knows
That very common act scarce takes attention.
What makes it worthy to be writ and read—
The man she married had been nine hours dead!
Now, marrying a corpse is not an act
Familiar to our daily observation,
And so I crave her pardon if the fact
Suggests this interesting speculation:
Should some mischance restore the man to life
Would she be then a widow, or a wife?
Let casuists contest the point; I’m not
Disposed to grapple with so great a matter.
’Twould tie my thinker in a double knot
And drive me staring mad as any hatter—
Though I submit that hatters are, in fact,
Sane, and all other human beings cracked.
Small thought have I of Destiny or Chance;
Luck seems to me the same thing as Intention;
In metaphysics I could ne’er advance,
And think it of the Devil’s own invention.
Enough of joy to know: Though when I wed
I must be married, yet I may be dead.
A Blacklist
“Resolved that we will post,” the tradesmen say,
“All names of debtors who do never pay.”
“Whose shall be first?” inquires the ready scribe—
“Who are the chiefs of the marauding tribe?”
Lo! high Parnassus, lifting from the plain,
Upon his hoary peak, a noble fane!
Within that temple all the names are scrolled
Of village bards, upon a slab of gold;
To that bad eminence, my friend, aspire,
And copy thou the Roll of Fame, entire.
Yet not to total shame those names devote,
But add in mercy this explaining note:
“These cheat because the law makes theft a crime,
And they obey all laws but laws of rhyme.”
Authority
“Authority, authority!” they shout
Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt,
Some chance opinion ever entertain,
By dogma billeted upon their brain.
“Ha!” they exclaim with choreatic glee,
“Here’s Dabster if you won’t give in to me—
Dabster, sir, Dabster, to whom all men look
With reverence!” The fellow wrote a book.
It matters not that many another wight
Has thought more deeply, could more wisely write
On t’ other side—that you yourself possess
Knowledge where Dabster did not badly guess.
God help you if ambitious to persuade
The fools who take opinion ready-made
And “recognize authorities.” Be sure
No tittle of their folly they’ll abjure
For all that you can say. But write it down,
Publish and die and get a great renown—
Faith! how they’ll snap it up, misread, misquote,
Swear that they had a hand in all you wrote,
And ride your fame like monkeys on a goat!
The Psoriad
The King of Scotland, years and years ago,
Convened his courtiers in a gallant row
And thus addressed them:
“Gentle sirs, from you
Abundant counsel I have had, and true:
What laws to make to serve the public weal;
What laws of Nature’s making to repeal;
What old religion is the only true one,
And what the greater merit of some new one;
What friends of yours my favor have forgot;
Which of your enemies against me plot.
In harvests ample to augment my treasures,
Behold the fruits of your sagacious measures!
The punctual planets, to their periods just,
Attest your wisdom and approve my trust.
Lo! the reward your faith and wisdom bring:
The grateful placemen bless their useful king!
But while you quaff the nectar of my favor
I mean somewhat to modify its flavor
By just infusing a peculiar dash
Of tonic bitter in the calabash.
And should you, too abstemious, disdain it,
Egad! I’ll hold your noses till you drain it!
“You know, you dogs, your master long has felt
A keen distemper in the royal pelt—
A testy, superficial irritation,
Brought home, I fancy, from some foreign nation.
For this a thousand simples you’ve prescribed—
Unguents external, draughts to be imbibed.
You’ve plundered Scotland of its plants, the seas
You’ve ravished, and despoiled the Hebrides
To brew me remedies which, in probation,
Were sovereign only in their application.
In vain, and eke in pain, have I applied
Your flattering unctions to my soul and hide:
Physic and hope have been my daily food—
I’ve swallowed treacle by the holy rood!
“Your wisdom which sufficed to guide the year
And tame the seasons in their mad career,
When set to higher purposes has failed me
And added anguish to the ills that ailed me.
Nor that alone, but each ambitious leech
His rivals’ skill has labored to impeach
By hints equivocal in secret speech.
For years, to conquer our respective broils,
We’ve plied each other with pacific oils
In vain: your turbulence is unallayed,
My flame unquenched; your rioting unstayed;
My life so wretched from your strife to save it
That death were welcome did I dare to brave it.
With zeal inspired by your intemperate pranks,
My subjects muster in contending ranks.
Those fling their banners to the startled breeze
To champion some royal ointment; these
The standard of some royal purge display
And ’neath that ensign wage a wasteful fray!
Brave tongues are thundering from sea to sea,
Torrents of sweat roll reeking o’er the lea!
My people perish in their martial fear,
And rival bagpipes cleave the royal ear!
“Now, caitiffs, tremble, for this very hour
Your injured sovereign shall assert his power!
Behold this lotion, carefully compound
Of all the poisons you for me have found—
Of biting washes such as tan the skin,
And drastic drinks to vex the parts within.
What aggravates an ailment will produce—
I mean to rub you with this dreadful juice!
Divided counsels you no more shall hatch—
At last you shall unanimously scratch.
Kneel, villains, kneel, and doff your shirts—God bless us!
They’ll seem, when you resume them, robes of Nessus!”
The sovereign ceased, and, sealing what he spoke,
From Arthur’s Seat1 confirming thunders broke.
The conscious culprits, to their fate resigned,
Sank to their knees, all piously inclined.
This act, from high Ben Lomond where she floats,
The thrifty goddess, Caledonia, notes.
Glibly as nimble sixpence, down she tilts
Headlong, and ravishes away their kilts,
Tears off each plaid and all their shirts discloses,
Removes each shirt and their broad backs exposes.
The king advanced—then cursing fled amain,
Dashing the phial to the stony plain
(Where’t straight became a fountain brimming o’er,
Whence Father Tweed derives his liquid store)
For lo! already on each back sans stitch
The red sign manual of the Rosy Witch!
Peace
When lion and lamb have together lain down
Spectators cry out, all in chorus:
“The lamb doesn’t shrink nor the lion frown—
A miracle’s working before us!”
But ’tis patent why Hot-head his wrath holds in,
And Faint-heart her terror and loathing;
For the one’s but an ass in a lion’s skin,
The other a
