift + And gave to poverty, wherein to lift + Its voice to curse the giver and the gift-- + Past noble structures that he reared for men + To meet in and revile him, tongue and pen, + Draws the long retinue of death to show + The fit credentials of a proper woe. + + "Boss" Shepherd, you are dead. Your hand no more + Throws largess to the mobs that ramp and roar + For blood of benefactors who disdain + Their purity of purpose to explain, + Their righteous motive and their scorn of gain. + Your period of dream--'twas but a breath-- + Is closed in the indifference of death. + Sealed in your silences, to you alike + If hands are lifted to applaud or strike. + No more to your dull, inattentive ear + Praise of to-day than curse of yesteryear. + From the same lips the honied phrases fall + That still are bitter from cascades of gall. + We note the shame; you in your depth of dark + The red-writ testimony cannot mark + On every honest cheek; your senses all + Locked, _incommunicado_, in your pall, + Know not who sit and blush, who stand and bawl. + + "Seven Grecian cities claim great Homer dead, + Through which the living Homer begged his + bread." + So sang, as if the thought had been his own, + An unknown bard, improving on a known. + "Neglected genius!"--that is sad indeed, + But malice better would ignore than heed, + And Shepherd's soul, we rightly may suspect, + Prayed often for the mercy of neglect + When hardly did he dare to leave his door + Without a guard behind him and before + To save him from the gentlemen that now + In cheap and easy reparation bow + Their corrigible heads above his corse + To counterfeit a grief that's half remorse. + + The pageant passes and the exile sleeps, + And well his tongue the solemn secret keeps + Of the great peace he found afar, until, + Death's writ of extradition to fulfill, + They brought him, helpless, from that friendly zone + To be a show and pastime in his own-- + A final opportunity to those + Who fling with equal aim the stone and rose; + That at the living till his soul is freed, + This at the body to conceal the deed! + + Lone on his hill he's lying to await + What added honors may befit his state-- + The monument, the statue, or the arch + (Where knaves may come to weep and dupes to march) + Builded by clowns to brutalize the scenes + His genius beautified. To get the means, + His newly good traducers all are dunned + For contributions to the conscience fund. + If each subscribe (and pay) one cent 'twill rear + A structure taller than their tallest ear. + + Washington, May 4, 1903. + + + + + TO MAUDE. + + + Not as two errant spheres together grind + With monstrous ruin in the vast of space, + Destruction born of that malign embrace, + Their hapless peoples all to death consigned-- + Not so when our intangible worlds of mind, + Even mine and yours, each with its spirit race + Of beings shadowy in form and face, + Shall drift together on some blessed wind. + No, in that marriage of gloom and light + All miracles of beauty shall be wrought, + Attesting a diviner faith than man's; + For all my sad-eyed daughters of the night + Shall smile on your sweet seraphim of thought, + Nor any jealous god forbid the banns. + + + + + THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE. + + + When, long ago, the young world circling flew + Through wider reaches of a richer blue, + New-eyed, the men and maids saw, manifest, + The thoughts untold in one another's breast: + Each wish displayed, and every passion learned-- + A look revealed them as a look discerned. + But sating Time with clouds o'ercast their eyes; + Desire was hidden, and the lips framed lies. + A goddess then, emerging from the dust, + Fair Virtue rose, the daughter of Distrust. + + + + + STONEMAN IN HEAVEN. + + + The Seraphs came to Christ, and said: "Behold! + The man, presumptuous and overbold, + Who boasted that his mercy could excel + Thine own, is dead and on his way to Hell." + + Gravely the Saviour asked: "What did he do + To make his impious assertion true?" + + "He was a Governor, releasing all + The vilest felons ever held in thrall. + No other mortal, since the dawn of time, + Has ever pardoned such a mass of crime!" + + Christ smiled benignly on the Seraphim: + "Yet I am victor, for I pardon _him_." + + + + + THE SCURRIL PRESS. + + TOM JONESMITH _(loquitur)_: I've slept right through + The night--a rather clever thing to do. + How soundly women sleep _(looks at his wife.)_ + They're all alike. The sweetest thing in life + Is woman when she lies with folded tongue, + Its toil completed and its day-song sung. + (_Thump_) That's the morning paper. What a bore + That it should be delivered at the door. + There ought to be some expeditious way + To get it _to_ one. By this long delay + The fizz gets off the news _(a rap is heard)_. + That's Jane, the housemaid; she's an early bird; + She's brought it to the bedroom door, good soul. + _(Gets up and takes it in.)_ Upon the whole + The system's not so bad a one. What's here? + Gad, if they've not got after--listen dear + _(To sleeping wife)_--young Gastrotheos! Well, + If Freedom shrieked when Kosciusko fell + She'll shriek again--with laughter--seeing how + They treated Gast. with her. Yet I'll allow + 'T is right if he goes dining at The Pup + With Mrs. Thing. + + WIFE _(briskly, waking up)_: + With her? The hussy! Yes, it serves him right. + + JONESMITH (_continuing to "seek the light"_): + What's this about old Impycu? That's good! + Grip--that's the funny man--says Impy should + Be used as a decoy in shooting tramps. + I knew old Impy when he had the "stamps" + To buy us all out, and he wasn't then + So bad a chap to have about. Grip's pen + Is just a tickler!--and the world, no doubt, + Is better with it than it was without. + What? thirteen ladies--Jumping Jove! we know + Them nearly all!--who gamble at a low + And very shocking game of cards called "draw"! + O cracky, how they'll squirm! ha-ha! haw-haw! + Let's see what else (_wife snores_). Well, I'll be blest! + A woman doesn't understand a jest. + Hello! What, what? the scurvy wretch proceeds + To take a fling at _me_, condemn him! (_reads_): + Tom Jonesmith--my name's Thomas, vulgar cad!--_Of + the new Shavings Bank_--the man's gone mad! + That's libelous; I'll have him up for that--_Has + had his corns cut_. Devil take the rat! + What business is 't of his, I'd like to know? + He didn't have to cut them. Gods! what low + And scurril things our papers have become! + You skim their contents and you get but scum. + Here, Mary, (_waking wife_) I've been attacked + In this vile sheet. By Jove, it is a fact! + + WIFE (_reading it_): How wicked! Who do you + Suppose 't was wrote it? + + JONESMITH: Who? why, who + But Grip, the so-called funny man--he wrote + Me up because I'd not discount his note. + (_Blushes like sunset at the hideous lie-- + He'll think of one that's better by and by-- + Throws down the paper on the floor, and treads + A lively measure on it--kicks the shreds + And patches all about the room, and still + Performs his jig with unabated will._) + + WIFE (_warbling sweetly, like an Elfland horn_): + Dear, do be careful of that second corn. + + STANLEY. + Noting some great man's composition vile: + A head of wisdom and a heart of guile, + A will to conquer and a soul to dare, + Joined to the manners of a dancing bear, + Fools unaccustomed to the wide survey + Of various Nature's compensating sway, + Untaught to separate the wheat and chaff, + To praise the one and at the other laugh, + Yearn all in vain and impotently seek + Some flawless hero upon whom to wreak + The sycophantic worship of the weak. + Not so the wise, from superstition free, + Who find small pleasure in the bended knee; + Quick to discriminate 'twixt good and bad, + And willing in the king to find the cad-- + No reason seen why genius and conceit, + The power to dazzle and the will to cheat, + The love of daring and the love of gin, + Should not dwell, peaceful, in a single skin. + To such, great Stanley, you're a hero still, + Despite your cradling in a tub for swill. + Your peasant manners can't efface the mark + Of light you drew across the Land of Dark. + + In you the extremes of character are wed, + To serve the quick and villify the dead. + Hero and clown! O, man of many sides, + The Muse of Truth adores you and derides, + And sheds, impartial, the revealing ray + Upon your head of gold and feet of clay. + + + + + ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX. + + + She stood at the ticket-seller's + Serenely removing her glove, + While hundreds of strugglers and yellers, + And some that were good at a shove, + Were clustered behind her like bats in + a cave and unwilling to speak their love. + + At night she still stood at that window + Endeavoring her money to reach; + The crowds right and left, how they sinned--O, + How dreadfully sinned in their speech! + Ten miles either way they extended + their lines, the historians teach. + + She stands there to-day--legislation + Has failed to remove her. The trains + No longer pull up at that station; + And over the ghastly remains + Of the army that waited and died of + old age fall the snows and the rains. + + + + + THE LORD'S PRAYER ON A COIN. + + + Upon this quarter-eagle's leveled face, + The Lord's Prayer, legibly inscribed, I trace. + "Our Father which"--the pronoun there is funny, + And shows the scribe to have addressed the money-- + "Which art in Heaven"--an error this, no doubt: + The preposition should be stricken out. + Needless to quote; I only have designed + To praise the frankness of the pious mind + Which thought it natural and right to join, + With rare significancy, prayer and coin. + + + + + A LACKING FACTOR. + + + "You acted unwisely," I cried, "as you see + By the outcome." He calmly eyed me: + "When choosing the course of my action," said he, + "I had not the outcome to guide me." + + + + + THE ROYAL JESTER. + + + Once on a time, so ancient poets sing, + There reigned in Godknowswhere a certain king. + So great a monarch ne'er before was seen: + He was a hero, even to his queen, + In whose respect he held so high a place + That none was higher,--nay, not even the ace. + He was so just his Parliament declared + Those subjects happy whom his laws had spared; + So wise that none of the debating throng + Had ever lived to prove him in the wrong; + So good that Crime his anger never feared, + And Beauty boldly plucked him by the beard; + So brave that if his army got a beating + None dared to face him when he was retreating. + This monarch kept a Fool to make his mirth, + And loved him tenderly despite his worth. + Prompted by what caprice I cannot say, + He called the Fool before the throne one day + And to that jester seriously said: + "I'll abdicate, and you shall reign instead, + While I, attired in motley, will make sport + To entertain your Majesty and Court." + + 'T was done and the Fool governed. He decreed + The time of harvest and the time of seed; + Ordered the rains and made the weather clear, + And had a famine every second year; + Altered the calendar to suit his freak, + Ordaining six whole holidays a week; + Religious creeds and sacred books prepared; + Made war when angry and made peace when scared. + New taxes he inspired; new laws he made; + Drowned those who broke them, who observed them, flayed, + In short, he ruled so well that all who'd not + Been starved, decapitated, hanged or shot + Made the whole country with his praises ring, + Declaring he was every inch a king; + And the High Priest averred 't was very odd + If one so competent were not a god. + + Meantime, his master, now in motley clad, + Wore such a visage, woeful, wan and sad, + That some condoled with him as with a brother + Who, having lost a wife, had got another. + Others, mistaking his profession, often + Approached him to be measured for a coffin. + For years this highborn jester never broke + The silence--he was pondering a joke. + At last, one day, in cap-and-bells arrayed, + He strode into the Council and displayed + A long, bright smile, that glittered in the gloom + Like a gilt epithet within a tomb. + Posing his bauble like a leader's staff, + To give the signal when (and why) to laugh, + He brought it down with peremptory stroke + And simultaneously cracked his joke! + + I can't repeat it, friends. I ne'er could school + Myself to quote from any other fool: + A jest, if it were worse than mine, would start + My tears; if better, it would break my heart. + So, if you please, I'll hold you but to state + That royal Jester's melancholy fate. + + The insulted nation, so the story goes, + Rose as one man--the very dead arose, + Springing indignant from the riven tomb, + And babes unborn leapt swearing from the womb! + All to the Council Chamber clamoring went, + By rage distracted and on vengeance bent. + In that vast hall, in due disorder laid, + The tools of legislation were displayed, + And the wild populace, its wrath to sate, + Seized them and heaved them at the Jester's pate. + Mountains of writing paper; pools and seas + Of ink, awaiting, to become decrees, + Royal approval--and the same in stacks + Lay ready for attachment, backed with wax; + Pens to make laws, erasers to amend them; + With mucilage convenient to extend them; + Scissors for limiting their application, + And acids to repeal all legislation-- + These, flung as missiles till the air was dense, + Were most offensive weapons of offense, + And by their aid the Fool was nigh destroyed. + They ne'er had been so harmlessly employed. + Whelmed underneath a load of legal cap, + His mouth egurgitating ink on tap, + His eyelids mucilaginously sealed, + His fertile head by scissors made to yield + Abundant harvestage of ears, his pelt, + In every wrinkle and on every welt, + Quickset with pencil-points from feet to gills + And thickly studded with a pride of quills, + The royal Jester in the dreadful strife + Was made (in short) an editor for life! + + An idle tale, and yet a moral lurks + In this as plainly as in greater works. + I shall not give it birth: one moral here + Would die of loneliness within a year. + + + + + A CAREER IN LETTERS. + + + When Liberverm resigned the chair + Of This or That in college, where + For two decades he'd gorged his brain + With more than it could well contain, + In order to relieve the stress + He took to writing for the press. + Then Pondronummus said, "I'll help + This mine of talent to devel'p;" + And straightway bought with coin and credit + The _Thundergust_ for him to edit. + + The great man seized the pen and ink + And wrote so hard he couldn't think; + Ideas grew beneath his fist + And flew like falcons from his wrist. + His pen shot sparks all kinds of ways + Till all the rivers were ablaze, + And where the coruscations fell + Men uttered words I dare not spell. + + Eftsoons with corrugated brow, + Wet towels bound about his pow, + Locked legs and failing appetite, + He thought so hard he couldn't write. + His soaring fancies, chickenwise, + Came home to roost and wouldn't rise. + With dimmer light and milder heat + His goose-quill staggered o'er the sheet, + Then dragged, then stopped; the finish came-- + He couldn't even write his name. + The _Thundergust_ in three short weeks + Had risen, roared, and split its cheeks. + Said Pondronummus, "How unjust! + The storm I raised has laid my dust!" + + When, Moneybagger, you have aught + Invested in a vein of thought, + Be sure you've purchased not, instead, + That salted claim, a bookworm's head. + + + + + THE FOLLOWING PAIR. + + + O very remarkable mortal, + What food is engaging your jaws + And staining with amber their portal? + "It's 'baccy I chaws." + + And why do you sway in your walking, + To right and left many degrees, + And hitch up your trousers when talking? + "I follers the seas." + + Great indolent shark in the rollers, + Is "'baccy," too, one of your faults?-- + You, too, display maculate molars. + "I dines upon salts." + + Strange diet!--intestinal pain it + Is commonly given to nip. + And how can you ever obtain it? + "I follers the ship." + + + + + POLITICAL ECONOMY. + + + "I beg you to note," said a Man to a Goose, + As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose, + "That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds + As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads, + Increase of life's comforts the general sum-- + Which raises the standard of living." "Come, come," + The Goose said, impatiently, "tell me or cease, + How that is of any advantage to geese." + "What, what!" said the man--"you are very obtuse! + Consumption no profit to those who produce? + No good to accrue to Supply from a grand + Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand? + Luxurious habits no benefit bring + To those who purvey the luxurious thing? + Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth + Of luxury promises--" "Promises," quoth + The sufferer, "what?