Have reverently practiced; nor
Will future wisdom fail to war
On principles we dearly prize.
We do not know — we can but deem,
And he is loyalest and best
Who takes the light full on his breast
And follows it throughout the dream.
The broken light, the shadows wide —
Behold the battle-field displayed!
God save the vanquished from the blade,
The victor from the victor’s pride!
If, Salomon, the blessed dew
That falls upon the Blue and Gray
Is powerless to wash away
The sin of differing from you.
Remember how the flood of years
Has rolled across the erring slain;
Remember, too, the cleansing rain
Of widows’ and of orphans’ tears.
The dead are dead — let that atone:
And though with equal hand we strew
The blooms on saint and sinner too,
Yet God will know to choose his own.
The wretch, whate’er his life and lot,
Who does not love the harmless dead
With all his heart and all his head —
May God forgive him — I shall not.
When, Salomon, you come to quaff
The Darker Cup with meeker face,
I, loving you at last, shall trace
Upon your tomb this epitaph:
“Draw near, ye generous and brave —
Kneel round this monument and weep:
It covers one who tried to keep
A flower from a dead man’s grave.”
DENNIS KEARNEY
Your influence, my friend, has gathered head —
To east and west its tides encroaching spread.
There’ll be, on all God’s foot-stool, when they meet,
No clean spot left for God to set His feet.
FINIS ÆTERNITATIS
Strolling at sunset in my native land,
With fruits and flowers thick on either hand,
I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way,
Emerging on a waste of rock and sand.
“The apples all are gone from here,” I said,
“The roses perished and their spirits fled.
I will go back.” A voice cried out: “The man
Is risen who eternally was dead!”
I turned and saw an angel standing there,
Newly descended from the heights of air.
Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his hands
A naked sword and golden trumpet bare.
“Nay, ‘twas not death, the shadow that I crossed,”
I said. “Its chill was but a touch of frost.
It made me gasp, but quickly I came through,
With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost.”
‘Twas the same land! Remembered mountains thrust
Grayed heads asky, and every dragging gust,
In ashen valleys where my sons had reaped,
Stirred in familiar river-beds the dust.
Some heights, where once the traveler was shown
The youngest and the proudest city known,
Lifted smooth ridges in the steely light —
Bleak, desolate acclivities of stone.
Where I had worshiped at my father’s tomb,
Within a massive temple’s awful gloom,
A jackal slunk along the naked rock,
Affrighted by some prescience of doom.
Man’s vestiges were nowhere to be found,
Save one brass mausoleum on a mound
(I knew it well) spared by the artist Time
To emphasize the desolation round.
Into the stagnant sea the sullen sun
Sank behind bars of crimson, one by one.
”Eternity’s at hand!” I cried aloud.
“Eternity,” the angel said, “is done.
For man is ages dead in every zone;
The angels all are dead but I alone;
The devils, too, are cold enough at last,
And God lies dead before the great white throne!
‘Tis foreordained that I bestride the shore
When all are gone (as Gabriel did before,
When I had throttled the last man alive)
And swear Eternity shall be no more.”
“O Azrael — O Prince of Death, declare
Why conquered I the grave?” I cried. “What rare,
Conspicuous virtues won this boon for me?”
“You’ve been revived,” he said, “to hear me swear.”
“Then let me creep again beneath the grass,
And knock thou at yon pompous tomb of brass.
If ears are what you want, Charles Crocker’s there —
Betwixt the greatest ears, the greatest ass.”
He rapped, and while the hollow echoes rang,
Out at the door a curst hyena sprang
And fled! Said Azrael: “His soul’s escaped,”
And closed the brazen portal with a bang.
THE VETERAN
John Jackson, once a soldier bold,
Hath still a martial feeling;
So, when he sees a foe, behold!
He charges him — with stealing.
He cares not how much ground to-day
He gives for men to doubt him;
He’s used to giving ground, they say,
Who lately fought with — out him.
When, for the battle to be won,
His gallantry was needed,
They say each time a loaded gun
Went off — so, likewise, he did.
And when discharged (for war’s a sport
So hot he had to leave it)
He made a very loud report,
But no one did believe it.
AN EXHIBIT
Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbid
That I should smile above him:
Though truth to tell, I never did
Exactly love him.
