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?