--to what course is it pledged + To pay me for being so often defledged?" + "Accustomed"--this notion the plucker expressed + As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast-- + "To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn + For others and ever for others in turn; + And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest, + His mutton or bacon or beef to digest, + His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage + By dining on goose with a dressing of sage." + + + + + VANISHED AT COCK-CROW. + + + "I've found the secret of your charm," I said, + Expounding with complacency my guess. + Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled, + For all its secret was unconsciousness. + + + + + THE UNPARDONABLE SIN. + + + I reckon that ye never knew, + That dandy slugger, Tom Carew, + He had a touch as light an' free + As that of any honey-bee; + But where it lit there wasn't much + To jestify another touch. + O, what a Sunday-school it was + To watch him puttin' up his paws + An' roominate upon their heft-- + Particular his holy left! + Tom was my style--that's all I say; + Some others may be equal gay. + What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure-- + He's dead--which make his fate obscure. + I only started in to clear + One vital p'int in his career, + Which is to say--afore he died + He soiled his erming mighty snide. + Ye see he took to politics + And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks; + Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, + Just like he was the President; + Went to the Legislator; spoke + Right out agin the British yoke-- + But that was right. He let his hair + Grow long to qualify for Mayor, + An' once or twice he poked his snoot + In Congress like a low galoot! + It had to come--no gent can hope + To wrastle God agin the rope. + Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, + I s'pose it oughtn't to be said, + For sech inikities as flow + From politics ain't fit to know; + But, if you think it's actin' white + To tell it--Thomas throwed a fight! + + + + + INDUSTRIAL DISCONTENT. + + + As time rolled on the whole world came to be + A desolation and a darksome curse; + And some one said: "The changes that you see + In the fair frame of things, from bad to worse, + Are wrought by strikes. The sun withdrew his glimmer + Because the moon assisted with her shimmer. + + "Then, when poor Luna, straining very hard, + Doubled her light to serve a darkling world, + He called her 'scab,' and meanly would retard + Her rising: and at last the villain hurled + A heavy beam which knocked her o'er the Lion + Into the nebula of great O'Ryan. + + "The planets all had struck some time before, + Demanding what they said were equal rights: + Some pointing out that others had far more + That a fair dividend of satellites. + So all went out--though those the best provided, + If they had dared, would rather have abided. + + "The stars struck too--I think it was because + The comets had more liberty than they, + And were not bound by any hampering laws, + While _they_ were fixed; and there are those who say + The comets' tresses nettled poor Altair, + An aged orb that hasn't any hair. + + "The earth's the only one that isn't in + The movement--I suppose because she's watched + With horror and disgust how her fair skin + Her pranking parasites have fouled and blotched + With blood and grease in every labor riot, + When seeing any purse or throat to fly at." + + + + + TEMPORA MUTANTUR. + + + "The world is dull," I cried in my despair: + "Its myths and fables are no longer fair. + + "Roll back thy centuries, O Father Time. + To Greece transport me in her golden prime. + + "Give back the beautiful old Gods again-- + The sportive Nymphs, the Dryad's jocund train, + + "Pan piping on his reeds, the Naiades, + The Sirens singing by the sleepy seas. + + "Nay, show me but a Gorgon and I'll dare + To lift mine eyes to her peculiar hair + + "(The fatal horrors of her snaky pate, + That stiffen men into a stony state) + + "And die--erecting, as my soul goes hence, + A statue of myself, without expense." + + Straight as I spoke I heard the voice of Fate: + "Look up, my lad, the Gorgon sisters wait." + + Raising my eyes, I saw Medusa stand, + Stheno, Euryale, on either hand. + + I gazed unpetrified and unappalled-- + The girls had aged and were entirely bald! + + + + + CONTENTMENT. + + + Sleep fell upon my senses and I dreamed + Long years had circled since my life had fled. + The world was different, and all things seemed + Remote and strange, like noises to the dead. + And one great Voice there was; and something said: + "Posterity is speaking--rightly deemed + Infallible:" and so I gave attention, + Hoping Posterity my name would mention. + + "Illustrious Spirit," said the Voice, "appear! + While we confirm eternally thy fame, + Before our dread tribunal answer, here, + Why do no statues celebrate thy name, + No monuments thy services proclaim? + Why did not thy contemporaries rear + To thee some schoolhouse or memorial college? + It looks almighty queer, you must acknowledge." + + Up spake I hotly: "That is where you err!" + But some one thundered in my ear: "You shan't + Be interrupting these proceedings, sir; + The question was addressed to General Grant." + Some other things were spoken which I can't + Distinctly now recall, but I infer, + By certain flushings of my cheeks and forehead, + Posterity's environment is torrid. + + Then heard I (this was in a dream, remark) + Another Voice, clear, comfortable, strong, + As Grant's great shade, replying from the dark, + Said in a tone that rang the earth along, + And thrilled the senses of the Judges' throng: + "I'd rather you would question why, in park + And street, my monuments were not erected + Than why they were." Then, waking, I reflected. + + + + + THE NEW ENOCH. + + + Enoch Arden was an able + Seaman; hear of his mishap-- + Not in wild mendacious fable, + As 't was told by t' other chap; + + For I hold it is a youthful + Indiscretion to tell lies, + And the writer that is truthful + Has the reader that is wise. + + Enoch Arden, able seaman, + On an isle was cast away, + And before he was a freeman + Time had touched him up with gray. + + Long he searched the fair horizon, + Seated on a mountain top; + Vessel ne'er he set his eyes on + That would undertake to stop. + + Seeing that his sight was growing + Dim and dimmer, day by day, + Enoch said he must be going. + So he rose and went away-- + + Went away and so continued + Till he lost his lonely isle: + Mr. Arden was so sinewed + He could row for many a mile. + + Compass he had not, nor sextant, + To direct him o'er the sea: + Ere 't was known that he was extant, + At his widow's home was he. + + When he saw the hills and hollows + And the streets he could but know, + He gave utterance as follows + To the sentiments below: + + "Blast my tarry toplights! (shiver, + Too, my timbers!) but, I say, + W'at a larruk to diskiver, + I have lost me blessid way! + + "W'at, alas, would be my bloomin' + Fate if Philip now I see, + Which I lammed?--or my old 'oman, + Which has frequent basted _me_?" + + Scenes of childhood swam around him + At the thought of such a lot: + In a swoon his Annie found him + And conveyed him to her cot. + + 'T was the very house, the garden, + Where their honeymoon was passed: + 'T was the place where Mrs. Arden + Would have mourned him to the last. + + Ah, what grief she'd known without him! + Now what tears of joy she shed! + Enoch Arden looked about him: + "Shanghaied!"--that was all he said. + + + + + DISAVOWAL. + + + Two bodies are lying in Phoenix Park, + Grim and bloody and stiff and stark, + And a Land League man with averted eye + Crosses himself as he hurries by. + And he says to his conscience under his breath: + "I have had no hand in this deed of death!" + + A Fenian, making a circuit wide + And passing them by on the other side, + Shudders and crosses himself and cries: + "Who says that I did it, he lies, he lies!" + + Gingerly stepping across the gore, + Pat Satan comes after the two before, + Makes, in a solemnly comical way, + The sign of the cross and is heard to say: + "O dear, what a terrible sight to see, + For babes like them and a saint like me!" + + 1882. + + + + + AN AVERAGE. + + + I ne'er could be entirely fond + Of any maiden who's a blonde, + And no brunette that e'er I saw + Had charms my heart's whole + warmth to draw. + + Yet sure no girl was ever made + Just half of light and half of shade. + And so, this happy mean to get, + I love a blonde and a brunette. + + + + + WOMAN. + + + Study good women and ignore the rest, + For he best knows the sex who knows the best. + + + + + INCURABLE. + + + From pride, joy, hate, greed, melancholy-- + From any kind of vice, or folly, + Bias, propensity or passion + That is in prevalence and fashion, + Save one, the sufferer or lover + May, by the grace of God, recover: + Alone that spiritual tetter, + The zeal to make creation better, + Glows still immedicably warmer. + Who knows of a reformed reformer? + + + + + THE PUN. + + + Hail, peerless Pun! thou last and best, + Most rare and excellent bequest + Of dying idiot to the wit + He died of, rat-like, in a pit! + + Thyself disguised, in many a way + Thou let'st thy sudden splendor play, + Adorning all where'er it turns, + As the revealing bull's-eye burns, + Of the dim thief, and plays its trick + Upon the lock he means to pick. + + Yet sometimes, too, thou dost appear + As boldly as a brigadier + Tricked out with marks and signs, all o'er, + Of rank, brigade, division, corps, + To show by every means he can + An officer is not a man; + Or naked, with a lordly swagger, + Proud as a cur without a wagger, + Who says: "See simple worth prevail-- + All dog, sir--not a bit of tail!" + + 'T is then men give thee loudest welcome, + As if thou wert a soul from Hell come. + + O obvious Pun! thou hast the grace + Of skeleton clock without a case-- + With all its boweling displayed, + And all its organs on parade. + + Dear Pun, you're common ground of bliss, + Where _Punch_ and I can meet and kiss; + Than thee my wit can stoop no low'r-- + No higher his does ever soar. + + + + + A PARTISAN'S PROTEST. + + + O statesmen, what would you be at, + With torches, flags and bands? + You make me first throw up my hat, + And then my hands. + + + + + TO NANINE. + + + Dear, if I never saw your face again; + If all the music of your voice were mute + As that of a forlorn and broken lute; + If only in my dreams I might attain + The benediction of your touch, how vain + Were Faith to justify the old pursuit + Of happiness, or Reason to confute + The pessimist philosophy of pain. + Yet Love not altogether is unwise, + For still the wind would murmur in the corn, + And still the sun would splendor all the mere; + And I--I could not, dearest, choose but hear + Your voice upon the breeze and see your eyes + Shine in the glory of the summer morn. + + + + + VICE VERSA. + + + Down in the state of Maine, the story goes, + A woman, to secure a lapsing pension, + Married a soldier--though the good Lord knows + That very common act scarce calls for mention. + What makes it worthy to be writ and read-- + The man she married had been nine hours dead! + + Now, marrying a corpse is not an act + Familiar to our daily observation, + And so I crave her pardon if the fact + Suggests this interesting speculation: + Should some mischance restore the man to life + Would she be then a widow, or a wife? + + Let casuists contest the point; I'm not + Disposed to grapple with so great a matter. + 'T would tie my thinker in a double knot + And drive me staring mad as any hatter-- + Though I submit that hatters are, in fact, + Sane, and all other human beings cracked. + + Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance; + Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention; + In metaphysics I could ne'er advance, + And think it of the Devil's own invention. + Enough of joy to know though when I wed + I _must_ be married, yet I _may_ be dead. + + + + + A BLACK-LIST. + + + "Resolved that we will post," the tradesmen say, + "All names of debtors who do never pay." + "Whose shall be first?" inquires the ready scribe-- + "Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?" + Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain, + Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane! + Within that temple all the names are scrolled + Of village bards upon a slab of gold; + To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire, + And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire. + Yet not to total shame those names devote, + But add in mercy this explaining note: + "These cheat because the law makes theft a crime, + And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme." + + + + + A BEQUEST TO MUSIC. + + + "Let music flourish!" So he said and died. + Hark! ere he's gone the minstrelsy begins: + The symphonies ascend, a swelling tide, + Melodious thunders fill the welkin wide-- + The grand old lawyers, chinning on their chins! + + + + + AUTHORITY. + + + "Authority, authority!" they shout + Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt, + Some chance opinion ever entertain, + By dogma billeted upon their brain. + "Ha!" they exclaim with choreatic glee, + "Here's Dabster if you won't give in to me-- + Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look + With reverence!" The fellow wrote a book. + It matters not that many another wight + Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write + On t' other side--that you yourself possess + Knowledge where Dabster did but faintly guess. + God help you if ambitious to persuade + The fools who take opinion ready-made + And "recognize authorities." Be sure + No tittle of their folly they'll abjure + For all that you can say. But write it down, + Publish and die and get a great renown-- + Faith! how they'll snap it up, misread, misquote, + Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote, + And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat! + + + + + THE PSORIAD. + + + The King of Scotland, years and years ago, + Convened his courtiers in a gallant row + And thus addressed them: + + "Gentle sirs, from you + Abundant counsel I have had, and true: + What laws to make to serve the public weal; + What laws of Nature's making to repeal; + What old religion is the only true one, + And what the greater merit of some new one; + What friends of yours my favor have forgot; + Which of your enemies against me plot. + In harvests ample to augment my treasures, + Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures! + The punctual planets, to their periods just, + Attest your wisdom and approve my trust. + Lo! the reward your shining virtues bring: + The grateful placemen bless their useful king! + But while you quaff the nectar of my favor + I mean somewhat to modify its flavor + By just infusing a peculiar dash + Of tonic bitter in the calabash. + And should you, too abstemious, disdain it, + Egad! I'll hold your noses till you drain it! + + "You know, you dogs, your master long has felt + A keen distemper in the royal pelt-- + A testy, superficial irritation, + Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation. + For this a thousand simples you've prescribed-- + Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed. + You've plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas + You've ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides, + To brew me remedies which, in probation, + Were sovereign only in their application. + In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied + Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide: + Physic and hope have been my daily food-- + I've swallowed treacle by the holy rood! + + "Your wisdom, which sufficed to guide the year + And tame the seasons in their mad career, + When set to higher purposes has failed me + And added anguish to the ills that ailed me. + Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech + His rivals' skill has labored to impeach + By hints equivocal in secret speech. + For years, to conquer our respective broils, + We've plied each other with pacific oils. + In vain: your turbulence is unallayed, + My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed; + My life so wretched from your strife to save it + That death were welcome did I dare to brave it. + With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks, + My subjects muster in contending ranks. + Those fling their banners to the startled breeze + To champion some royal ointment; these + The standard of some royal purge display + And 'neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray! + Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea, + Torrents of sweat roll reeking o'er the lea! + My people perish in their martial fear, + And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear! + + "Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour + Your injured sovereign shall assert his power! + Behold this lotion, carefully compound + Of all the poisons you for me have found-- + Of biting washes such as tan the skin, + And drastic drinks to vex the parts within. + What aggravates an ailment will produce-- + I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice! + Divided counsels you no more shall hatch-- + At last you shall unanimously scratch. + Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts--God bless us! + They'll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!" + + The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke, + From Arthur's Seat[1] confirming thunders broke. + The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned, + Sank to their knees, all piously inclined. + This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats, + The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes. + Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts + Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts, + Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses, + Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes. + The king advanced--then cursing fled amain + Dashing the phial to the stony plain + (Where't straight became a fountain brimming o'er, + Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store) + For lo! already on each back _sans_ stitch + The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch! + + [Footnote 1: A famous height overlooking Edinburgh.] + + + + + ONEIROMANCY. + + + I fell asleep and dreamed that I + Was flung, like Vulcan, from the sky; + Like him was lamed--another part: + His leg was crippled and my heart. + I woke in time to see my love + Conceal a letter in her glove. + + + + + PEACE. + + + When lion and lamb have together lain down + Spectators cry out, all in chorus; + "The lamb doesn't shrink nor the lion frown-- + A miracle's working before us!" + + But 't is patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in, + And Faint-heart her terror and loathing; + For the one's but an ass in a lion's skin, + The other a wolf in sheep's clothing. + + + + + THANKSGIVING. + + + _The Superintendent of an Almshouse. A Pauper._ + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + So _you're_ unthankful--you'll not eat the bird? + You sit about the place all day and gird. + I understand you'll not attend the ball + That's to be given to-night in