Poetry

“put mine in?” He replied:
“You look it”⁠—and the judgment pained me greatly;
Right gladly would I then and there have died,
But that I’d risen from the grave so lately.
But on examining that solemn, stately
Old ruin I remarked: “My friends, you err⁠—
The truth of this is just what I expected.
This building in its time made quite a stir.
I lived (was famous, too) when ’twas erected.
The names here first inscribed were much respected.
This is the Hall of Fame, or I’m a stork,
And this goat pasture once was called New York.”

Omnes Vanitas

Alas for ambition’s possessor!
Alas for the famous and proud!
The Isle of Manhattan’s best dresser
Is wearing a hand-me-down shroud.

The world has forgotten his glory;
The wagoner sings on his wain,
And Chauncey Depew tells a story,
And jackasses laugh in the lane.

The New “Ulalume”

The skies they were ashen and sober,
The leaves they were crisped and sere⁠—
”   ”     ”    ” withering ”   ”
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber⁠—
”  ” down ”  ” dark tarn ”  ”
In the   misty   mid  region of Weir⁠—
”  ” ghoul-haunted woodland ”  ”

Consolation

Little’s the good to sit and grieve
Because the serpent tempted Eve.
Better to wipe your eyes and take
A club and go out and kill a snake.

But if you prefer, as I suspect,
To philosophize, why, then, reflect:
If the cunning rascal upon the limb
Hadn’t tempted her she’d have tempted him.

Fate

Alas, alas, for the tourist’s guide!⁠—
He turned from the beaten trail aside,
Wandered bewildered, lay down and died.

O grim is the Irony of Fate:
It switches the man of low estate
And loosens the dogs upon the great.

It lights the fireman to roast the cook;
The fisherman writhes 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 Lout 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?

Salvini in America

Come, gentlemen⁠—your gold.
Thanks; welcome to the show,
To hear a story told
In words you do not know.

Now, great Salvini, rise
And thunder through your tears!
Aha! friends, let your eyes
Interpret to your ears.

Gods! ’tis a goodly game.
Observe his stride⁠—how grand!
When legs like his declaim
Who can misunderstand?

See how that arm goes round.
It says, as plain as day:
“I love,” “The lost is found,”
“Well met, sir,” or, “Away!”

And mark the drawing down
Of brows. How accurate
The language of that frown:
Pain, gentlemen⁠—or hate.

Those of the critic trade
Swear it is all as clear
As if his tongue were made
To fit an English ear.

Hear that Italian phrase!
Greek to your sense, ’tis true;
But shrug, expression, gaze⁠—
Well, they are Grecian too.

But it is Art! God wot
Art’s tongue to all is known.
Faith! he to whom ’twere not
Would better hold his own.

Shakespeare says act and word
Should match together true.
For what you’ve seen and heard,
How can you doubt they do?

Enchanting drama! Mark
The crowd “from pit to dome”;
One box alone is dark⁠—
The prompter stays at home.

Stupendous artist! You
Are lord of joy and woe:
We thrill if you say “Boo,”
And thrill if you say “Bo.”

Another Way

I lay in silence, dead. A woman came
And laid a rose upon my breast and said:
“May God be merciful.” She spoke my name,
And added: “It is strange to think him dead.

“He loved me well enough, but ’twas his way
To speak it lightly.” Then, beneath her breath:
“Besides”⁠—I knew what further she would say,
But then a footfall broke my dream of death.

To-day the words are mine. I lay the rose
Upon her breast, and speak her name, and deem
It strange indeed that she is dead. God knows
I had more pleasure in the other dream.

Art

For Gladstone’s portrait five thousand pounds
Were paid, ’tis said, to Sir John Millais.
I cannot help thinking that such fine pay
Transcended reason’s uttermost bounds.

For it seems to me uncommonly queer
That a painted British stateman’s price
Exceeds the established value thrice
Of a living statesman over here.

To One Across the Way

When at your