Chapter 6
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.