Pauper Hall. + + PAUPER: + + Why, that is true, precisely as you've heard: + I have no teeth and I will eat no bird. + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + Ah! see how good is Providence. Because + Of teeth He has denuded both your jaws + The fowl's made tender; you can overcome it + By suction; or at least--well, you can gum it, + Attesting thus the dictum of the preachers + That Providence is good to all His creatures-- + Turkeys excepted. Come, ungrateful friend, + If our Thanksgiving dinner you'll attend + You shall say grace--ask God to bless at least + The soft and liquid portions of the feast. + + PAUPER. + + Without those teeth my speech is rather thick-- + He'll hardly understand Gum Arabic. + No, I'll not dine to-day. As to the ball, + 'Tis known to you that I've no legs at all. + I had the gout--hereditary; so, + As it could not be cornered in my toe + They cut my legs off in the fond belief + That shortening me would make my anguish brief. + Lacking my legs I could not prosecute + With any good advantage a pursuit; + And so, because my father chose to court + Heaven's favor with his ortolans and Port + (Thanksgiving every day!) the Lord supplied + Saws for my legs, an almshouse for my pride + And, once a year, a bird for my inside. + No, I'll not dance--my light fantastic toe + Took to its heels some twenty years ago. + Some small repairs would be required for putting + My feelings on a saltatory footing. + + _(Sings)_ + + O the legless man's an unhappy chap-- + _Tum-hi, tum-hi, tum-he o'haddy._ + The favors o' fortune fall not in his lap-- + _Tum-hi, tum-heedle-do hum._ + The plums of office avoid his plate + No matter how much he may stump the State-- + _Tum-hi, ho-heeee._ + The grass grows never beneath his feet, + But he cannot hope to make both ends meet-- + _Tum-hi._ + With a gleeless eye and a somber heart, + He plays the role of his mortal part: + Wholly himself he can never be. + O, a soleless corporation is he! + _Tum_. + + SUPERINTENDENT: + + The chapel bell is calling, thankless friend, + Balls you may not, but church you _shall_, attend. + Some recognition cannot be denied + To the great mercy that has turned aside + The sword of death from us and let it fall + Upon the people's necks in Montreal; + That spared our city, steeple, roof and dome, + And drowned the Texans out of house and home; + Blessed all our continent with peace, to flood + The Balkan with a cataclysm of blood. + Compared with blessings of so high degree, + Your private woes look mighty small--to me. + + + + + L'AUDACE. + + + Daughter of God! Audacity divine-- + Of clowns the terror and of brains the sign-- + Not thou the inspirer of the rushing fool, + Not thine of idiots the vocal drool: + Thy bastard sister of the brow of brass, + Presumption, actuates the charging ass. + Sky-born Audacity! of thee who sings + Should strike with freer hand than mine the strings; + The notes should mount on pinions true and strong, + For thou, the subject shouldst sustain the song, + Till angels lean from Heaven, a breathless throng! + Alas! with reeling heads and wavering tails, + They (notes, not angels) drop and the hymn fails; + The minstrel's tender fingers and his thumbs + Are torn to rags upon the lyre he strums. + Have done! the lofty thesis makes demand + For stronger voices and a harder hand: + Night-howling apes to make the notes aspire, + And Poet Riley's fist to slug the rebel wire! + + + + + THE GOD'S VIEW-POINT. + + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Betook him to the place where sat + With folded feet upon a mat + Of precious stones beneath a palm, + In sweet and everlasting calm, + That ancient and immortal gent, + The God of Rational Content. + As tranquil and unmoved as Fate, + The deity reposed in state, + With palm to palm and sole to sole, + And beaded breast and beetling jowl, + And belly spread upon his thighs, + And costly diamonds for eyes. + As Chunder Sen approached and knelt + To show the reverence he felt; + Then beat his head upon the sod + To prove his fealty to the god; + And then by gestures signified + The other sentiments inside; + The god's right eye (as Chunder Sen, + The wisest and the best of men, + Half-fancied) grew by just a thought + More narrow than it truly ought. + Yet still that prince of devotees, + Persistent upon bended knees + And elbows bored into the earth, + Declared the god's exceeding worth, + And begged his favor. Then at last, + Within that cavernous and vast + Thoracic space was heard a sound + Like that of water underground-- + A gurgling note that found a vent + At mouth of that Immortal Gent + In such a chuckle as no ear + Had e'er been privileged to hear! + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The wisest, greatest, best of men, + Heard with a natural surprise + That mighty midriff improvise. + And greater yet the marvel was + When from between those massive jaws + Fell words to make the views more plain + The god was pleased to entertain: + "Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen," + So ran the rede in speech of men-- + "Foremost of mortals in assent + To creed of Rational Content, + Why come you here to impetrate + A blessing on your scurvy pate? + Can you not rationally be + Content without disturbing me? + Can you not take a hint--a wink-- + Of what of all this rot I think? + Is laughter lost upon you quite, + To check you in your pious rite? + What! know you not we gods protest + That all religion is a jest? + You take me seriously?--you + About me make a great ado + (When I but wish to be alone) + With attitudes supine and prone, + With genuflexions and with prayers, + And putting on of solemn airs, + To draw my mind from the survey + Of Rational Content away! + Learn once for all, if learn you can, + This truth, significant to man: + A pious person is by odds + The one most hateful to the gods." + Then stretching forth his great right hand, + Which shadowed all that sunny land, + That deity bestowed a touch + Which Chunder Sen not overmuch + Enjoyed--a touch divine that made + The sufferer hear stars! They played + And sang as on Creation's morn + When spheric harmony was born. + + Cheeta Raibama Chunder Sen, + The most astonished man of men, + Fell straight asleep, and when he woke + The deity nor moved nor spoke, + But sat beneath that ancient palm + In sweet and everlasting calm. + + + + + THE AESTHETES. + + + The lily cranks, the lily cranks, + The loppy, loony lasses! + They multiply in rising ranks + To execute their solemn pranks, + They moon along in masses. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + The maiden ass, the maiden ass, + The tall and tailless jenny! + In limp attire as green as grass, + She stands, a monumental brass, + The one of one too many. + Blow, sweet lily, in the shade! O, + Sunflower decorate the dado! + + + + + JULY FOURTH. + + + God said: "Let there be noise." The dawning fire + Of Independence gilded every spire. + + + + + WITH MINE OWN PETARD. + + + Time was the local poets sang their songs + Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs + I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke + Bards, like the conies, are "a feeble folk," + Fearing all noises but the one they make + Themselves--at which all other mortals quake. + Now from their cracked and disobedient throats, + Like rats from sewers scampering, their notes + Pour forth to move, where'er the season serves, + If not our legs to dance, at least our nerves; + As once a ram's-horn solo maddened all + The sober-minded stones in Jerich's wall. + A year's exemption from the critic's curse + Mends the bard's courage but impairs his verse. + Thus poolside frogs, when croaking in the night, + Are frayed to silence by a meteor's flight, + Or by the sudden plashing of a stone + From some adjacent cottage garden thrown, + But straight renew the song with double din + Whene'er the light goes out or man goes in. + Shall I with arms unbraced (my casque unlatched, + My falchion pawned, my buckler, too, attached) + Resume the cuishes and the broad cuirass, + Accomplishing my body all in brass, + And arm in battle royal to oppose + A village poet singing through the nose, + Or strolling troubadour his lyre who strums + With clumsy hand whose fingers all are thumbs? + No, let them rhyme; I fought them once before + And stilled their songs--but, Satan! how they swore!-- + Cuffed them upon the mouth whene'er their throats + They cleared for action with their sweetest notes; + Twisted their ears (they'd oft tormented mine) + And damned them roundly all along the line; + Clubbed the whole crew from the Parnassian slopes, + A wreck of broken heads and broken hopes! + What gained I so? I feathered every curse + Launched at the village bards with lilting verse. + The town approved and christened me (to show its + High admiration) Chief of Local Poets! + + + + + CONSTANCY. + + + Dull were the days and sober, + The mountains were brown and bare, + For the season was sad October + And a dirge was in the air. + + The mated starlings flew over + To the isles of the southern sea. + She wept for her warrior lover-- + Wept and exclaimed: "Ah, me! + + "Long years have I mourned my darling + In his battle-bed at rest; + And it's O, to be a starling, + With a mate to share my nest!" + + The angels pitied her sorrow, + Restoring her warrior's life; + And he came to her arms on the morrow + To claim her and take her to wife. + + An aged lover--a portly, + Bald lover, a trifle too stiff, + With manners that would have been courtly, + And would have been graceful, if-- + + If the angels had only restored him + Without the additional years + That had passed since the enemy bored him + To death with their long, sharp spears. + + As it was, he bored her, and she rambled + Away with her father's young groom, + And the old lover smiled as he ambled + Contentedly back to the tomb. + + + + + SIRES AND SONS. + + + Wild wanton Luxury lays waste the land + With difficulty tilled by Thrift's hard hand! + Then dies the State!--and, in its carcass found, + The millionaires, all maggot-like, abound. + Alas! was it for this that Warren died, + And Arnold sold himself to t' other side, + Stark piled at Bennington his British dead, + And Gates at Camden, Lee at Monmouth, fled?-- + For this that Perry did the foeman fleece, + And Hull surrender to preserve the peace? + Degenerate countrymen, renounce, I pray, + The slothful ease, the luxury, the gay + And gallant trappings of this idle life, + And be more fit for one another's wife. + + + + + A CHALLENGE. + + + A bull imprisoned in a stall + Broke boldly the confining wall, + And found himself, when out of bounds, + Within a washerwoman's grounds. + Where, hanging on a line to dry, + A crimson skirt inflamed his eye. + With bellowings that woke the dead, + He bent his formidable head, + With pointed horns and gnarly forehead; + Then, planting firm his shoulders horrid, + Began, with rage made half insane, + To paw the arid earth amain, + Flinging the dust upon his flanks + In desolating clouds and banks, + The while his eyes' uneasy white + Betrayed his doubt what foe the bright + Red tent concealed, perchance, from sight. + The garment, which, all undismayed, + Had never paled a single shade, + Now found a tongue--a dangling sock, + Left carelessly inside the smock: + "I must insist, my gracious liege, + That you'll be pleased to raise the siege: + My colors I will never strike. + I know your sex--you're all alike. + Some small experience I've had-- + You're not the first I've driven mad." + + + + + TWO SHOWS. + + + The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!) + Parades a "School of Educated Apes!" + Small education's needed, I opine, + Or native wit, to make a monkey shine; + The brute exhibited has naught to do + But ape the larger apes who come to view-- + The hoodlum with his horrible grimace, + Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace, + Significant reminders of the time + When hunters, not policemen, made him climb; + The lady loafer with her draggling "trail," + That free translation of an ancient tail; + The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit, + Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot; + The painted actress throwing down the gage + To elder artists of the sylvan stage, + Proving that in the time of Noah's flood + Two ape-skins held her whole profession's blood; + The critic waiting, like a hungry pup, + To write the school--perhaps to eat it--up, + As chance or luck occasion may reveal + To earn a dollar or maraud a meal. + To view the school of apes these creatures go, + Unconscious that themselves are half the show. + These, if the simian his course but trim + To copy them as they have copied him, + Will call him "educated." Of a verity + There's much to learn by study of posterity. + + + + + A POET'S HOPE. + + + 'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portal + Of the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead. + He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding, + As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said. + + "Sacred stranger"--I addressed him with a reverence befitting + The austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore; + 'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailing + One who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"-- + + "Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection, + But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread. + How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wander + By the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?" + + Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making, + Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eye + On my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy, + Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply: + + "O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit-- + I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head. + I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortal + To arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed. + + "Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above me + And, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more. + For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me, + Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'" + + Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection, + For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog. + So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor woman + Can appreciate the fashion of your merit--buy a dog." + + + + + THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL. + + + When Man and Woman had been made, + All but the disposition, + The Devil to the workshop strayed, + And somehow gained admission. + + The Master rested from his work, + For this was on a Sunday, + The man was snoring like a Turk, + Content to wait till Monday. + + "Too bad!" the Woman cried; "Oh, why, + Does slumber not benumb me? + A disposition! Oh, I die + To know if 'twill become me!" + + The Adversary said: "No doubt + 'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am, + Though sure 'tis long to be without-- + I beg to lend you mine, ma'am." + + The Devil's disposition when + She'd got, of course she wore it, + For she'd no disposition then, + Nor now has, to restore it. + + + + + TWO ROGUES. + + + Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost, + The sentry occupied his post, + To all the stirrings of the night + Alert of ear and sharp of sight. + A sudden something--sight or sound, + About, above, or underground, + He knew not what, nor where--ensued, + Thrilling the sleeping solitude. + The soldier cried: "Halt! Who goes there?" + The answer came: "Death--in the air." + "Advance, Death--give the countersign, + Or perish if you cross that line!" + To change his tone Death thought it wise-- + Reminded him they 'd been allies + Against the Russ, the Frank, the Turk, + In many a bloody bit of work. + "In short," said he, "in every weather + We've soldiered, you and I, together." + The sentry would not let him pass. + "Go back," he growled, "you tiresome ass-- + Go back and rest till the next war, + Nor kill by methods all abhor: + Miasma, famine, filth and vice, + With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice, + Foul food, foul water, and foul gases, + Rank exhalations from morasses. + If you employ such low allies + This business you will vulgarize. + Renouncing then the field of fame + To wallow in a waste of shame, + I'll prostitute my strength and lurk + About the country doing work-- + These hands to labor I'll devote, + Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!" + + + + + BEECHER. + + + So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too-- + Great as a giant organ is, whose reeds + Hold in them all the souls of all the creeds + That man has ever taught and never knew. + + When on this mighty instrument He laid + His hand Who fashioned it, our common moan + Was suppliant in its thundering. The tone + Grew more vivacious when the Devil played. + + No more those luring harmonies we hear, + And lo! already men forget the sound. + They turn, retracing all the dubious ground + O'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear. + + + + + NOT GUILTY. + + + "I saw your charms in another's arms," + Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil; + "And he kissed you fair as he held you there, + A willing bird in a serpent's coil!" + + The maid looked up from the cinctured cup + Wherein she was crushing the berries red, + Pain and surprise in her honest eyes-- + "It was only one o' those gods," she said. + + + + + PRESENTIMENT. + + + With saintly grace and reverent tread, + She walked among the graves with me; + Her every foot-fall seemed to be + A benediction on the dead. + + The guardian spirit of the place + She seemed, and I some ghost forlorn + Surprised in the untimely morn + She made with her resplendent face. + + Moved by some waywardness of will, + Three paces from the path apart + She stepped and stood--my prescient heart + Was stricken with a passing chill. + + The folk-lore of the years agone + Remembering, I smiled and thought: + "Who shudders suddenly at naught, + His grave is being trod upon." + + But now I know that it was more + Than idle fancy. O, my sweet, + I did not think such little feet + Could make a buried heart so sore! + + + + + A STUDY IN GRAY. + + + I step from the door with a shiver + (This fog is uncommonly cold) + And ask myself: What did I give her?