The weight of his ignorance fractured his neck.
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.
* * * * *
George Perry here lies 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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
When Gabriel blows a dreadful blast
And swears that Time’s forever past,
Days, weeks, months, years all one at last,
Then Asa Fiske, laid here, distressed,
Will beat (and skin his hand) his breast:
There’ll be no rate of interest!
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.”
* * * * *
Here Porter Ashe is laid to rest
Green grows the grass upon his breast.
This patron of the turf, I vow,
Ne’er served it half so well as now.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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.
* * * * *
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?
* * * * *
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.
SHAPES OF CLAY
W.E. Wood of San Francisco published Ambrose Bierce’s second collection of poetry, Shapes of Clay, in 1903. Like many of his other works, this volume collected pieces previously published in newspapers and magazines. Bierce revised and altered much of his work when it appeared in book form. He once said that an author has the right “to have his fugitive work in newspapers and periodicals put into a more permanent form during his lifetime if he can.” Herman Scheffauer reviewed Shapes of Clay in the June 1904 issue of Sunset Magazine, remarking that the poems and verse “are diverse in subject and treatment, serious, sentimental, satiric and humorous; some of his greatest work is here, some of his best and some of his minor. In all, however, the master-touch is visible and palpable…”
First edition, second issue, 1903 W.E. Wood
CONTENTS
THE PASSING SHOW.
ELIXER VITAE.
CONVALESCENT.
AT THE CLOSE OF THE CANVASS.
NOVUM ORGANUM.
GEOTHEOS.
YORICK.
A VISION OF DOOM.
POLITICS.
POESY.
IN DEFENSE.
AN INVOCATION.
RELIGION.
A MORNING FANCY.
VISIONS OF SIN.
THE TOWN OF DAE.
AN ANARCHIST.
AN OFFER OF MARRIAGE.
ARMA VIRUMQUE.
ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY.
A DEMAND.
THE WEATHER WIGHT.
T.A.H.
MY MONUMENT.
MAD.
HOSPITALITY.
FOR A CERTAIN CRITIC.
RELIGIOUS PROGRESS.
MAGNANIMITY.
TO HER.
TO A SUMMER POET.
CHARLES AND PETER.
CONTEMPLATION.
CREATION.
BUSINESS.
A POSSIBILITY.
TO A CENSOR.
THE HESITATING VETERAN.
A YEAR’S CASUALTIES.
INSPIRATION.
TO-DAY.
AN ALIBI.
REBUKE.
J.F.B.
THE DYING STATESMAN.
THE DEATH OF GRANT.
THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED.
LAUS LUCIS.
NANINE.
TECHNOLOGY.
A REPLY TO A LETTER.
TO OSCAR WILDE.
PRAYER.
A BORN LEADER OF MEN.
TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.
AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS.
BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT.
AN EPITAPH.
THE POLITICIAN.
AN INSCRIPTION
FROM VIRGINIA TO PARIS.
A MUTE INGLORIOUS MILTON.
THE FREE TRADER’S LAMENT.
SUBTERRANEAN PHANTASIES.
IN MEMORIAM
THE STATESMEN.
THE BROTHERS.
THE CYNIC’S BEQUEST
CORRECTED NEWS.
AN EXPLANATION.
JUSTICE.
MR. FINK’S DEBATING DONKEY.
TO MY LAUNDRESS.
FAME.
OMNES VANITAS.
ASPIRATION.
DEMOCRACY.
THE NEW ULALUME.
CONSOLATION.
FATE.
PHILOSOPHER BIMM.
REMINDED.
SALVINI IN AMERICA.
ANOTHER WAY.
ART.
AN ENEMY TO LAW AND ORDER.
TO ONE ACROSS THE WAY.
THE DEBTOR ABROAD.
FORESIGHT.
A FAIR DIVISION.
GENESIS.
LIBERTY.
THE PASSING OF BOSS SHEPHERD.
TO MAUDE.
THE BIRTH OF VIRTUE.
STONEMAN IN HEAVEN.
THE SCURRIL PRESS.
ONE OF THE UNFAIR SEX.
THE LORD’S PRAYER ON A COIN.
A LACKING FACTOR.
THE ROYAL JESTER.
A CAREER IN LETTERS.
THE FOLLOWING PAIR.
POLITICAL ECONOMY.
VANISHED AT COCK-CROW.
