bedrock.
Physicians once about the bed
Of one whose life was nearly sped
Blew up a disputatious breeze
About the cause of his disease:
This, that and t’other thing they blamed.
“Tut, tut!” the dying man exclaimed,
“What made me ill I do not care;
You’ve not an ounce of it, I’ll swear.
And if you had the skill to make it
I’d see you hanged before I’d take it!”
An Imposter
Must you, Carnegie, evermore explain
Your worth, and all the reasons give again
Why black and red are similarly white
And you and God identically right?
Still must our ears without redress submit
To hear you play the solemn hypocrite
Walking in spirit some high moral level,
Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil?
Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made
Your mouth without a tongue I ne’er had prayed
To have an earless head. Since she did not,
Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot—
Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air
So delicately, mercifully rare
That when the fellow climbs that giddy hill,
As, for my sins, I know at last he will,
To utter twaddle in that void inane
His soundless organ he will play in vain.
France
Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive:
Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive;
A Prince who’d govern where he dares not dwell,
And who for power would his birthright sell—
Who, eager o’er his enemies to reign,
Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain;
While pugnant factions mutually strive
By cutting throats to keep the land alive.
Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse—
To all a mistress, to thyself a curse;
Sweetheart of Europe! every sun’s embrace
Matures the charm and poison of thy grace.
Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings:
In blood of citizens and blood of kings
The stones of thy stability are set,
And the fair fabric trembles at a threat.
A Guest
Death, are you well? I trust you have no cough
That’s painful or in any way annoying—
No kidney trouble that may carry you off,
Nor heart disease to keep you from enjoying
Your meals—and ours. ’Twere very sad indeed
To have to quit the busy life you lead.
You’ve been quite active lately for so old
A person, and not very strong-appearing.
I’m apprehensive, somehow, that my bold,
Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing.
And my two friends—I fear, sir, that you ran
Quite hard for them, especially the man.
I crave your pardon: ’twas no fault of mine;
If you are overworked I’m sorry, very.
Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine.
What shall it be—madeira, port or sherry?
What! just a mug of blood? That’s funny grog
To ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog!
A False Prophecy
Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil
(Whence coffee comes, and the three-cornered nut)
They say that you’re imperially ill,
And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut!
Though Emperors are mortal, nothing but
A nimble thunderbolt could catch and kill
A man predestined to depart this life
By the assassin’s bullet, bomb or knife.
Sir, once there was a President who freed
Four million slaves; and once there was a Czar
Who freed ten times as many serfs. Sins breed
The means of punishment, and tyrants are
Hurled headlong out of the triumphal car
If faster than the law allows they speed.
Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut;
You freed slaves too. Paralysis—tut-tut.
A Song of the Many
God’s people sorely were oppressed,
I heard their lamentations long;—
I hear their singing, clear and strong,
I see their banners in the West!
The captains shout the battle-cry,
The legions muster in their might;
They turn their faces to the light,
They lift their arms, they testify:
“We sank beneath the masters’ thong,
Our chafing chains were ne’er undone;—
Now clash your lances in the sun
And bless your banners with a song!
“God bides His time with patient eyes
While tyrants build upon the land;—
He lifts His face, he lifts His hand,
And from the stones His temples rise.
“Now Freedom waves her joyous wing
Beyond the foemen’s shields of gold.
March forward, singing, for, behold,
The right shall rule while God is King!”
One Morning
Because that I am weak, my love, and ill
I cannot follow the impatient feet
Of my desire, but sit and watch the beat
Of the unpitying pendulum fulfill
The hour appointed for the air to thrill
And brighten at your coming. O my sweet,
The tale of moments is at last complete—
The tryst is broken on the gusty hill!
O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed,
The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not:
Think rather that the clock and sun have lied
And all too early you have sought the spot.
For lo! despair has darkened all the light,
And till I see your face it still is night.
The King of Bores
Abundant bores afflict this world, and some
Are bores of magnitude that come and—no,
They’re always coming, but they never go—
Like funeral pageants, as they drone and hum
Their lurid nonsense like a muffled drum,
Or bagpipe’s dread, unnecessary flow.
But one superb tormentor I can show—
Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum.
He the johndonkey is who, when I pen
Amorous verses in an idle mood
To nobody, or of her, reads them through
And, smirking, says he knows the lady; then
Calls me sly dog. I wish he understood
This tender sonnet’s application too.
History
What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice,
Another indolence, another dice.
Emascle says polygamy. “Not so,”
Says Impycu—“ ’twas luxury and show.”
The parson, lifting up a brow of brass,
Swears superstition gave the coup de grâce.
Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms
’Twas lack of coin (croaks Medico: “ ’Twas worms!”)—
And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars,
Averring that no coins were silver dollars.
Thus, through the ages, each presuming quack
Turns the poor corpse upon its rotten back,
Holds a new “autopsy” and finds that death
Resulted partly from the want of breath,
But chiefly from some visitation sad
That points his argument or serves his fad.
They’re all in error—never human mind
The cause of the disaster has divined.
What slew the Roman power? Well, provided
You’ll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did.
The Hermit
To a hunter from the city,
Overtaken by the night,
Spake, in tones of tender pity
For himself, an aged wight:
“I