-- + The maiden a trifle gone-old, + With the head of gray hair that was gold. + + Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar, + And doubtless the change is correct, + Though it's odd that it seems so much smaller + Than what I'd a right to expect. + But you pay when you dine, I reflect. + + So I walk up the street--'twas a saunter + A score of years back, when I strolled + From this door; and our talk was all banter + Those days when her hair was of gold, + And the sea-fog less searching and cold. + + I button my coat (for I'm shaken, + And fevered a trifle, and flushed + With the wine that I ought to have taken,) + Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed, + Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed. + + A score? Why, that isn't so very + Much time to have lost from a life. + There's reason enough to be merry: + I've not fallen down in the strife, + But marched with the drum and the fife. + + If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned, + Had pushed at my shoulders instead, + And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned, + Had laureled the worthiest head, + I could garland the years that are dead. + + Believe me, I've held my own, mostly + Through all of this wild masquerade; + But somehow the fog is more ghostly + To-night, and the skies are more grayed, + Like the locks of the restaurant maid. + + If ever I'd fainted and faltered + I'd fancy this did but appear; + But the climate, I'm certain, has altered-- + Grown colder and more austere + Than it was in that earlier year. + + The lights, too, are strangely unsteady, + That lead from the street to the quay. + I think they'll go out--and I'm ready + To follow. Out there in the sea + The fog-bell is calling to me. + + + + + A PARADOX. + + + "If life were not worth having," said the preacher, + "'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature." + "An error," said the pessimist, "you're making: + What's not worth having cannot be worth taking." + + + + + FOR MERIT. + + + To Parmentier Parisians raise + A statue fine and large: + He cooked potatoes fifty ways, + Nor ever led a charge. + + "_Palmam qui meruit"_--the rest + You knew as well as I; + And best of all to him that best + Of sayings will apply. + + Let meaner men the poet's bays + Or warrior's medal wear; + Who cooks potatoes fifty ways + Shall bear the palm--de terre. + + + + + A BIT OF SCIENCE. + + + What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dream + And he who dreams it is not overwise, + If colors are vibration they but seem, + And have no being. But if Tyndall lies, + Why, come, then--photograph my lady's eyes. + Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue, + As on my own beclouded orbs they rest, + To naught but vibratory motion's due, + As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest. + How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be making + In me so uncontrollable a shaking? + + + + THE TABLES TURNED. + + + Over the man the street car ran, + And the driver did never grin. + "O killer of men, pray tell me when + Your laughter means to begin. + + "Ten years to a day I've observed you slay, + And I never have missed before + Your jubilant peals as your crunching wheels + Were spattered with human gore. + + "Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy, + And why do you make no sign + Of the merry mind that is dancing behind + A solemner face than mine?" + + The driver replied: "I would laugh till I cried + If I had bisected you; + But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain, + 'T is myself that I've cut in two." + + + + + TO A DEJECTED POET. + + + Thy gift, if that it be of God, + Thou hast no warrant to appraise, + Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways, + The road too stony to be trod." + + Not thine to call the labor hard + And the reward inadequate. + Who haggles o'er his hire with Fate + Is better bargainer than bard. + + What! count the effort labor lost + When thy good angel holds the reed? + It were a sorry thing indeed + To stay him till thy palm be crossed. + + "The laborer is worthy"--nay, + The sacred ministry of song + Is rapture!--'t were a grievous wrong + To fix a wages-rate for play. + + + + + A FOOL. + + + Says Anderson, Theosophist: + "Among the many that exist + In modern halls, + Some lived in ancient Egypt's clime + And in their childhood saw the prime + Of Karnak's walls." + + Ah, Anderson, if that is true + 'T is my conviction, sir, that you + Are one of those + That once resided by the Nile, + Peer to the sacred Crocodile, + Heir to his woes. + + My judgment is, the holy Cat + Mews through your larynx (and your hat) + These many years. + Through you the godlike Onion brings + Its melancholy sense of things, + And moves to tears. + + In you the Bull divine again + Bellows and paws the dusty plain, + To nature true. + I challenge not his ancient hate + But, lowering my knurly pate, + Lock horns with you. + + And though Reincarnation prove + A creed too stubborn to remove, + And all your school + Of Theosophs I cannot scare-- + All the more earnestly I swear + That you're a fool. + + You'll say that this is mere abuse + Without, in fraying you, a use. + That's plain to see + With only half an eye. Come, now, + Be fair, be fair,--consider how + It eases _me_! + + + + + THE HUMORIST. + + + "What is that, mother?" + "The funny man, child. + His hands are black, but his heart is mild." + + "May I touch him, mother?" + "'T were foolishly done: + He is slightly touched already, my son." + + "O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?" + "That's the outward sign of a joke within." + + "Will he crack it, mother?" + "Not so, my saint; + 'T is meant for the _Saturday Livercomplaint."_ + + "Does he suffer, mother?" + "God help him, yes!-- + A thousand and fifty kinds of distress." + + "What makes him sweat so?" + "The demons that lurk + In the fear of having to go to work." + + "Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?" + "Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope." + + + + + MONTEFIORE. + + + I saw--'twas in a dream, the other night-- + A man whose hair with age was thin and white: + One hundred years had bettered by his birth, + And still his step was firm, his eye was bright. + + Before him and about him pressed a crowd. + Each head in reverence was bared and bowed, + And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tongues + Extolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud. + + I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried, + "Montefiore!" with the rest, and vied + In efforts to caress the hand that ne'er + To want and worth had charity denied. + + So closely round him swarmed our shouting clan + He scarce could breathe, and taking from a pan + A gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads, + And in a moment was a lonely man! + + + + + A WARNING. + + + Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!-- + The distance hither's brief indeed." + But Youth pressed on without delay-- + The shout had reached but half the way. + + + + + DISCRETION. + + + SHE: + + I'm told that men have sometimes got + Too confidential, and + Have said to one another what + They--well, you understand. + I hope I don't offend you, sweet, + But are you sure that _you're_ discreet? + + HE: + + 'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wine + Their conquests _do_ recall, + But none can truly say that mine + Are known to him at all. + I never, never talk you o'er-- + In truth, I never get the floor. + + + + + AN EXILE. + + + 'Tis the census enumerator + A-singing all forlorn: + It's ho! for the tall potater, + And ho! for the clustered corn. + The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fine + Large eggs are a-ripening on the vine. + + "Some there must be to till the soil + And the widow's weeds keep down. + I wasn't cut out for rural toil + But they _won't_ let me live in town! + They 're not so many by two or three, + As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me." + + Thus the census man, bowed down with care, + Warbled his wood-note high. + There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair, + But he had no blood in his eye. + + + + + THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT. + + + Baffled he stands upon the track-- + The automatic switches clack. + + Where'er he turns his solemn eyes + The interlocking signals rise. + + The trains, before his visage pale, + Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail. + + No splinter-spitted victim he + Hears uttering the note high C. + + In sorrow deep he hangs his head, + A-weary--would that he were dead. + + Now suddenly his spirits rise-- + A great thought kindles in his eyes. + + Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare, + Splendors the path of his despair. + + His genius shines, the clouds roll back-- + "I'll place obstructions on the track!" + + + + + PSYCHOGRAPHS. + + + Says Gerald Massey: "When I write, a band + Of souls of the departed guides my hand." + How strange that poems cumbering our shelves, + Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves! + + + + + TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST. + + + Newman, in you two parasites combine: + As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine. + When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt, + The pride of residence was all you felt + (What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knew + To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?) + And when the praises of the dead you've sung, + 'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue; + As ill-bred men when warming to their wine + Boast of its merit though it be but brine. + Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should-- + Even charity would shun you if she could. + You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole, + But what you get you take by way of toll. + Vain to resist you--vermifuge alone + Has power to push you from your robber throne. + When to escape you he's compelled to die + Hey! presto!--in the twinkling of an eye + You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear + As graveworm and resume your curst career. + As host no more, to satisfy your need + He serves as dinner your unaltered greed. + O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame, + Son of servility and priest of shame, + While naught your mad ambition can abate + To lick the spittle of the rich and great; + While still like smoke your eulogies arise + To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes; + While still with holy oil, like that which ran + Down Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man, + I cannot choose but think it very odd + It ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God. + + + + + FOR WOUNDS. + + + O bear me, gods, to some enchanted isle + Where woman's tears can antidote her smile. + + + + + ELECTION DAY. + + + Despots effete upon tottering thrones + Unsteadily poised upon dead men's bones, + Walk up! walk up! the circus is free, + And this wonderful spectacle you shall see: + Millions of voters who mostly are fools-- + Demagogues' dupes and candidates' tools, + Armies of uniformed mountebanks, + And braying disciples of brainless cranks. + Many a week they've bellowed like beeves, + Bitterly blackguarding, lying like thieves, + Libeling freely the quick and the dead + And painting the New Jerusalem red. + Tyrants monarchical--emperors, kings, + Princes and nobles and all such things-- + Noblemen, gentlemen, step this way: + There's nothing, the Devil excepted, to pay, + And the freaks and curios here to be seen + Are very uncommonly grand and serene. + + No more with vivacity they debate, + Nor cheerfully crack the illogical pate; + No longer, the dull understanding to aid, + The stomach accepts the instructive blade, + Nor the stubborn heart learns what is what + From a revelation of rabbit-shot; + And vilification's flames--behold! + Burn with a bickering faint and cold. + + Magnificent spectacle!--every tongue + Suddenly civil that yesterday rung + (Like a clapper beating a brazen bell) + Each fair reputation's eternal knell; + Hands no longer delivering blows, + And noses, for counting, arrayed in rows. + + Walk up, gentlemen--nothing to pay-- + The Devil goes back to Hell to-day. + + + + + THE MILITIAMAN. + + + "O warrior with the burnished arms-- + With bullion cord and tassel-- + Pray tell me of the lurid charms + Of service and the fierce alarms: + The storming of the castle, + The charge across the smoking field, + The rifles' busy rattle-- + What thoughts inspire the men who wield + The blade--their gallant souls how steeled + And fortified in battle." + + "Nay, man of peace, seek not to know + War's baleful fascination-- + The soldier's hunger for the foe, + His dread of safety, joy to go + To court annihilation. + Though calling bugles blow not now, + Nor drums begin to beat yet, + One fear unmans me, I'll allow, + And poisons all my pleasure: How + If I should get my feet wet!" + + + + + "A LITERARY METHOD." + + + His poems Riley says that he indites + Upon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers, + Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writes + Upon his empty stomach empties ours! + + + + + A WELCOME. + + + Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and + There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,-- + Because you thus by vain pretense degrade + To paltry purposes traditions grand,-- + + Because to cheat the ignorant you say + The thing that's not, elated still to sway + The crass credulity of gaping fools + And women by fantastical display,-- + + Because no sacred fires did ever warm + Your hearts, high knightly service to perform-- + A woman's breast or coffer of a man + The only citadel you dare to storm,-- + + Because while railing still at lord and peer, + At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer, + Each member of your order tries to graft + A peacock's tail upon his barren rear,-- + + Because that all these things are thus and so, + I bid you welcome to our city. Lo! + You're free to come, and free to stay, and free + As soon as it shall please you, sirs--to go. + + + + + A SERENADE. + + + "Sas agapo sas agapo," + He sang beneath her lattice. + "'Sas agapo'?" she murmured--"O, + I wonder, now, what _that_ is!" + + Was she less fair that she did bear + So light a load of knowledge? + Are loving looks got out of books, + Or kisses taught in college? + + Of woman's lore give me no more + Than how to love,--in many + A tongue men brawl: she speaks them all + Who says "I love," in any. + + + + + THE WISE AND GOOD. + + + "O father, I saw at the church as I passed + The populace gathered in numbers so vast + That they couldn't get in; and their voices were low, + And they looked as if suffering terrible woe." + + "'Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman dead + For whom the great heart of humanity bled." + + "What made it bleed, father, for every day + Somebody passes forever away? + Do the newspaper men print a column or more + Of every person whose troubles are o'er?" + + "O, no; they could never do that--and indeed, + Though printers might print it, no reader would read. + To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne, + But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn." + + "That's right, father dear, but how can our eyes + Distinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?" + + "That's easy enough to the stupidest mind: + They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind." + + "Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green? + And takest thy son for a gaping marine? + Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the Good + Who are poor and lamented to babes in the wood." + + And that horrible youth as I hastened away + Was building a wink that affronted the day. + + + + + THE LOST COLONEL. + + + "'Tis a woeful yarn," said the sailor man bold + Who had sailed the northern-lakes-- + "No woefuler one has ever been told + Exceptin' them called 'fakes.'" + + "Go on, thou son of the wind and fog, + For I burn to know the worst!" + But his silent lip in a glass of grog + Was dreamily immersed. + + Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said: + "It's never like that I drinks + But what of the gallant gent that's dead + I truly mournful thinks. + + "He was a soldier chap--leastways + As 'Colonel' he was knew; + An' he hailed from some'rs where they raise + A grass that's heavenly blue. + + "He sailed as a passenger aboard + The schooner 'Henery Jo.' + O wild the waves and galeses roared, + Like taggers in a show! + + "But he sat at table that calm an' mild + As if he never had let + His sperit know that the waves was wild + An' everlastin' wet!-- + + "Jest set with a bottle afore his nose, + As was labeled 'Total Eclipse' + (The bottle was) an' he frequent rose + A glass o' the same to his lips. + + "An' he says to me (for the steward slick + Of the 'Henery Jo' was I): + 'This sailor life's the very old Nick-- + On the lakes it's powerful dry!' + + "I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch. + I hopes you'll outlast the trip.' + But if I'd been him--an' I said as much-- + I'd 'a' took a faster ship. + + "His laughture, loud an' long an' free, + Rang out o'er the tempest's roar. + 'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he, + 'But it's powerful dry ashore!'" + + "O mariner man, why pause and don + A look of so deep concern? + Have another glass--go on, go on, + For to know the worst I burn." + + "One day he was leanin' over the rail, + When his footing some way slipped, + An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale), + He was accidental unshipped! + + "The empty boats was overboard hove, + As he swum in the 'Henery's wake'; + But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had drove + From sight on the ragin' lake!" + + "And so the poor gentleman was drowned-- + And now I'm apprised of the worst." + "What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found-- + In the yawl--stone dead o' thirst!" + + + + + FOR TAT. + + + O, heavenly powers! will wonders never cease?