THE UNPARDONABLE SIN.
INDUSTRIAL DISC
ONTENT.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
CONTENTMENT.
THE NEW ENOCH.
DISAVOWAL.
AN AVERAGE.
WOMAN.
INCURABLE.
THE PUN.
A PARTISAN’S PROTEST.
TO NANINE.
VICE VERSA.
A BLACK-LIST.
A BEQUEST TO MUSIC.
AUTHORITY.
THE PSORIAD.
ONEIROMANCY.
PEACE.
THANKSGIVING.
SUPERINTENDENT:
PAUPER:
SUPERINTENDENT:
PAUPER.
SUPERINTENDENT:
L’AUDACE.
THE GOD’S VIEW-POINT.
THE AESTHETES.
JULY FOURTH.
WITH MINE OWN PETARD.
CONSTANCY.
SIRES AND SONS.
A CHALLENGE.
TWO SHOWS.
A POET’S HOPE.
THE WOMAN AND THE DEVIL.
TWO ROGUES.
BEECHER.
NOT GUILTY.
PRESENTIMENT.
A STUDY IN GRAY.
A PARADOX.
FOR MERIT.
A BIT OF SCIENCE.
THE TABLES TURNED.
TO A DEJECTED POET.
A FOOL.
THE HUMORIST.
MONTEFIORE.
A WARNING.
DISCRETION.
AN EXILE.
THE DIVISION SUPERINTENDENT.
PSYCHOGRAPHS.
TO A PROFESSIONAL EULOGIST.
FOR WOUNDS.
ELECTION DAY.
THE MILITIAMAN.
A LITERARY METHOD.
A WELCOME.
A SERENADE.
THE WISE AND GOOD.
THE LOST COLONEL.
FOR TAT.
A DILEMMA.
METEMPSYCHOSIS.
THE SAINT AND THE MONK.
THE OPPOSING SEX.
A WHIPPER-IN.
JUDGMENT.
THE FALL OF MISS LARKIN.
IN HIGH LIFE.
A BUBBLE.
A RENDEZVOUS.
FRANCINE.
AN EXAMPLE.
REVENGE.
THE GENESIS OF EMBARRASSMENT.
IN CONTUMACIAM.
RE-EDIFIED.
A BULLETIN.
FROM THE MINUTES.
WOMAN IN POLITICS.
TO AN ASPIRANT.
A BALLAD OF PIKEVILLE.
A BUILDER.
AN AUGURY.
LUSUS POLITICUS.
BEREAVEMENT.
AN INSCRIPTION FOR A STATUE OF NAPOLEON, AT WEST POINT.
A PICKBRAIN.
CONVALESCENT.
THE NAVAL CONSTRUCTOR.
DETECTED.
BIMETALISM.
THE RICH TESTATOR.
TWO METHODS.
FOUNDATIONS OF THE STATE
AN IMPOSTER.
UNEXPOUNDED.
FRANCE.
THE EASTERN QUESTION.
A GUEST.
A FALSE PROPHECY.
TWO TYPES.
SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. STEPHEN DORSEY.
STEPHEN J. FIELD.
GENERAL B.F. BUTLER.
A HYMN OF THE MANY.
ONE MORNING.
AN ERROR.
AT THE NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT.
THE KING OF BORES.
HISTORY.
THE HERMIT.
TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON.
THE YEARLY LIE.
COOPERATION.
AN APOLOGUE.
DIAGNOSIS.
FALLEN.
DIES IRAE.
DIES IRAE.
THE DAY OF WRATH.
ONE MOOD’S EXPRESSION.
SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS.
IN THE BINNACLE.
HUMILITY.
ONE PRESIDENT.
THE BRIDE.
STRAINED RELATIONS.
THE MAN BORN BLIND.
A NIGHTMARE.
A WET SEASON.
THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS.
HAEC FABULA DOCET.
EXONERATION.
AZRAEL.
AGAIN.
HOMO PODUNKENSIS.
A SOCIAL CALL.
DEDICATION.
WITH PRIDE IN THEIR WORK, FAITH IN THEIR FUTURE AND AFFECTION FOR THEMSELVES, AN OLD WRITER DEDICATES THIS BOOK TO HIS YOUNG FRIENDS AND PUPILS, GEORGE STERLING AND HERMAN SCHEFFAUER. A.B.
PREFACE.
