Black Beetles in Amber

'Who are you?' asked St. Peter. Massett said:
'Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville.' Peter bowed his head,
Opened the gates and said: 'I'm glad to know you,
And wish we'd something better, sir, to show you.'
'Don't mention it,' said Stephen, looking bland,
And was about to enter, hat in hand,
When from a cloud below such fumes arose
As tickled tenderly his conscious nose.
He paused, replaced his hat upon his head,
Turned back and to the saintly warden said,
O'er his already sprouting wings: 'I swear
I smell some broiling going on down there!'
So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell,
Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.

ORNITHANTHROPOS

'Let John P. Irish rise!' the edict rang
As when Creation into being sprang!
Nature, not clearly understanding, tried
To make a bird that on the air could ride.
But naught could baffle the creative plan—
Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man.
Yet he had risen—to the bird a twin—
Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.

TO E.S. SALOMON

    Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against

    decorating the graves of Confederate dead.

What! Salomon! such words from you,
  Who call yourself a soldier? Well,
  The Southern brother where he fell
Slept all your base oration through.
Alike to him—he cannot know
  Your praise or blame: as little harm
  Your tongue can do him as your arm
A quarter-century ago.
The brave respect the brave. The brave
  Respect the dead; but you—you draw
  That ancient blade, the ass's jaw,
And shake it o'er a hero's grave.
Are you not he who makes to-day
  A merchandise of old renown
  Which he persuades this easy town
He won in battle far away?
Nay, those the fallen who revile
  Have ne'er before the living stood
  And stoutly made their battle good
And greeted danger with a smile.
What if the dead whom still you hate
  Were wrong? Are you so surely right?
  We know the issue of the fight—
The sword is but an advocate.
Men live and die, and other men
  Arise with knowledges diverse:
  What seemed a blessing seems a curse,
And Now is still at odds with Then.
The years go on, the old comes back
  To mock the new—beneath the sun.
  Is nothing new; ideas run
Recurrent in an endless track.
What most we censure, men as wise
  Have reverently practiced; nor
  Will future wisdom fail to war
On principles we dearly prize.
We do not know—we can but deem,
  And he is loyalest and best
  Who takes the light full on his breast
And follows it throughout the dream.
The broken light, the shadows wide—
  Behold the battle-field displayed!
  God save the vanquished from the blade,
The victor from the victor's pride!
If, Salomon, the blessed dew
  That falls upon the Blue and Gray
  Is powerless to wash away
The sin of differing from you.
Remember how the flood of years
  Has rolled across the erring slain;
  Remember, too, the cleansing rain
Of widows' and of orphans' tears.
The dead are dead—let that atone:
  And though with equal hand we strew
  The blooms on saint and sinner too,
Yet God will know to choose his own.
The wretch, whate'er his life and lot,