It can’t be wrong, though, to rejoice
That his unpleasing capers
Are ended. Silent is his voice
In all the papers.
No longer he’s a show: no more,
Bear-like, his den he’s walking.
No longer can he hold the floor
When I’d be talking.
The laws that govern jails are bad
If such displays are lawful.
The fate of the assassin’s sad,
But ours is awful!
What! shall a wretch condemned to die
In shame upon the gibbet
Be set before the public eye
As an “exhibit”? —
His looks, his actions noted down,
His words if light or solemn,
And all this hawked about the town —
So much a column?
The press, of course, will publish news
However it may get it;
But blast the sheriff who’ll abuse
His powers to let it!
Nay, this is not ingratitude;
I’m no reporter, truly,
Nor yet an editor. I’m rude
Because unruly —
Because I burn with shame and rage
Beyond my power of telling
To see assassins in a cage
And keepers yelling.
“Walk up! Walk up!” the showman cries:
”Observe the lion’s poses,
His stormy mane, his glooming eyes.
His — hold your noses!”
How long, O Lord, shall Law and Right
Be mocked for gain or glory,
And angels weep as they recite
The shameful story?
THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A SOUL
What! Pixley, must I hear you call the roll
Of all the vices that infest your soul?
Was’t not enough th
at lately you did bawl
Your money-worship in the ears of all?[A]
Still must you crack your brazen cheek to tell
That though a miser you’re a sot as well?
Still must I hear how low your taste has sunk —
From getting money down to getting drunk?[B]
Who worships money, damning all beside,
And shows his callous knees with pious pride,
Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e’er scorns
His own possessions, be they coins or corns.
You’ve money, neighbor; had you gentle birth
You’d know, as now you never can, its worth.
You’ve money; learning is beyond your scope,
Deaf to your envy, stubborn to your hope.
But if upon your undeserving head
Science and letters had their glory shed;
If in the cavern of your skull the light
Of knowledge shone where now eternal night
Breeds the blind, poddy, vapor-fatted naughts
Of cerebration that you think are thoughts —
Black bats in cold and dismal corners hung
That squeak and gibber when you move your tongue —
You would not write, in Avarice’s defense,
A senseless eulogy on lack of sense,
Nor show your eagerness to sacrifice
All noble virtues to one loathsome vice.
You’ve money; if you’d manners too you’d shame
To boast your weakness or your baseness name.
Appraise the things you have, but measure not
The things denied to your unhappy lot.
He values manners lighter than a cork
Who combs his beard at table with a fork.
Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake,
The laws of taste condemn you to the stake
To expiate, where all the world may see,
The crime of growing old disgracefully.
Religion, learning, birth and manners, too,
All that distinguishes a man from you,
Pray damn at will: all shining virtues gain
An added luster from a rogue’s disdain.
But spare the young that proselyting sin,
A toper’s apotheosis of gin.
If not our young, at least our pigs may claim
Exemption from the spectacle of shame!
Are you not he who lately out of shape
Blew a brass trumpet to denounce the grape? —
Who led the brave teetotalers afield
And slew your leader underneath your shield? —
Swore that no man should drink unless he flung
Himself across your body at the bung?
Who vowed if you’d the power you would fine
The Son of God for making water wine?
All trails to odium you tread and boast,
Yourself enamored of the dirtiest most.
One day to be a miser you aspire,
The next to wallow drunken in the mire;
The third, lo! you’re a meritorious liar![C]
Pray, in the catalogue of all your graces,
Have theft and cowardice no honored places?
Yield thee, great Satan — here’s a rival name
With all thy vices and but half thy shame!
Quick to the letter of the precept, quick
To the example of the elder Nick;
With as great talent as was e’er applied
To fool a teacher and to fog a guide;
With slack allegiance and boundless greed,
To paunch the profit of a traitor deed,
He aims to make thy glory all his own,
And crowd his master from the infernal throne!
[Footnote A: We are not writing this paragraph for any other purpose than to protest against this never ending cant, affectation, and hypocrisy about money. It is one of the best things in this world — better than religion, or good birth, or learning, or good manners. — The Argonaut.]
[Footnote B: Now, it just occurs to us that some of our temperance friends will take issue with us, and say that this is bad doctrine, and that it is ungentlemanly to get drunk under any circumstances or under any possible conditions. We do not think so. — The same.]