Some small part of this book being personally censorious, and in that part the names of real persons being used without their assent, it seems fit that a few words be said of the matter in sober prose. What it seems well to say I have already said with sufficient clarity in the preface of another book, somewhat allied to this by that feature of its character. I quote from “Black Beetles in Amber:”
“Many of the verses in this book are republished, with considerable alterations, from various newspapers. Of my motives in writing and in now republishing I do not care to make either defence or explanation, except with reference to those who since my first censure of them have passed away. To one having only a reader’s interest in the matter it may easily seem that the verses relating to those might properly have been omitted from this collection. But if these pieces, or indeed, if any considerable part of my work in literature, have the intrinsic worth which by this attempt to preserve some of it I have assumed, their permanent suppression is impossible, and it is only a question of when and by whom they will be republished. Some one will surely search them out and put them in circulation.
“I conceive it the right of an author to have his fugitive work collected in his lifetime; and this seems to me especially true of one whose work, necessarily engendering animosities, is peculiarly exposed to challenge as unjust. That is a charge that can best be examined before time has effaced the evidence. For the death of a man of whom I have written what I may venture to think worthy to live I am no way responsible; and however sincerely I may regret it, I can hardly consent that it shall affect my literary fortunes. If the satirist who does not accept the remarkable doctrine that, while condemning the sin he should spare the sinner, were bound to let the life of his work be coterminous with that of his subject his were a lot of peculiar hardship.
“Persuaded of the validity of all this I have not hesitated to reprint even certain ‘epitaphs’ which, once of the living, are now of the dead, as all the others must eventually be. The objection inheres in all forms of applied satire — my understanding of whose laws and liberties is at least derived from reverent study of the masters. That in respect of matters herein mentioned I have but followed their practice can be shown by abundant instance and example.”
In arranging these verses for publication I have thought it needless to classify them according to character, as “Serious,” “Comic,” “Sentimental,” “Satirical,” and so forth. I do the reader the honor to think that he will readily discern the nature of what he is reading; and I entertain the hope that his mood will accommodate itself without disappointment to that of his author.
AMBROSE BIERCE.
THE PASSING SHOW.
I.
I know not if it was a dream. I viewed
A city where the restless multitude,
Between the eastern and the western deep
Had roared gigantic fabrics, strong and rude.
Colossal palaces crowned every height;
Towers from valleys climbed into the light;
O’er dwellings at their feet, great golden domes
Hung in the blue, barbarically bright.
But now, new-glimmering to-east, the day
Touched the black masses with a grace of gray,
Dim spires of temples to the nation’s God
Studding high spaces of the wide survey.
Well did the roofs their solemn secret keep
Of life and death stayed by the truce of sleep,
Yet whispered o
f an hour-when sleepers wake,
The fool to hope afresh, the wise to weep.
The gardens greened upon the builded hills
Above the tethered thunders of the mills
With sleeping wheels unstirred to service yet
By the tamed torrents and the quickened rills.
A hewn acclivity, reprieved a space,
Looked on the builder’s blocks about his base
And bared his wounded breast in sign to say:
”Strike! ‘t is my destiny to lodge your race.
“‘T was but a breath ago the mammoth browsed
Upon my slopes, and in my caves I housed
Your shaggy fathers in their nakedness,
While on their foeman’s offal they caroused.”
Ships from afar afforested the bay.
Within their huge and chambered bodies lay
The wealth of continents; and merrily sailed
The hardy argosies to far Cathay.
Beside the city of the living spread —
Strange fellowship! — the city of the dead;
And much I wondered what its humble folk,
To see how bravely they were housed, had said.
Noting how firm their habitations stood,
Broad-based and free of perishable wood —
How deep in granite and how high in brass
The names were wrought of eminent and good,
I said: “When gold or power is their aim,
The smile of beauty or the wage of shame,
Men dwell in cities; to this place they fare
When they would conquer an abiding fame.”
From the red East the sun — a solemn rite —
Crowned with a flame the cross upon a height
Above the dead; and then with all his strength
Struck the great city all aroar with light!
II.
I know not if it was a dream. I came
Unto a land where something seemed the same
That I had known as ‘t were but yesterday,
But what it was I could not rightly name.
It was a strange and melancholy land.
Silent and desolate. On either hand
Lay waters of a sea that seemed as dead,
And dead above it seemed the hills to stand,
Grayed all with age, those lonely hills — ah me,
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 165