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?'
