Poetry

here
This wooden monument we rear
In memory of Dr. May,
Whose smile even Death could not allay.
He’s buried, Heaven alone knows where,
And only the hyenas care;
This May-pole merely marks the spot
Where, ere the wretch began to rot,
Fame’s trumpet, with its brazen bray,
Bawled; “Who (and why) was Dr. May?”

XXIV

Dennis Spencer’s mortal coil
Here is laid away to spoil⁠—
Great riparian, who said
Not a stream should leave its bed.
Now his soul would like a river
Turned upon its parching liver.

XXV

For those this mausoleum is erected
Who Stanford to the Upper House elected.
Their luck is less or their promotion slower,
For, dead, they were elected to the Lower.

XXVI

Beneath this stone sleeps Reuben Lloyd,
Of breath deprived, of sense devoid.
The Templars’ Captain-General, he
So formidable seemed to be,
That had he not been on his back
Death ne’er had ventured to attack.

XXVII

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse⁠—
So small a tenant of so big a house!

Who loved to loll on the Parnassian mount,
His pen to suck and all his thumbs to count.

What poetry he’d written but for lack
Of skill, when he had counted, to count back!

Alas, no more he’ll climb the sacred steep
To wake the lyre and put the world to sleep!

To his rapt lip his soul no longer springs
And like a jaybird from a knot-hole sings.

No more the clubmen, pickled with his wine,
Spread wide their ears and hiccough: “That’s divine!”

The genius of his purse no longer draws
The pleasing thunders of a paid applause.

All silent now, nor sound nor sense remains,
Though riddances of worms improve his brains.

All his no talents to the earth revert,
And Fame concludes the record: “Dirt to dirt!”

XXVIII

This grave holds Barnes in all his glory⁠—
Master he of oratOry.
When he died the people, weeping
(For they thought him only sleeping)
Cried: “Although he now is quiet
And his tongue is not a riot,
Soon, the spell that binds him breaking,
He a motion will be making.
Then, alas, he’ll rise and speak
In support of it a week.”

XXIX

Rash mortal! stay thy feet and look around⁠—
This vacant tomb as yet is holy ground;
But soon, alas! Jim Fair will occupy
These premises⁠—then, holiness, good-bye!

XXX

Here Salomon’s body reposes;
Bring roses, ye rebels, bring roses.
Set all of your drumsticks a-moving,
Discretion and Valor approving;
Discretion⁠—he always retreated⁠—
And Valor⁠—the dead he defeated.
Brings roses, ye loyal, bring roses:
As patriot here he re-poses.

XXXI

When Waterman ended his bright career
He left his wet name to history here.
To carry it with him he thought unfair:
’Twould tantalize spirits of statesmen There.

XXXII

Here lie the remains of Fred Emerson Brooks,
A poet, as everyone knew by his looks
Who hadn’t, unluckily, met with his books.

On civic occasions he sprang to the fore
With poems consisting of stanzas three score.
The men whom they deafened enjoyed them the more.

In this peaceful spot, so the grave-diggers say,
With pen, ink and paper they laid him away⁠—
The Poet-elect of the Judgment Day.

XXXIII

George Perry here is stiff and stark,
With stone at foot and stone at head.
His heart was dark, his mind was dark⁠—
“Ignorant ass!” the people said.

Not ignorant but skilled, alas,
In all the secrets of his trade:
He knew more ways to be an ass
Than any ass that ever brayed.

XXXIV

Here lies the last of Deacon Fitch,
Whose business was to melt the pitch.
Convenient to this sacred spot
Lies Sammy, who applied it, hot.
’Tis hard⁠—so much alike they smell⁠—

One’s grave from t’other’s grave to tell,
But when his tomb the Deacon’s burst
(Of two he’ll always be the first)
He’ll see by studying the stones
That he’s obtained his proper bones,
Then, seeking Sammy’s vault, unlock it,
And put that person in his pocket.

XXXV

Beneath this stone O’Donnell’s tongue’s at rest⁠—
Our noses by his spirit still addressed.
Living or dead, he’s equally Satanic⁠—
His noise a terror and his smell a panic.

XXXVI

Hangman’s hands laid in this tomb an
Imp of Satan’s getting, whom an
Ancient legend says that woman
Never bore⁠—he owed his birth
To Sin herself. From Hell to Earth
She brought the brat in secret state
And laid him at the Golden Gate,
And they named him Henry Vrooman.
While with mortals here he stayed,
His father frequently he played.
Raised his birth-place and in other
Playful ways begot his mother.

XXXVII

When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast
And swears that Time’s forever past,
Days, weeks, months, years all one at last,
Then Asa Fiske, lying here unblest,
Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast:
There’ll be no rate of interest!

XXXVIII

Step lightly, stranger: here Jerome B. Cox
Is for the second time in a bad box.
He killed a man⁠—the labor party rose
And showed him by its love how killing goes.

XXXIX

When Vrooman here lay down to sleep,
The other dead awoke to weep.
“Since he no longer lives,” they said
“Small honor comes of being dead.”

XL

Here Porter Ashe is in the ground
Green grows the grass upon his mound.
This patron of the turf, I vow,
Ne’er served it half so well as now.

XLI

Like a cold fish escaping from its tank,
Hence fled the soul of Joe Russel, crank.
He cried: “Cold water!” roaring like a beast.
’Twas thrown upon him and the music ceased.

XLII

Here Estee rests. He shook a basket,
When, like a jewel from its casket,
Fell Felton out. Said Estee, shouting
With mirth; “I’ve given you an outing.”
Then told him to go back. He wouldn’t.
Then tried to put him back. He couldn’t.
So Estee died (his blood congealing
In Felton’s growing shadow) squealing.

XLIII

Mourn here for one Bruner, called Elwood.
He doesn’t⁠—he never did⁠—smell good
To noses of critics and scholars.
If now he’d an office to sell could
He sell it? O, no⁠—where (in Hell) could
He find a cool four hundred dollars?

XLIV

Here Stanford lies, who thought it odd
That he should go to meet his God.
He looked, until his eyes grew dim,
For God to hasten to meet him.

Uncollected Verse

Basilica

With aimless feet, along the verge
Of ocean, where