-- + Hair upon dogs and feathers upon geese! + The boys in mischief and the pigs in mire! + The drinking water wet! the coal on fire! + In meadows, rivulets surpassing fair, + Forever running, yet forever there! + A tail appended to the gray baboon! + A person coming out of a saloon! + Last, and of all most marvelous to see, + A female Yahoo flinging filth at me! + If 'twould but stick I'd bear upon my coat + May Little's proof that she is fit to vote. + + + + + A DILEMMA. + + + Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men, + For years I criticised their prose and verges: + Pointed out all their blunders of the pen, + Their shallowness of thought and feeling; then + Damned them up hill and down with hearty curses! + + They said: "That's all that he can do--just sneer, + And pull to pieces and be analytic. + Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear, + Publish a book or two, and so appear + As one who has the right to be a critic? + + "Let him who knows it all forbear to tell + How little others know, but show his learning." + The public added: "Who has written well + May censure freely"--quoting Pope. I fell + Into the trap and books began out-turning,-- + + Books by the score--fine prose and poems fair, + And not a book of them but was a terror, + They were so great and perfect; though I swear + I tried right hard to work in, here and there, + (My nature still forbade) a fault or error. + + 'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt, + Professed to find--but that's a trifling matter. + Now, when the flood of noble books was out + I raised o'er all that land a joyous shout, + Till I was thought as mad as any hatter! + + (Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say. + 'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em, + But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sad + We wear the ugly things they make. Begad, + They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!) + + "Consistency, thou art a"--well, you're _paste_! + When next I felt my demon in possession, + And made the field of authorship a waste, + All said of me: "What execrable taste, + To rail at others of his own profession!" + + Good Lord! where do the critic's rights begin + Who has of literature some clear-cut notion, + And hears a voice from Heaven say: "Pitch in"? + He finds himself--alas, poor son of sin-- + Between the devil and the deep blue ocean! + + + + + METEMPSYCHOSIS. + + + Once with Christ he entered Salem, + Once in Moab bullied Balaam, + Once by Apuleius staged + He the pious much enraged. + And, again, his head, as beaver, + Topped the neck of Nick the Weaver. + Omar saw him (minus tether-- + Free and wanton as the weather: + Knowing naught of bit or spur) + Stamping over Bahram-Gur. + Now, as Altgeld, see him joy + As Governor of Illinois! + + + + + THE SAINT AND THE MONK. + + + Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayed + The tools and terrors of his awful trade; + The key, the frown as pitiless as night, + That slays intending trespassers at sight, + And, at his side in easy reach, the curled + Interrogation points all ready to be hurled. + + Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chanced + No others were about) a soul advanced-- + A fat, orbicular and jolly soul + With laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl-- + A monk so prepossessing that the saint + Admired him, breathless, until weak and faint, + Forgot his frown and all his questions too, + Forgoing even the customary "Who?"-- + Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin, + Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in." + + The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please-- + Who's in there?" By insensible degrees + The impudence dispelled the saint's esteem, + As growing snores annihilate a dream. + The frown began to blacken on his brow, + His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?" + "O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained; + "I'm rather--well, particular. I've strained + A point in coming here at all; 'tis said + That Susan Anthony (I hear she's dead + At last) and all her followers are here. + As company, they'd be--confess it--rather queer." + + The saint replied, his rising anger past: + "What can I do?--the law is hard-and-fast, + Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown-- + An oral order issued from the Throne. + By but one sin has Woman e'er incurred + God's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd." + + That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile, + Said, slowly turning on his heel the while: + "Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar-- + I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are." + + 1895. + + + + + THE OPPOSING SEX. + + + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing: + "No longer the 'masher' + Sees Widows of Ashur!" + So each is a lasher + Of Man's smallest failing. + The Widows of Ashur + Are loud in their wailing. + + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling-- + No wooing can gull 'em + In Cave of Adullam. + No angel can lull 'em + To cease their defiling + The Cave of Adullam, + That home of reviling. + + At men they are cursing-- + The Widows of Ashur; + Themselves, too, for nursing + The men they are cursing. + The praise they're rehearsing + Of every slasher + At men. _They_ are cursing + The Widows of Ashur. + + + + +A WHIPPER-IN. + +[Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and +declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not +regularly attend.--_N.Y. World.]_ + + + Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note, + Worthy of honor from a feeble pen + Blunted in service of all true, good men, + You serve the Lord--in courses, _table d'hote: + Au, naturel,_ as well as _a la Nick_-- + "Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick." + + O, truly pious caterer, forbear + To push the Saviour and Him crucified + _(Brochette_ you'd call it) into their inside + Who're all unused to such ambrosial fare. + The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsion + Of aught that it has taken on compulsion. + + I search the Scriptures, but I do not find + That e'er the Spirit beats with angry wings + For entrance to the heart, but sits and sings + To charm away the scruples of the mind. + It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"-- + Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell! + + Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true: + We cower timidly beneath the rod + Lifted in menace by an angry God, + But won't endure it from an ape like you. + Detested simian with thumb prehensile, + Switch _me_ and I would brain you with my pencil! + + Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your back + On its transplendency to flog some wight + Who gropes and stumbles in the infernal night + Your ugly shadow lays along his track. + O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin, + Behold what rascals try to scourge it in! + + + + + JUDGMENT. + + + I drew aside the Future's veil + And saw upon his bier + The poet Whitman. Loud the wail + And damp the falling tear. + + "He's dead--he is no more!" one cried, + With sobs of sorrow crammed; + "No more? He's this much more," replied + Another: "he is damned!" + + 1885. + + + + + THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN. + + + Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand, + Played accordions as well as any lady in the land; + And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was such + That Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch; + And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rang + That they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang. + This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine, + Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine. + She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wet + When Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet-- + Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sung + As to overtax the strength of any single human lung. + That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell, + Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell. + + One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smart + A chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part. + Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrude + It was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude. + Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to see + That he _was_ a real Gent of an uncommon high degree. + That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regards + On this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards; + But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blind + To her many charms of person and the merits of her mind, + And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad, + And acted in a manner that in general was bad. + + One evening--'twas in summer--she was holding in her lap + Her accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap, + Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued, + Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude. + + Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to hum + And elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb. + Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled, + And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed. + "In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impassioned strain, + And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain, + Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round, + And going into session strove to magnify the sound. + He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rang + With the song that to _his_ darling he impetuously sang! + Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes, + Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines, + From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog, + Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog." + + + + + IN HIGH LIFE. + + + Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea, + Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee. + The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare; + The fashion, the rank and the wealth were all there-- + No person was absent of all whom one meets. + Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats, + While good Sir John Satan attended the door + And Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor, + Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug, + Preserving the peace between poodle and pug. + Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisle + To blush in her blush and to smile in her smile; + Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groom + To scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom. + The rites were performed by the hand and the lip + Of his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip, + Assisted by three able-bodied divines. + He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs. + Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such grace + Were ne'er before seen in that heavenly place! + That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside, + Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride. + + + + + A BUBBLE. + + + Mrs. Mehitable Marcia Moore + Was a dame of superior mind, + With a gown which, modestly fitting before, + Was greatly puffed up behind. + + The bustle she wore was ingeniously planned + With an inspiration bright: + It magnified seven diameters and + Was remarkably nice and light. + + It was made of rubber and edged with lace + And riveted all with brass, + And the whole immense interior space + Inflated with hydrogen gas. + + The ladies all said when she hove in view + Like the round and rising moon: + "She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true, + And men called her the Captive Balloon. + + To Manhattan Beach for a bath one day + She went and she said: "O dear! + If I leave off _this_ what will people say? + I shall look so uncommonly queer!" + + So a costume she had accordingly made + To take it all nicely in, + And when she appeared in that suit arrayed, + She was greeted with many a grin. + + Proudly and happily looking around, + She waded out into the wet, + But the water was very, very profound, + And her feet and her forehead met! + + As her bubble drifted away from the shore, + On the glassy billows borne, + All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore? + I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!" + + Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot, + Till it burst with a sullen roar, + And the sea like oil closed over the spot-- + Farewell, O Mehitable Moore! + + + + + A RENDEZVOUS. + + + Nightly I put up this humble petition: + "Forgive me, O Father of Glories, + My sins of commission, my sins of omission, + My sins of the Mission Dolores." + + + + + FRANCINE. + + + Did I believe the angels soon would call + You, my beloved, to the other shore, + And I should never see you any more, + I love you so I know that I should fall + Into dejection utterly, and all + Love's pretty pageantry, wherein we bore + Twin banners bravely in the tumult's fore, + Would seem as shadows idling on a wall. + So daintily I love you that my love + Endures no rumor of the winter's breath, + And only blossoms for it thinks the sky + Forever gracious, and the stars above + Forever friendly. Even the fear of death + Were frost wherein its roses all would die. + + + + + AN EXAMPLE. + + + They were two deaf mutes, and they loved and they + Resolved to be groom and bride; + And they listened to nothing that any could say, + Nor ever a word replied. + + From wedlock when warned by the married men, + Maintain an invincible mind: + Be deaf and dumb until wedded--and then + Be deaf and dumb and blind. + + + + + REVENGE. + + + A spitcat sate on a garden gate + And a snapdog fared beneath; + Careless and free was his mien, and he + Held a fiddle-string in his teeth. + + She marked his march, she wrought an arch + Of her back and blew up her tail; + And her eyes were green as ever were seen, + And she uttered a woful wail. + + The spitcat's plaint was as follows: "It ain't + That I am to music a foe; + For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside, + And I twang them soft and low. + + "But that dog has trifled with art and rifled + A kitten of mine, ah me! + That catgut slim was marauded from him: + 'Tis the string that men call E." + + + Then she sounded high, in the key of Y, + A note that cracked the tombs; + And the missiles through the firmament flew + From adjacent sleeping-rooms. + + As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fell + She followed it down to earth; + And that snapdog wears a placard that bears + The inscription: "Blind from birth." + + + + + THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT. + + + When Adam first saw Eve he said: + "O lovely creature, share my bed." + Before consenting, she her gaze + Fixed on the greensward to appraise, + As well as vision could avouch, + The value of the proffered couch. + And seeing that the grass was green + And neatly clipped with a machine-- + Observing that the flow'rs were rare + Varieties, and some were fair, + The posts of precious woods, besprent + With fragrant balsams, diffluent, + And all things suited to her worth, + She raised her angel eyes from earth + To his and, blushing to confess, + Murmured: "I love you, Adam--yes." + Since then her daughters, it is said, + Look always down when asked to wed. + + + + + IN CONTUMACIAM. + + + Och! Father McGlynn, + Ye appear to be in + Fer a bit of a bout wid the Pope; + An' there's divil a doubt + But he's knockin' ye out + While ye're hangin' onto the rope. + + An' soon ye'll lave home + To thravel to Rome, + For its bound to Canossa ye are. + Persistin' to shtay + When ye're ordered away-- + Bedad! that is goin' too far! + + + + + RE-EDIFIED. + + + Lord of the tempest, pray refrain + From leveling this church again. + Now in its doom, as so you've willed it, + We acquiesce. But _you'll_ rebuild it. + + + + + A BULLETIN. + + + "Lothario is very low," + So all the doctors tell. + Nay, nay, not _so_--he will be, though, + If ever he get well. + + + + + FROM THE MINUTES. + + + When, with the force of a ram that discharges its ponderous body + Straight at the rear elevation of the luckless culler of simples, + The foot of Herculean Kilgore--statesman of surname suggestive + Or carnage unspeakable!