Shapes of Clay

  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.