Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics)

by Ambrose Bierce

  First this one mounts his hinder hoofs

  And brays the chimneys off the roofs;

  Then that one, with exalted voice,

  Expounds the thesis of his choice,

  Our understandings to bombard,

  Till all the window panes are starred!

  A third augments the vocal shock

  Till steeples to their bases rock,

  Confessing, as they humbly nod,

  They hear and mark the will of God.

  A fourth in oral thunder vents

  His awful penury of sense

  Till dogs with sympathetic howls,

  And lowing cows, and cackling fowls,

  Hens, geese, and all domestic birds,

  Attest the wisdom of his words.

  Cranks thus their intellects deflate

  Of theories about the State.

  This one avers ‘tis built on Truth,

  And that on Temperance. This youth

  Declares that Science bears the pile;

  That graybeard, with a holy smile,

  Says Faith is the supporting stone;

  While women swear that Love alone

  Could so unflinchingly endure

  The heavy load. And some are sure

  The solemn vow of Christian Wedlock

  Is the indubitable 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.

  UNEXPOUNDED.

  On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills,

  On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills,

  Lawyers great books indite;

  The creaking of their busy quills

  I’ve never heard on Right.

  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, anxious 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.

  THE EASTERN QUESTION.

  Looking across the line, the Grecian said:

  ”This border I will stain a Turkey red.”

  The Moslem smiled securely and replied:

  ”No Greek has ever for his country dyed.”

  While thus each patriot guarded his frontier,

  The Powers stole all the country in his rear.

  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,

  Or heart disease to keep you from enjoying

  Your meals — and ours. ‘T were 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 — Marsala, 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

  Ten million slaves; and once there was a Czar

  Who freed five 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!

  1885.

  TWO TYPES.

  Courageous fool! — the peril’s strength unknown.

  Courageous man! — so conscious of your own.

  SOME ANTE-MORTEM EPITAPHS. STEPHEN DORSEY.

  Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst,

  Where rests in Satan an offender first

  In point of greatness, as in point of time,

  Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime.

  Skilled with a frank loquacity to blab

  The dark arcana of each mighty grab,

  And famed for lying from his early youth,

  He sinned secure behind a veil of truth.

  Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some write

  A damning record and conceal from sight;

  Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it.

  His way to keep a secret was to tell it.

  STEPHEN J. FIELD.

  Here sleeps one of the greatest students

  Of jurisprudence.

  Nature endowed him with the gift

  Of the juristhrift.

  All points of law alike he threw

  The dice to settle.

  Those honest cubes were loaded true

  With railway metal.

  GENERAL B.F. BUTLER.

  Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God,

  We gave, O gallant brother;

  And o’er thy grave the awkward squad

  Fired into one another!

  Beneath this monument which rears its head.

  A giant note of admiration — dead,

  His life extinguished like a taper’s flame.

  John Ericsson is lying in his fame.

  Behold how massiv
e is the lofty shaft;

  How fine the product of the sculptor’s craft;

  The gold how lavishly applied; the great

  Man’s statue how impressive and sedate!

  Think what the cost-was! It would ill become

  Our modesty to specify the sum;

  Suffice it that a fair per cent, we’re giving

  Of what we robbed him of when he was living.

  Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunk

  Are here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk.

  His legs in the South claim the patriot’s tear,

  But, stranger, you needn’t be blubbering here.

  Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly dead

  He looked so natural that round his bed

  The people stood, in silence all, to weep.

  They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep.

  Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laid

  The tools of his infernal trade —

  His pen and tongue. So sharp and rude

  They grew — so slack in gratitude,

  His hand was wounded as he wrote,

  And when he spoke he cut his throat.

  Within this humble mausoleum

  Poor Guiteau’s flesh you’ll find.

  His bones are kept in a museum,

  And Tillman has his mind.

  Stranger, uncover; here you have in view

  The monument of Chauncey M. Depew.

  Eater and orator, the whole world round

  For feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned.

  Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech,

  Nothing he knew excepting how to teach.

  But in default of something to impart

  He multiplied his words with all his heart:

  When least he had to say, instructive most —

  A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost.

  Dining his way to eminence, he rowed

  With knife and fork up water-ways that flowed

  From lakes of favor — pulled with all his force

  And found each river sweeter than the source.

  Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor,

  Gnawing and rising till obscure no more,

  He ate his way to eminence, and Fame

  Inscribes in gravy his immortal name.

  A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly,

  So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly.

  Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him,

  And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him.

  Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie;

  Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why.

  In ‘71 he filled the public eye,

  In ‘72 he bade the world good-bye,

  In God’s good time, with a protesting sigh,

  He came to life just long enough to die.

  Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay,

  Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray.

  He joined the great Order and studied with zeal

  The awful arcana he meant to reveal.

  At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell —

  There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell.

  A HYMN 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 Master’s 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.

  AN ERROR.

  Good for he’s old? Ah, Youth, you do not dream

  How sweet the roses in the autumn seem!

  AT THE NATIONAL ENCAMPMENT.

  You ‘re grayer than one would have thought you:

  The climate you have over there

  In the East has apparently brought you

  Disorders affecting the hair,

  Which — pardon me — seems a thought spare.

  You’ll not take offence at my giving

  Expression to notions like these.

  You might have been stronger if living

  Out here in our sanative breeze.

  It’s unhealthy here for disease.

  No, I’m not as plump as a pullet.

  But that’s the old wound, you see.

  Remember my paunching a bullet? —

  And how that it didn’t agree

  With — well, honest hardtack for me.

  Just pass me the wine — I’ve a helly

  And horrible kind of drouth!

  When a fellow has that in his belly

  Which didn’t go in at his mouth

  He’s hotter than all Down South!

  Great Scott! what a nasty day that was —

  When every galoot in our crack

  Division who didn’t lie flat was

  Dissuaded from further attack

  By the bullet’s felicitous whack.

  ‘Twas there that our major slept under

  Some cannon of ours on the crest,

  Till they woke him by stilling their thunder,

  And he cursed them for breaking his rest,

  And died in the midst of his jest.

  That night — it was late in November —

  The dead seemed uncommonly chill

  To the touch; and one chap I remember

  Who took it exceedingly ill

  When I dragged myself over his bill.

  Well, comrades, I’m off now — good morning.

  Your talk is as pleasant as pie,

  But, pardon me, one word of warning:

  Speak little of self, say I.

  That’s my way. God bless you. Good-bye.

  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.
<
br />   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 coins (croaks Medico: “‘T was worms”)

  And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars,

  Averring the 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 have found the world a fountain

  Of deceit and Life a sham.

  I have taken to the mountain

  And a Holy Hermit am.

  “Sternly bent on Contemplation,

  Far apart from human kind ——

  In the hill my habitation,

  In the Infinite my mind.

  “Ten long years I’ve lived a dumb thing,

  Growing bald and bent with dole.

  Vainly seeking for a Something

  To engage my gloomy soul.

  “Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you