--lit like a missile prodigious + Upon the Congressional door with a monstrous and mighty momentum, + Causing that vain ineffective bar to political freedom + To fly from its hinges, effacing the nasal excrescence of Dingley, + That luckless one, decently veiling the ruin with ready bandanna, + Lamented the loss of his eminence, sadly with sobs as follows: + "Ah, why was I ever elected to the halls of legislation, + So soon to be shown the door with pitiless emphasis? Truly, + I've leaned on a broken Reed, and the same has gone back on me meanly. + Where now is my prominence, erstwhile in council conspicuous, patent? + Alas, I did never before understand what I now see clearly, + To wit, that Democracy tends to level all human distinctions!" + His fate so untoward and sad the Pine-tree statesman, bewailing, + Stood in the corridor there while Democrats freed from confinement + Came trooping forth from the chamber, dissembling all, as they passed him, + Hilarious sentiments painful indeed to observe, and remarking: + "O friend and colleague of the Speaker, what ails the unjoyous proboscis?" + + + + + WOMAN IN POLITICS. + + + What, madam, run for School Director? You? + And want my vote and influence? Well, well, + That beats me! Gad! where _are_ we drifting to? + In all my life I never have heard tell + Of such sublime presumption, and I smell + A nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam; + We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam. + + But now you mention it--well, well, who knows? + We might, that's certain, give the sex a show. + I have a cousin--teacher. I suppose + If I stand in and you 're elected--no? + You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go! + But understand that school administration + Belongs to Politics, not Education. + + We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wise + To understand each other at the start. + You know my business--books and school supplies; + You'd hardly, if elected, have the heart + Some small advantage to deny me--part + Of all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing? + Please don't express yourself with so much feeling. + + You pain me, truly. Now one question more. + Suppose a fair young man should ask a place + As teacher--would you (pardon) shut the door + Of the Department in his handsome face + Until--I know not how to put the case-- + Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor? + Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver. + + Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect: + A woman has no head for useful tricks. + My profitable offers you reject + And will not promise anything to fix + The opposition. That's not politics. + Good morning. Stay--I'm chaffing you, conceitedly. + Madam, I mean to vote for you--repeatedly. + + + + + TO AN ASPIRANT. + + + What! you a Senator--you, Mike de Young? + Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung? + Sir, if all Senators were such as you, + Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,-- + (Shaped to the pocket for commercial work, + For literary, fitted to the dirk)-- + So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers, + The toga's touch would give a man the shivers. + + + + + A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE. + + + Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives, + And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives, + Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame-- + The assassinating wassail that has given him his name; + Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seen + To hold his harvest festival upon his village-green, + While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spread + With a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head; + Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun, + And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run, + Lived a colony of settlers--old Missouri was the State + Where they formerly resided at a prehistoric date. + + Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing scheme + Was as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream. + + The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free, + And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea. + So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce, + And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use-- + Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day, + Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way. + Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God create + Such a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state? + + Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he; + With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree; + So he knelt upon the _mesa_ and he prayed with all his chin + That the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin. + + Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land, + And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand! + Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birth + Fitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth. + Astounded by the miracle, the people met that night + To celebrate it properly by some religious rite; + And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunk + Every man and every woman was devotionally drunk. + A half a standard gallon (says history) per head + Of the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed. + O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk. + By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke! + Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye, + And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky! + Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass, + Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass. + Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way, + To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say, + Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop, + To the head of population--and consumes it, every drop! + + + + + A BUILDER. + + + I saw the devil--he was working free: + A customs-house he builded by the sea. + "Why do you this?" The devil raised his head; + "Churches and courts I've built enough," he said. + + + + + AN AUGURY. + + + Upon my desk a single spray, + With starry blossoms fraught. + I write in many an idle way, + Thinking one serious thought. + + "O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear, + And with a fine Greek grace." + Be still, O heart, that turns to share + The sunshine of a face. + + "Have ye no messages--no brief, + Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?" + A sudden stir of stem and leaf-- + A breath of heliotrope! + + + + + LUSUS POLITICUS. + + + Come in, old gentleman. How do you do? + Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called. + I'm a sociable sort of a chap and you + Are a pleasant-appearing person, too, + With a head agreeably bald. + That's right--sit down in the scuttle of coal + And put up your feet in a chair. + It is better to have them there: + And I've always said that a hat of lead, + Such as I see you wear, + Was a better hat than a hat of glass. + And your boots of brass + Are a natural kind of boots, I swear. + "May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?" + Why, certainly, man, why not? + I rather expected you'd do it before, + When I saw you poking it in at the door. + It's dev'lish hot-- + The weather, I mean. "You are twins"? + Why, that was evident at the start, + From the way that you paint your head + In stripes of purple and red, + With dots of yellow. + That proves you a fellow + With a love of legitimate art. + "You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"? + That's very sad, + But Longfellow's words I beg to recall: + Your lot is the common lot of all. + "Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"? + That, I fancy, is just as you please. + Some think that way and others hold + The opposite view; + I never quite knew, + For the matter o' that, + When everything's been said-- + May I offer this mat + If you _will_ stand on your head? + I suppose I look to be upside down + From your present point of view. + It's a giddy old world, from king to clown, + And a topsy-turvy, too. + But, worthy and now uninverted old man, + _You're_ built, at least, on a normal plan + If ever a truth I spoke. + Smoke? + Your air and conversation + Are a liberal education, + And your clothes, including the metal hat + And the brazen boots--what's that? + + "You never could stomach a Democrat + Since General Jackson ran? + You're another sort, but you predict + That your party'll get consummately licked?" + Good God! what a queer old man! + + + + + BEREAVEMENT. + + + A Countess (so they tell the tale) + Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale, + Where ladies, even of high degree, + Know more of love than of A.B.C, + Came once with a prodigious bribe + Unto the learned village scribe, + That most discreet and honest man + Who wrote for all the lover clan, + Nor e'er a secret had betrayed-- + Save when inadequately paid. + "Write me," she sobbed--"I pray thee do-- + A book about the Prince di Giu-- + A book of poetry in praise + Of all his works and all his ways; + The godlike grace of his address, + His more than woman's tenderness, + His courage stern and lack of guile, + The loves that wantoned in his smile. + So great he was, so rich and kind, + I'll not within a fortnight find + His equal as a lover. O, + My God! I shall be drowned in woe!" + + "What! Prince di Giu has died!" exclaimed + The honest man for letters famed, + The while he pocketed her gold; + "Of what'?--if I may be so bold." + Fresh storms of tears the lady shed: + "I stabbed him fifty times," she said. + + + + + AN INSCRIPTION + + FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT. + + + A famous conqueror, in battle brave, + Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave. + His reign laid quantities of human dust: + He fell upon the just and the unjust. + + + + + A PICKBRAIN. + + + What! imitate me, friend? Suppose that you + With agony and difficulty do + What I do easily--what then? You've got + A style I heartily wish _I_ had not. + If I from lack of sense and you from choice + Grieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice, + No equal censure our deserts will suit-- + We both are fools, but you're an ape to boot! + + + + + CONVALESCENT. + + + "By good men's prayers see Grant restored!" + Shouts Talmage, pious creature! + Yes, God, by supplication bored + From every droning preacher, + Exclaimed: "So be it, tiresome crew-- + But I've a crow to pick with _you_." + + + + + THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR. + + + He looked upon the ships as they + All idly lay at anchor, + Their sides with gorgeous workmen gay-- + The riveter and planker-- + + Republicans and Democrats, + Statesmen and politicians. + He saw the swarm of prudent rats + Swimming for land positions. + + He marked each "belted cruiser" fine, + Her poddy life-belts floating + In tether where the hungry brine + Impinged upon her coating. + + He noted with a proud regard, + As any of his class would, + The poplar mast and poplar yard + Above the hull of bass-wood. + + He saw the Eastlake frigate tall, + With quaintly carven gable, + Hip-roof and dormer-window--all + With ivy formidable. + + In short, he saw our country's hope + In best of all conditions-- + Equipped, to the last spar and rope, + By working politicians. + + He boarded then the noblest ship + And from the harbor glided. + "Adieu, adieu!" fell from his lip. + Verdict: "He suicided." + + 1881. + + + + + DETECTED. + + + In Congress once great Mowther shone, + Debating weighty matters; + Now into an asylum thrown, + He vacuously chatters. + + If in that legislative hall + His wisdom still he 'd vented, + It never had been known at all + That Mowther was demented. + + + + + BIMETALISM. + + + Ben Bulger was a silver man, + Though not a mine had he: + He thought it were a noble plan + To make the coinage free. + + "There hain't for years been sech a time," + Said Ben to his bull pup, + "For biz--the country's broke and I'm + The hardest kind of up. + + "The paper says that that's because + The silver coins is sea'ce, + And that the chaps which makes the laws + Puts gold ones in their place. + + "They says them nations always be + Most prosperatin' where + The wolume of the currency + Ain't so disgustin' rare." + + His dog, which hadn't breakfasted, + Dissented from his view, + And wished that he could swell, instead, + The volume of cold stew. + + "Nobody'd put me up," said Ben, + "With patriot galoots + Which benefits their feller men + By playin' warious roots; + + "But havin' all the tools about, + I'm goin' to commence + A-turnin' silver dollars out + Wuth eighty-seven cents. + + "The feller takin' 'em can't whine: + (No more, likewise, can I): + They're better than the genooine, + Which mostly satisfy. + + "It's only makin' coinage free, + And mebby might augment + The wolume of the currency + A noomerous per cent." + + I don't quite see his error nor + Malevolence prepense, + But fifteen years they gave him for + That technical offense. + + + + + THE RICH TESTATOR. + + + He lay on his bed and solemnly "signed," + Gasping--perhaps 'twas a jest he meant: + "This of a sound and disposing mind + Is the last ill-will and contestament." + + + + + TWO METHODS. + + + To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fed + The Priest delivers masses for the dead, + And even from estrays outside the fold + Death for the masses he would not withhold. + The Parson, loth alike to free or kill, + Forsakes the souls already on the grill, + And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming, + Spares living sinners for a harder damning. + + + + + FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE + + + Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranks + Are played by sentimental cranks! + First this one mounts his hinder hoofs + And brays the chimneys off the roofs; + Then that one, with exalted voice, + Expounds the thesis of his choice, + Our understandings to bombard, + Till all the window panes are starred! + A third augments the vocal shock + Till steeples to their bases rock, + Confessing, as they humbly nod, + They hear and mark the will of God. + A fourth in oral thunder vents + His awful penury of sense + Till dogs with sympathetic howls, + And lowing cows, and cackling fowls, + Hens, geese, and all domestic birds, + Attest the wisdom of his words. + Cranks thus their intellects deflate + Of theories about the State. + This one avers 'tis built on Truth, + And that on Temperance. This youth + Declares that Science bears the pile; + That graybeard, with a holy smile, + Says Faith is the supporting stone; + While women swear that Love alone + Could so unflinchingly endure + The heavy load. And some are sure + The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock + Is the indubitable bedrock. + + Physicians once about the bed + Of one whose life was nearly sped + Blew up a disputatious breeze + About the cause of his disease: + This, that and t' other thing they blamed. + "Tut, tut!" the dying man exclaimed, + "What made me ill I do not care; + You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear. + And if you had the skill to make it + I'd see you hanged before I'd take it!" + + + + + AN IMPOSTER. + + + Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain + Your worth, and all the reasons give again + Why black and red are similarly white, + And you and God identically right? + Still must our ears without redress submit + To hear you play the solemn hypocrite + Walking in spirit some high moral level, + Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil? + Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made + Your mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayed + To have an earless head. Since she did not, + Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot-- + Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air + So delicately, mercifully rare + That when the fellow climbs that giddy hill, + As, for my sins, I know at last he will, + To utter twaddle in that void inane + His soundless organ he will play in vain. + + + + + UNEXPOUNDED. + + + On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills, + On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills, + Lawyers great books indite; + The creaking of their busy quills + I've never heard on Right. + + + + + FRANCE. + + + Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive: + Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive; + A Prince who'd govern where he dares not dwell, + And who for power would his birthright sell-- + Who, anxious o'er his enemies to reign, + Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain; + While pugnant factions mutually strive + By cutting throats to keep the land alive. + Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse-- + To all a mistress, to thyself a curse; + Sweetheart of Europe! every sun's embrace + Matures the charm and poison of thy grace. + Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings: + In blood of citizens and blood of kings + The stones of thy stability are set, + And the fair fabric trembles at a threat. + + + + + THE EASTERN QUESTION. + + + Looking across the line, the Grecian said: + "This border I will stain a Turkey red." + The Moslem smiled securely and replied: + "No Greek has ever for his country dyed." + While thus each patriot guarded his frontier, + The Powers stole all the country in his rear. + + + + + A GUEST. + + + Death, are you well? I trust you have no cough + That's painful or in any way annoying-- + No kidney trouble that may carry you off, + Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying + Your meals--and ours. 'T were very sad indeed + To have to quit the busy life you lead. + + You've been quite active lately for so old + A person, and not very strong-appearing. + I'm apprehensive, somehow, that my bold, + Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing. + And my two friends--I fear, sir, that you ran + Quite hard for them, especially the man. + + I crave your pardon: 'twas no fault of mine; + If you are overworked I'm sorry, very. + Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine. + What shall it be--Marsala, Port or Sherry? + What! just a mug of blood? That's funny grog + To ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog! + + + + + A FALSE PROPHECY. + + + Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil + (Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut), + They say that you're imperially ill, + And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut! + Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but + A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill + A man predestined to depart this life + By the assassin's bullet, bomb or knife. + + Sir, once there was a President who freed + Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar + Who freed five times as many serfs. Sins breed + The means of punishment, and tyrants are + Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car + If faster than the law allows they speed. + Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut; + _You_ freed slaves too. Paralysis--tut-tut! + + 1885. + + + + + TWO TYPES. + + + Courageous fool!