Black Beetles in Amber

    Damn, all great Englishmen in English speech?
    I am no Englishman, but in my reach
A rogue shall never rail where heroes are.
You are the man, if I mistake you not,
    Who lately with a supplicating twitch
    Plucked at the pockets of the London rich
And paid your share-engraver all you got.
Because that you have greatly lied, because
    You libel nations, and because no hand
    Of officer is raised to bid you stand,
And falsehood is unpunished of the laws,
I stand here in a public place to mark
    With level finger where you part the crowd—
    I stand to name you and to cry aloud:
'Behold mendacity's great hierarch!'

A SOCIETY LEADER

'The Social World'! O what a world it is—
  Where full-grown men cut capers in the German,
Cotillion, waltz, or what you will, and whizz
  And spin and hop and sprawl about like mermen!
  I wonder if our future Grant or Sherman,
As these youths pass their time, is passing his—
  If eagles ever come from painted eggs,
  Or deeds of arms succeed to deeds of legs.
I know they tell us about Waterloo:
  How, 'foremost fighting,' fell the evening's
    dancers.
I don't believe it: I regard it true
  That soldiers who are skillful in 'the Lancers'
  Less often die of cannon than of cancers.
Moreover, I am half-persuaded, too,
  That David when he danced before the Ark
  Had the reporter's word to keep it dark.
Ed. Greenway, you fatigue. Your hateful name
  Like maiden's curls, is in the papers daily.
You think it, doubtless, honorable fame,
  And contemplate the cheap distinction gaily,
  As does the monkey the blue-painted tail he
Believes becoming to him. 'Tis the same
  With men as other monkeys: all their souls
  Crave eminence on any kind of poles.
But cynics (barking tribe!) are all agreed
  That monkeys upon poles performing capers
Are not exalted, they are only 'treed.'
  A glory that is kindled by the papers
  Is transient as the phosphorescent vapors
That shine in graveyards and are seen, indeed,
  But while the bodies that supply the gas
  Are turning into weeds to feed an ass.
One can but wonder sometimes how it feels
  To be an ass—a beast we beat condignly
Because, like yours, his life is in his heels
  And he is prone to use them unbenignly.
  The ladies (bless them!) say you dance divinely.
I like St. Vitus better, though, who deals
  His feet about him with a grace more just,
  And hops, not for he will, but for he must.
Doubtless it gratifies you to observe
  Elbowy girls and adipose mamas
All looking adoration as you swerve
  This way and that; but prosperous papas
  Laugh in their sleeves at you, and their ha-has,
If heard, would somewhat agitate your nerve.
  And dames and maids who keep you on their
    shelves
Don't seem to want a closer tie themselves.
Gods! what a life you live!—by day a slave
  To your exacting back and urgent belly;
Intent to earn and vigilant to save—
  By night, attired so sightly and so smelly,
  With countenance as luminous as jelly,
Bobbing and bowing! King of hearts and knave
  Of diamonds, I'd bet a silver brick
  If brains were trumps you'd never take a trick.

EXPOSITOR VERITATIS

I Slept, and, waking in the years to be,
  Heard voices, and approaching whence they came,
Listened indifferently where a key
  Had lately been removed. An ancient dame
Said to her daughter: 'Go to yonder caddy
And get some emery to scour your daddy.'
And then I knew—some intuition said—
  That tombs were not and men had cleared their shelves