with one wife, ten wenches and no grammar.
All that and more you’re suffering, my friend,
For, having married all the maids you saw,
You contumaciously refuse to bend
A corrigible back to altered law
And leave them (all but one) lamenting. Pshaw!
Don’t be so squeamish. Yes, the children may
Lament a little too when made acquainted
With their mischance in being put away,
And your own countenance with shame be painted;
But that’s the smallest price for which we’ll sell
A seat in Congress and a bed in Hell.
Judex Jocosus
We blench when maniacs to dance begin.
What makes a skull so dreadful is the grin.
When horrible and ludicrous unite,
Our sense of humor does but feed our fright.
As the shocked spirit with a double dread
Might see a monkey watching by the dead,
Or headsman part a neck, without a fault,
While turning o’er the block a somersault.
So, Judge Hilario, the untroubled awe
And reverence men cherish for the law
Turn all to terror when with wit profound
And tricksy humor you the law expound.
More frightful sounds the felon’s doom by half
From lips still twisted to an idiot laugh.
“Graft”
Cuba, our pupil, let thy glory shine—
Our own is brighter, but effulgent thine!
Lately thine arms struck terror to the foe,
And now thy hands bring treasuries to woe!
Daughter of Terrors, Mother of Alarms,
Courage himself may fly before thine arms;
But O, what thing escapes, what thing withstands,
The power of those comprehensive hands?
The Tale of a Crime
Once, in the olden time, a certain King
(But where he reigned I know not) said: “Go bring
My Chief Adviser here before the throne.
And cut his head off clear down to the bone!”
“With pleasure, Sire,” said—keen to earn his wage—
The High Dissuader from the Sin of Age;
“But kings should still be civil, even when just:
You’ll charge the villain with some crime, I trust?”
“Why, that’s no more than fair,” the King replied.
They brought the culprit in, securely tied,
And the King said: “Let someone who can read
Stand forward and unfold the Golden Screed,
Bright with the names of all the sins and crimes
And vices ever known from ancient times.
We’ll fit the fellow for the headsman’s prank
With one appropriate to his face and rank.”
In drowsy monotone the Lector read
The shining list, beginning at the head.
(Lèse-majesté was naturally first—
Of crimes conceivable, the blackest, worst!)
As each was named the prisoner addressed
The throne and, as the law compelled, confessed.
’Twas fatal not to: in that olden day
Little was heard about the law’s delay.
But still the royal taste could find for him
No crime well suited to the royal whim,
And, wearied by the reader’s droning voice,
The sovereign fell asleep, nor made a choice—
Snored like an organ till the stones were jarred
Distinguishing the palace from the yard.
Meantime, the accused continued to confess,
Each nod said “guilty” and each look said “yes.”
And still the monarch slept: each courtier feared
To wake him lest himself should “lose his beard.”
(’Twas a fine euphemism, and meant his head—
Some things for prudence are obliquely said.)
“Finis” the reader said, and roundabout
Fell silence like a loud awakening shout!
The startled sovereign left a snore half-snored—
“That’s what the scoundrel’s guilty of!” he roared.
So there before the king upon his throne.
They cut his head off clean down to the bone!
And all the devils made a joyous din
To celebrate the new and lovely sin.
To the Bartholdi Statue
O Liberty, God-gifted—
Young and immortal maid—
In your high hand uplifted,
The torch declares your trade.
Its crimson menace, flaming
Upon the sea and shore,
Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming
That Law shall be no more.
Austere incendiary,
We’re blinking in the light;
Where is your customary
Grenade of dynamite?
Where are your staves and switches
For men of gentle birth?
Your mask and dirk for riches?
Your chains for wit and worth?
Perhaps, you’ve brought the halters
You used in the old days,
When round religion’s altars
You stabled Cromwell’s bays?
Behind you, unsuspected,
Have you the axe, fair wench,
Wherewith you once collected
A poll-tax from the French?
America salutes you—
Preparing to “disgorge.”
Take everything that suits you,
And marry Henry George.
An Unmerry Christmas
Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year.
One place it never comes, and that is here.
Here, in these pages no good wishes spring,
No well-worn greetings tediously ring—
For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore:
The hollower they are they ring the more.
Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade,
Nor mistletoe my solitude invade,
No trinket-laden vegetable come,
No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum.
No shrilling children shall their voices rear.
Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer!
No presents, if you please—I know too well
What Herbert Spencer, if he didn’t tell
(I know not if he did) yet might have told
Of present-giving in the days of old,
When Early Man with gifts propitiated
The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated,
Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude
Advantage from the taker’s gratitude.
Since thus the Gift its origin derives
(How much of its first character survives
You know as well as I) my stocking’s tied,
My pocket buttoned—with my soul inside.
I save my money and I save my pride.
Dinner? Yes; thank you—just a baby’s body
Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy
To give me appetite; and as to drink,
About a half a jug of blood, I think,
Will do; for still I love the good red wine,
Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine
Fretting the satin surface of its flood.
O tope of kings—divine Falernian—blood!
Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb,
The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn!
Has not a pagan rights to be regarded—
His heart assaulted and his ear bombarded
With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan
Even in his demonium would ban?
No, friends—no Christmas here, for I have sworn
To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn.
Enough you have of jester, player, priest:
I as the skeleton attend your feast,
In the mad revelry to make a lull
With shaken finger and with bobbing skull.
However you my services may flout,
Philosophy disdain and reason doubt,
I mean to hold in customary state,
My dismal revelry and celebrate
My yearly rite until the crack o’ doom—
Ignore the cheerful season’s warmth and bloom
And cultivate an oasis of gloom.
Erected