--the peril's strength unknown. + Courageous man!--so conscious of your own. + + + + + SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. + + + STEPHEN DORSEY. + + Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst, + Where rests in Satan an offender first + In point of greatness, as in point of time, + Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime. + Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab + The dark arcana of each mighty grab, + And famed for lying from his early youth, + He sinned secure behind a veil of truth. + Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write + A damning record and conceal from sight; + Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it. + His way to keep a secret was to tell it. + + + STEPHEN J. FIELD. + + Here sleeps one of the greatest students + Of jurisprudence. + Nature endowed him with the gift + Of the juristhrift. + All points of law alike he threw + The dice to settle. + Those honest cubes were loaded true + With railway metal. + + + GENERAL B.F. BUTLER. + + Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God, + We gave, O gallant brother; + And o'er thy grave the awkward squad + Fired into one another! + + + Beneath this monument which rears its head. + A giant note of admiration--dead, + His life extinguished like a taper's flame. + John Ericsson is lying in his fame. + Behold how massive is the lofty shaft; + How fine the product of the sculptor's craft; + The gold how lavishly applied; the great + Man's statue how impressive and sedate! + Think what the cost-was! It would ill become + Our modesty to specify the sum; + Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're giving + Of what we robbed him of when he was living. + + + Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk + Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk. + His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear, + But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here. + + + Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead + He looked so natural that round his bed + + The people stood, in silence all, to weep. + They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep. + + + Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid + The tools of his infernal trade-- + His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude + They grew--so slack in gratitude, + His hand was wounded as he wrote, + And when he spoke he cut his throat. + + + Within this humble mausoleum + Poor Guiteau's flesh you'll find. + His bones are kept in a museum, + And Tillman has his mind. + + + Stranger, uncover; here you have in view + The monument of Chauncey M. Depew. + Eater and orator, the whole world round + For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned. + Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech, + Nothing he knew excepting how to teach. + But in default of something to impart + He multiplied his words with all his heart: + When least he had to say, instructive most-- + A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost. + + Dining his way to eminence, he rowed + With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed + From lakes of favor--pulled with all his force + And found each river sweeter than the source. + Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor, + Gnawing and rising till obscure no more, + He ate his way to eminence, and Fame + Inscribes in gravy his immortal name. + A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly, + So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly. + Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him, + And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him. + + + Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie; + Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why. + In '71 he filled the public eye, + In '72 he bade the world good-bye, + In God's good time, with a protesting sigh, + He came to life just long enough to die. + + + Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay, + Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray. + He joined the great Order and studied with zeal + The awful arcana he meant to reveal. + At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell-- + There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell. + + + + + A HYMN OF THE MANY. + + + God's people sorely were oppressed, + I heard their lamentations long;-- + I hear their singing, clear and strong, + I see their banners in the West! + + The captains shout the battle-cry, + The legions muster in their might; + They turn their faces to the light, + They lift their arms, they testify: + + "We sank beneath the Master's thong, + Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;-- + Now clash your lances in the sun + And bless your banners with a song! + + "God bides his time with patient eyes + While tyrants build upon the land;-- + He lifts his face, he lifts his hand, + And from the stones his temples rise. + + "Now Freedom waves her joyous wing + Beyond the foemen's shields of gold. + March forward, singing, for, behold, + The right shall rule while God is king!" + + + + + ONE MORNING. + + + Because that I am weak, my love, and ill, + I cannot follow the impatient feet + Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat + Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill + The hour appointed for the air to thrill + And brighten at your coming. O my sweet, + The tale of moments is at last complete-- + The tryst is broken on the gusty hill! + O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed, + The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not; + Think rather that the clock and sun have lied + And all too early, you have sought the spot. + For lo! despair has darkened all the light, + And till I see your face it still is night. + + + + + AN ERROR. + + Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream + How sweet the roses in the autumn seem! + + + + + AT THE "NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT." + + + You 're grayer than one would have thought you: + The climate you have over there + In the East has apparently brought you + Disorders affecting the hair, + Which--pardon me--seems a thought spare. + + You'll not take offence at my giving + Expression to notions like these. + You might have been stronger if living + Out here in our sanative breeze. + It's unhealthy here for disease. + + No, I'm not as plump as a pullet. + But that's the old wound, you see. + Remember my paunching a bullet?-- + And how that it didn't agree + With--well, honest hardtack for me. + + Just pass me the wine--I've a helly + And horrible kind of drouth! + When a fellow has that in his belly + Which didn't go in at his mouth + He's hotter than all Down South! + + Great Scott! what a nasty day _that_ was-- + When every galoot in our crack + Division who didn't lie flat was + Dissuaded from further attack + By the bullet's felicitous whack. + + 'Twas there that our major slept under + Some cannon of ours on the crest, + Till they woke him by stilling their thunder, + And he cursed them for breaking his rest, + And died in the midst of his jest. + + That night--it was late in November-- + The dead seemed uncommonly chill + To the touch; and one chap I remember + Who took it exceedingly ill + When I dragged myself over his bill. + + Well, comrades, I'm off now--good morning. + Your talk is as pleasant as pie, + But, pardon me, one word of warning: + Speak little of self, say I. + That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye. + + + + + THE KING OF BORES. + + + Abundant bores afflict this world, and some + Are bores of magnitude that-come and--no, + They're always coming, but they never go-- + Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum + Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum, + Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow. + But one superb tormentor I can show-- + Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum. + He the johndonkey is who, when I pen + Amorous verses in an idle mood + To nobody, or of her, reads them through + And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then + Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood + This tender sonnet's application too. + + + + + HISTORY. + + + What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice, + Another indolence, another dice. + Emascle says polygamy. "Not so," + Says Impycu--"'twas luxury and show." + The parson, lifting up a brow of brass, + Swears superstition gave the _coup de grace_, + Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms + 'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: "'T was worms") + And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars, + Averring the no coins were silver dollars. + Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack + Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back, + Holds a new "autopsy" and finds that death + Resulted partly from the want of breath, + But chiefly from some visitation sad + That points his argument or serves his fad. + They're all in error--never human mind + The cause of the disaster has divined. + What slew the Roman power? Well, provided + You'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did. + + + + + THE HERMIT. + + + To a hunter from the city, + Overtaken by the night, + Spake, in tones of tender pity + For himself, an aged wight: + + "I have found the world a fountain + Of deceit and Life a sham. + I have taken to the mountain + And a Holy Hermit am. + + "Sternly bent on Contemplation, + Far apart from human kind---- + In the hill my habitation, + In the Infinite my mind. + + "Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing, + Growing bald and bent with dole. + Vainly seeking for a Something + To engage my gloomy soul. + + "Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you + Eat, and quaff my simple drink, + Please suggest whatever suits you + As a Theme for me to Think." + + Then the hunter answered gravely: + "From distraction free, and strife, + You could ponder very bravely + On the Vanity of Life." + + "O, thou wise and learned Teacher, + You have solved the Problem well-- + You have saved a grateful creature + From the agonies of hell. + + "Take another root, another + Cup of water: eat and drink. + Now I have a Subject, brother, + Tell me What, and How, to think." + + + + + TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON. + + + Affronting fool, subdue your transient light; + When Wisdom's dull dares Folly to be bright: + If Genius stumble in the path to fame, + 'Tis decency in dunces to go lame. + + + + + THE YEARLY LIE. + + + A merry Christmas? Prudent, as I live!-- + You wish me something that you need not give. + + Merry or sad, what does it signify? + To you 't is equal if I laugh, or die. + + Your hollow greeting, like a parrot's jest, + Finds all its meaning in the ear addressed. + + Why "merry" Christmas? Faith, I'd rather frown + Than grin and caper like a tickled clown. + + When fools are merry the judicious weep; + The wise are happy only when asleep. + + A present? Pray you give it to disarm + A man more powerful to do you harm. + + 'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot let + You pay for favors that you'll never get. + + Perish the savage custom of the gift, + Founded in terror and maintained in thrift! + + What men of honor need to aid their weal + They purchase, or, occasion serving, steal. + + Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies, + Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies. + + Let Santa Claus descend again the flue; + If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true. + + "A lie well stuck to is as good as truth," + And God's too old to legislate for youth. + + Hail Christmas! On my knees and fowl I fall: + For greater grace and better gravy call. + _Vive l'Humbug!_--that's to say, God bless us all! + + + + + COOPERATION. + + + No more the swindler singly seeks his prey; + To hunt in couples is the modern way-- + A rascal, from the public to purloin, + An honest man to hide away the coin. + + + + + AN APOLOGUE. + + + A traveler observed one day + A loaded fruit-tree by the way. + And reining in his horse exclaimed: + "The man is greatly to be blamed + Who, careless of good morals, leaves + Temptation in the way of thieves. + Now lest some villain pass this way + And by this fruit be led astray + To bag it, I will kindly pack + It snugly in my saddle-sack." + He did so; then that Salt o' the Earth + Rode on, rejoicing in his worth. + + + + + DIAGNOSIS. + + + Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, pray + Compose my spirits' strife: + O what may be my chances, say, + Of living all my life? + + "For lately I have dreamed of high + And hempen dissolution! + O doctor, doctor, how can I + Amend my constitution?" + + The learned leech replied: "You're young + And beautiful and strong-- + Permit me to inspect your tongue: + H'm, ah, ahem!--'tis long." + + + + + FALLEN. + + + O, hadst thou died when thou wert great, + When at thy feet a nation knelt + To sob the gratitude it felt + And thank the Saviour of the State, + Gods might have envied thee thy fate! + + Then was the laurel round thy brow, + And friend and foe spoke praise of thee, + While all our hearts sang victory. + Alas! thou art too base to bow + To hide the shame that brands it now. + + + + +DIES IRAE. + +A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing +translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches +into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me +to undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to +attempt that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have +attempted before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me +to hope that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The +fault of previous translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. +Dix, has been, I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the +delicate irony and subtle humor of the immortal poem--though doubtless +these admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators--have +been utterly sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions +that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of +insincerity pervading the whole prayer,--the cool effrontery of the +suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of +salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission +to the punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing +characteristics of this amusing work, being most imperfectly conveyed. +By permitting myself a reasonable freedom of rendering--in many cases +boldly supplying that "missing link" between the sublime and the +ridiculous which the author, writing for the acute monkish apprehension +of the 13th century, did not deem it necessary to insert--I have hoped +at least partially to liberate the lurking devil of humor from his +fetters, letting him caper, not, certainly, as he does in the Latin, but +as he probably would have done had his creator written in English. In +preserving the metre and double rhymes of the original, I have acted +from the same reverent regard for the music with which, in the liturgy +of the Church, the verses have become inseparably wedded that inspired +Gen. Dix; seeking rather to surmount the obstacles to success by honest +effort, than to avoid them by the adoption of an easier versification +which would have deprived my version of all utility in religious +service. + +I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the +first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been +purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the +very boundary of the alluring domain. I have got over the +inhibition--somehow--but David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me +if they find themselves represented merely by the names of those +conspicuous personal qualities to which they probably owed, +respectively, their powers of prophecy, as Samson's strength lay in his +hair. + + + DIES IRAE. + + Dies irae! dies ilia! + Solvet saeclum in favilla + Teste David cum Sibylla. + + Quantus tremor est futurus, + Quando Judex est venturus. + Cuncta stricte discussurus. + + Tuba mirum spargens sonum + Per sepulchra regionem, + Coget omnes ante thronum. + + Mors stupebit, et Natura, + Quum resurget creatura + Judicanti responsura. + + Liber scriptus proferetur, + In quo totum continetur, + Unde mundus judicetur. + + Judex ergo quum sedebit, + Quicquid latet apparebit, + Nil inultum remanebit. + + Quid sum miser tunc dicturus, + Quem patronem rogaturus, + Quum vix justus sit securus? + + Rex tremendae majestatis, + Qui salvandos salvas gratis; + Salva me, Fons pietatis + + Recordare, Jesu pie + Quod sum causa tuae viae; + Ne me perdas illa die. + + Quarens me sedisti lassus + Redimisti crucem passus, + Tantus labor non sit cassus. + + Juste Judex ultionis, + Donum fac remissionis + Ante diem rationis. + + Ingemisco tanquam reus, + Culpa rubet vultus meus; + Supplicanti parce, Deus. + + Qui Mariam absolvisti + Et latronem exaudisti, + Mihi quoque spem dedisti. + + Preces meae non sunt dignae, + Sed tu bonus fac benigne + Ne perenni cremer igne. + + Inter oves locum praesta. + Et ab haedis me sequestra, + Statuens in parte dextra. + + Confutatis maledictis, + Flammis acribus addictis, + Voca me cum benedictis. + + Oro supplex et acclinis, + Cor contritum quasi cinis; + Gere curam mei finis. + + Lacrymosa dies illa + Qua resurgent et favilla, + Judicandus homo reus + Huic ergo parce, Deus! + + + THE DAY OF WRATH. + + Day of Satan's painful duty! + Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty; + So says Virtue, so says Beauty. + + Ah! what terror shall be shaping + When the Judge the truth's undraping! + Cats from every bag escaping! + + Now the trumpet's