Black Beetles in Amber

Who's this that lispeth in the thickening throng
Which crowds to claim distinction in my song?
Fresh from 'the palms and temples of the South,'
The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth:
Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale,
And that the odor of a spicy tale.
Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea
(No finer one did Kubla Khan decree)
Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost stand
With joys and mysteries on either hand,
Dost keep a poet to report the rites
And sing the tale of those Elysian nights?
Faith, sir, I'd like the place if not too young.
I'm no great bard, but—I can hold my tongue.

AD CATTONUM

I know not, Mr. Catton, who you are,
Nor very clearly why; but you go far
To show that you are many things beside
A Chilean Consul with a tempting hide;
But what they are I hardly could explain
Without afflicting you with mental pain.
Your name (gods! what a name the muse to woo—
Suggesting cats, and hinting kittens, too!)
Points to an origin—perhaps Maltese,
Perhaps Angoran—where the wicked cease
From fiddling, and the animals that grow
The strings that groan to the tormenting bow
Live undespoiled of their insides, resigned
To give their name and nature to mankind.
With Chilean birth your name but poorly tallies;
The test is—Did you ever sell tamales?
It matters very little, though, my boy,
If you're from Chile or from Illinois;
You can't, because you serve a foreign land,
Spit with impunity on ours, expand,
Cock-turkeywise, and strut with blind conceit,
All heedless of the hearts beneath your feet,
Fling falsehoods as a sower scatters grain
And, for security, invoke disdain.
Sir, there are laws that men of sense observe,
No matter whence they come nor whom they serve—
The laws of courtesy; and these forbid
You to malign, as recently you did,
As servant of another State, a State
Wherein your duties all are concentrate;
Branding its Ministers as rogues—in short,
Inviting cuffs as suitable retort.
Chileno or American, 'tis one—
Of any land a citizen, or none—
If like a new Thersites here you rail,
Loading with libels every western gale,
You'll feel the cudgel on your scurvy hump
Impinging with a salutary thump.
'Twill make you civil or 'twill make you jump!

THE NATIONAL GUARDSMAN

I'm a gorgeous golden hero
  And my trade is taking life.
Hear the twittle-twittle-tweero
  Of my sibillating fife
And the rub-a-dub-a-dum
  Of my big bass drum!
I'm an escort strong and bold,
  The Grand Army to protect.
My countenance is cold
  And my attitude erect.
I'm a Californian Guard
  And my banner flies aloft,
But the stones are O, so hard!
  And my feet are O, so soft!

THE BARKING WEASEL

You say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor hath
  A painted beard. Quite likely that is true,
And sure 'tis natural you spend your wrath
  On what has been least merciful to you.
By Taylor's chin, if I am not mistaken,