[Footnote C: The man or woman who, for the sake of benefiting others, protecting them in their lives, property, or reputation, sparing their feelings, contributing to their enjoyment, or increasing their pleasures, will tell a lie, deserves to be rewarded. — The same.]
AN ACTOR
Some one (‘tis hardly new) has oddly said
The color of a trumpet’s blare is red;
And Joseph Emmett thinks the crimson shame
On woman’s cheek a trumpet-note of fame.
The more the red storm rises round her nose —
The more her eyes averted seek her toes,
He fancies all the louder he can hear
The tube resounding in his spacious ear,
And, all his varied talents to exert,
Darkens his dullness to display his dirt.
And when the gallery’s indecent crowd,
And gentlemen below, with hisses loud,
In hot contention (these his art to crown,
And those his naked nastiness to drown)
Make such a din that cheeks erewhile aflame
Grow white and in their fear forget their shame,
With impudence imperial, sublime,
Unmoved, the patient actor bides his time,
Till storm and counter-storm are both allayed,
Like donkeys, each by t’other one outbrayed.
When all the place is silent as a mouse
One slow, suggestive gesture clears the house!
FAMINE’S REALM
To him in whom the love of Nature has
Imperfectly supplanted the desire
And dread necessity of food, your shore,
Fair Oakland, is a terror. Over all
Your sunny level, from Tamaletown
To where the Pestuary’s fragrant slime,
With dead dogs studded, bears its ailing fleet,
Broods the still menace of starvation. Bones
Of men and women bleach along the ways
And pampered vultures sleep upon the trees.
It is a land of death, and Famine there
Holds sovereignty; though some there be her sway
Who challenge, and intrenched in larders live,
Drawing their sustentation from abroad.
But woe to him, the stranger! He shall die
As die the early righteous in the bud
And promise of their prime. He, venturesome
To penetrate the wilds rectangular
Of grass-grown ways luxuriant of blooms,
Frequented of the bee and of the blithe,
Bold squirrel, strays with heedless feet afar
From human habitation and is lost
In mid-Broadway. There hunger seizes him,
And (careless man! deeming God’s providence
Extends so far) he has not wherewithal
To bate its urgency. Then, lo! appears
A mealery — a restaurant — a place
Where poison battles famine, and the two,
Like fish-hawks warring in the upper sky
For that which one has taken from the deep,
Manage between them to dispatch the prey.
He enters and leaves hope behind. There ends
His history. Anon his bones, clean-picked
By buzzards (with the bones himself had picked,
Incautious) line the highway. O, my friends,
Of all felonious and deadlywise
Devices of the Enemy of Souls,
Planted along the ways of life to snare
Man’s mortal and immortal part alike,
The Oakland restaurant is chief. It lives
That man may die. It flourishes that life
May wither. Its foundation stones repose
On human hearts and hopes. I’ve seen in it
Crabs stewed in milk and salad offered up
With dressing so unholily compound
That it included flour and sugar! Yea,
I’ve eaten dog there! — dog, as I’m a man,
Dog seethed in sewage of the town! No more —
Thy hand, Dyspepsia, assumes the pen
And scrawls a tortured “Finis” on the page.
THE MACKAIAD
Mackay’s hot wrath to Bonynge, direful spring
Of blows unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing —
That wrath which hurled to Hellman’s office floor
Two heroes, mutually smeared with gore,
Whose hair in handfuls marked the dire debate,
And riven coat-tails testified their hate.
Sing, muse, what first their indignation fired,
What words augmented it, by whom inspired.
First, the great Bonynge comes upon the scene
And asks the favor of the British Queen.
Suppliant he stands and urges all his claim:
His wealth, his portly person and his name,
His habitation in the setting sun,
As child of nature; and his suit he won.
No more the Sovereign, wearied with his plea,
From slumber’s chain her faculties can free.
Low and more low the royal eyelids creep,
She gives the assenting nod and falls asleep.
Straightway the Bonynges all invade the Court
And telegraph the news to every port.
Beneath the seas, red-hot, the tidings fly,
The cables crinkle and the fishes fry!
The world, awaking like a startled bat,
Exclaims: “A Bonynge? What the devil’s that?”
Mackay, meanwhile, to envy all attent,
Untaught to spare, unable to relent,
Walks in our town on needles and on pins,
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 148