invocation + Calls the dead to condemnation; + All receive an invitation. + + Death and Nature now are quaking, + And the late lamented, waking, + In their breezy shrouds are shaking. + + Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring, + And the Clerk, to them referring, + Makes it awkward for the erring. + + When the Judge appears in session, + We shall all attend confession, + Loudly preaching non-suppression. + + How shall I then make romances + Mitigating circumstances? + Even the just must take their chances. + + King whose majesty amazes. + Save thou him who sings thy praises; + Fountain, quench my private blazes. + + Pray remember, sacred Savior, + Mine the playful hand that gave your + Death-blow. Pardon such behavior. + + Seeking me fatigue assailed thee, + Calvary's outlook naught availed thee: + Now 't were cruel if I failed thee. + + Righteous judge and learned brother, + Pray thy prejudices smother + Ere we meet to try each other. + + Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes, + And my face vermilion flushes; + Spare me for my pretty blushes. + + Thief and harlot, when repenting, + Thou forgav'st--be complimenting + Me with sign of like relenting. + + If too bold is my petition + I'll receive with due submission + My dismissal--from perdition. + + When thy sheep thou hast selected + From the goats, may I, respected, + Stand amongst them undetected. + + When offenders are indicted, + And with trial-flames ignited, + Elsewhere I'll attend if cited. + + Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful, + When of death I see the air full, + Lest I perish, too, be careful. + + On that day of lamentation, + When, to enjoy the conflagration. + Men come forth, O, be not cruel. + Spare me, Lord--make them thy fuel. + + + + + ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION. + + + See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed + For revolution! + To foil their villainous crusade + Unsheathe again the sacred blade + Of persecution. + + What though through long disuse 't is grown + A trifle rusty? + 'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone + Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown, + It still is trusty. + + Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes, + Unapprehensive, + Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows; + Our zealots chiefly to the nose + Assume the offensive. + + Then wield the blade their necks to hack, + Nor ever spare one. + Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack, + But see that every martyr lack + The head to wear one. + + + + + SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS. + + + "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull: + There's nothing happening at all--a lull + After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife + Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife. + A fire on Blank Street and some babies--one, + Two, three or four, I don't remember, done + To quite a delicate and lovely brown. + A husband shot by woman of the town-- + The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south. + The crew, all saved--or lost. Uncommon drouth + Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud-- + Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood. + 'T is feared some bank will burst--or else it won't + They always burst, I fancy--or they don't; + Who cares a cent?--the banker pays his coin + And takes his chances: bullet in the groin-- + But that's another item--suicide-- + Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died. + Heigh-ho! there's noth--Jerusalem! what's this: + Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss + Of ruin!--owes me seven hundred clear! + Was ever such a damned disastrous year! + + + + + IN THE BINNACLE. + + +[The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly +and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.--_Religious +Weekly._] + + + The Church's compass, if you please, + Has two or three (or more) degrees + Of variation; + And many a soul has gone to grief + On this or that or t'other reef + Through faith unreckoning or brief + Miscalculation. + Misguidance is of perils chief + To navigation. + + The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark, + Obeisance through a little arc + Of declination; + For Satan, fearing witches, drew + From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe, + And nailed it to his door to undo + Their machination. + Since then the needle dips to woo + His habitation. + + + + + HUMILITY. + + + Great poets fire the world with fagots big + That make a crackling racket, + But I'm content with but a whispering twig + To warm some single jacket. + + + + + ONE PRESIDENT. + + + "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child-- + Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild." + + "What are they that way for, father?" "Last fall, + 'Our candidate's better,' they said, 'than all!'" + + "What did they say he was, father?" "A man + Built on a straight incorruptible plan-- + Believing that none for an office would do + Unless he were honest and capable too." + + "Poor gentlemen--_so_ disappointed!" "Yes, lad, + That is the feeling that's driving them mad; + They're weeping and wailing and gnashing because + They find that he's all that they said that he was." + + + + + THE BRIDE. + + + "You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse + I made a second marriage in my house-- + Divorced old barren Reason from my bed + And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse." + + So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam + Of light that made her like an angel seem, + The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myself + Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream." + + + + + STRAINED RELATIONS. + + + Says England to Germany: "Africa's ours." + Says Germany: "Ours, I opine." + Says Africa: "Tell me, delectable Pow'rs, + What is it that ought to be mine?" + + + + + THE MAN BORN BLIND. + + + A man born blind received his sight + By a painful operation; + And these are things he saw in the light + Of an infant observation. + + He saw a merchant, good and wise. + And greatly, too, respected, + Who looked, to those imperfect eyes, + Like a swindler undetected. + + He saw a patriot address + A noisy public meeting. + And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess. + That for the teat is bleating." + + A doctor stood beside a bed + And shook his summit sadly. + "O see that foul assassin!" said + The man who saw so badly. + + He saw a lawyer pleading for + A thief whom they'd been jailing, + And said: "That's an accomplice, or + My sight again is failing." + + Upon the Bench a Justice sat, + With nothing to restrain him; + "'Tis strange," said the observer, "that + They ventured to unchain him." + + With theologic works supplied, + He saw a solemn preacher; + "A burglar with his kit," he cried, + "To rob a fellow creature." + + A bluff old farmer next he saw + Sell produce in a village, + And said: "What, what! is there no law + To punish men for pillage?" + + A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed, + Who many charms united; + He thanked his stars his lot was cast + Where sepulchers were whited. + + He saw a soldier stiff and stern, + "Full of strange oaths" and toddy; + But was unable to discern + A wound upon his body. + + Ten square leagues of rolling ground + To one great man belonging, + Looked like one little grassy mound + With worms beneath it thronging. + + A palace's well-carven stones, + Where Dives dwelt contented, + Seemed built throughout of human bones + With human blood cemented. + + He watched the yellow shining thread + A silk-worm was a-spinning; + "That creature's coining gold." he said, + "To pay some girl for sinning." + + His eyes were so untrained and dim + All politics, religions, + Arts, sciences, appeared to him + But modes of plucking pigeons. + + And so he drew his final breath, + And thought he saw with sorrow + Some persons weeping for his death + Who'd be all smiles to-morrow. + + + + + A NIGHTMARE. + + + I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by: + The world forgot that such a man as I + Had ever lived and written: other names + Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die. + + Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew. + Its roots transpierced my body, through and through, + My substance fed its growth. From many lands + Men came in troops that giant tree to view. + + 'T was sacred to my memory and fame-- + My monument. But Allen Forman came, + Filled with the fervor of a new untruth, + And carved upon the trunk his odious name! + + + + + A WET SEASON. + + Horas non numero nisi serenas. + + + The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth, + And man's in danger. + O that my mother at my birth + Had borne a stranger! + The flooded ground is all around. + The depth uncommon. + How blest I'd be if only she + Had borne a salmon. + + If still denied the solar glow + 'T were bliss ecstatic + To be amphibious--but O, + To be aquatic! + We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they + That faith are firm of. + O, then, be just: show me some dust + To be a worm of. + + The pines are chanting overhead + A psalm uncheering. + It's O, to have been for ages dead + And hard of hearing! + Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours + The dial reckoned; + 'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime-- + Rameses II. + + + + + THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS. + + + Tut-tut! give back the flags--how can you care + You veterans and heroes? + Why should you at a kind intention swear + Like twenty Neroes? + + Suppose the act was not so overwise-- + Suppose it was illegal-- + Is 't well on such a question to arise + And pinch the Eagle? + + Nay, let's economize his breath to scold + And terrify the alien + Who tackles him, as Hercules of old + The bird Stymphalian. + + Among the rebels when we made a breach + Was it to get their banners? + That was but incidental--'t was to teach + Them better manners. + + They know the lesson well enough to-day; + Now, let us try to show them + That we 're not only stronger far than they. + (How we did mow them!) + + But more magnanimous. You see, my lads, + 'T was an uncommon riot; + The warlike tribes of Europe fight for "fads," + We fought for quiet. + + If we were victors, then we all must live + With the same flag above us; + 'Twas all in vain unless we now forgive + And make them love us. + + Let kings keep trophies to display above + Their doors like any savage; + The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love, + Despite war's ravage. + + "Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll find + You can't, in right and reason, + While "Washington" and "treason" are combined-- + "Hugo" and "treason." + + All human governments must take the chance + And hazard of sedition. + O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advance + To blind submission. + + It may be wrong, it may be right, to rise + In warlike insurrection: + The loyalty that fools so dearly prize + May mean subjection. + + Be loyal to your country, yes--but how + If tyrants hold dominion? + The South believed they did; can't you allow + For that opinion? + + He who will never rise though rulers plods + His liberties despising + How is he manlier than the _sans culottes_ + Who's always rising? + + Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fell + Too valiant to forsake them. + Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well, + I helped to take them. + + + + + HAEC FABULA DOCET. + + + A rat who'd gorged a box of bane + And suffered an internal pain, + Came from his hole to die (the label + Required it if the rat were able) + And found outside his habitat + A limpid stream. Of bane and rat + 'T was all unconscious; in the sun + It ran and prattled just for fun. + Keen to allay his inward throes, + The beast immersed his filthy nose + And drank--then, bloated by the stream, + And filled with superheated steam, + Exploded with a rascal smell, + Remarking, as his fragments fell + Astonished in the brook: "I'm thinking + This water's damned unwholesome drinking!" + + + + + EXONERATION. + + + When men at candidacy don't connive, + From that suspicion if their friends would free 'em, + The teeth and nails with which they did not strive + Should be exhibited in a museum. + + + + + AZRAEL. + + + The moon in the field of the keel-plowed main + Was watching the growing tide: + A luminous peasant was driving his wain, + And he offered my soul a ride. + + But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall, + And I fixed him fast with mine eye. + "O, peasant," I sang with a dying fall, + "Go leave me to sing and die." + + The water was weltering round my feet, + As prone on the beach they lay. + I chanted my death-song loud and sweet; + "Kioodle, ioodle, iay!" + + Then I heard the swish of erecting ears + Which caught that enchanted strain. + The ocean was swollen with storms of tears + That fell from the shining swain. + + "O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand, + "That ravishing song would make + The devil a saint." He held out his hand + And solemnly added: "Shake." + + We shook. "I crave a victim, you see," + He said--"you came hither to die." + The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he! + And the victim he crove was I! + + 'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard; + And he knocked me on the head. + O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard, + For I didn't want to be dead. + + "You'll sing no worser for that," said he, + And he drove with my soul away, + O, death-song singers, be warned by me, + Kioodle, ioodle, iay! + + + + + AGAIN. + + + Well, I've met her again--at the Mission. + She'd told me to see her no more; + It was not a command--a petition; + I'd granted it once before. + + Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me. + Repenting her virtuous freak-- + Subdued myself daily and nightly + For the better part of a week. + + And then ('twas my duty to spare her + The shame of recalling me) I + Just sought her again to prepare her + For an everlasting good-bye. + + O, that evening of bliss--shall I ever + Forget it?--with Shakespeare and Poe! + She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never + To see me again. And now go." + + As we parted with kisses 'twas human + And natural for me to smile + As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman: + She'll send for me after a while." + + But she didn't; and so--well, the Mission + Is fine, picturesque and gray; + It's an excellent place for contrition-- + And sometimes she passes that way. + + That's how it occurred that I met her, + And that's ah there is to tell-- + Except that I'd like to forget her + Calm way of remarking: "I'm well." + + It was hardly worth while, all this keying + My soul to such tensions and stirs + To learn that her food was agreeing + With that little stomach of hers. + + + + HOMO PODUNKENSIS. + + + As the poor ass that from his paddock strays + Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise, + Recounting volubly their well-bred leer, + Their port impressive and their wealth of ear, + Mistaking for the world's assent the clang + Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue; + So the dull clown, untraveled though at large, + Visits the city on the ocean's marge, + Expands his eyes and marvels to remark + Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark; + Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares + That native merchants sell imported wares, + Nor comprehends how in his very view + A foreign vessel has a foreign crew; + Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth, + Swears it superior to aught on earth, + Sighs for the temples locally renowned-- + The village school-house and the village pound-- + And chalks upon the palaces of Rome + The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!" + + + + + A SOCIAL CALL. + + + Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you, + With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue? + Less redness in the nose--nay, even some blue + Would not, I think, particularly hurt you. + When seen close to, not mounted in your car, + You look the drunkard and the pig you are. + + No matter, sit you down, for I am not + In a gray study, as you sometimes find me. + Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot, + But there's another year of pain behind me. + That's something to be thankful for: the more + There are behind, the fewer are before. + + I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp, + But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation + With an affinity to every tramp + That walks the world and steals its admiration. + For admiration is like linen left + Upon the line--got easiest by theft. + + Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood, + With brains and honesty, some five-and-twenty + Long years as champion of all that's good, + And taken on the mazzard thwacks a-plenty. + Yet now whose praises do the people bawl? + Those of the fellows whom I live to maul! + + Why, this is odd!--the more I try to talk + Of you the more my tongue grows egotistic + To prattle of myself! I'll try to balk + Its waywardness and be more altruistic. + So let us speak of others--how they sin, + And what a devil of a state they 're in! + + That's all I have to say. Good-bye, old man. + Next year you possibly may find me scolding-- + Or miss me altogether: Nature's plan + Includes, as I suppose, a final folding + Of these poor empty hands. Then drop a tear + To think they'll never box another ear. + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAPES OF CLAY *** + +***** This file should be named 12658.txt or 12658.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/2/6/5/12658/ + +Produced by Rick Niles, Kat Jeter, John Hagerson and PG Distributed +Proofreaders + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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