Delphi Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Illustrated)

by Bierce, Ambrose

  Moreover, he was black. And yet

  That sentimental generation

  With an austere compassion set

  Its face and faith to the occasion.

  Then there were hate and strife to spare,

  And various hard knocks a-plenty;

  And I (‘twas more than my true share,

  I must confess) took five-and-twenty.

  That all is over now — the reign

  Of love and trade stills all dissensions,

  And the clear heavens arch again

  Above a land of peace and pensions.

  The black chap — at the last we gave

  Him everything that he had cried for,

  Though many white chaps in the grave

  ’Twould puzzle to say what they died for.

  I hope he’s better off — I trust

  That his society and his master’s

  Are worth the price we paid, and must

  Continue paying, in disasters;

  But sometimes doubts press thronging round

  (‘Tis mostly when my hurts are aching)

  If war for union was a sound

  And profitable undertaking.

  ‘Tis said they mean to take away

  The Negro’s vote for he’s unlettered.

  ’Tis true he sits in darkness day

  And night, as formerly, when fettered;

  But pray observe — howe’er he vote

  To whatsoever party turning,

  He’ll be with gentlemen of note

  And wealth and consequence and learning.

  With Hales and Morgans on each side,

  How could a fool through lack of knowledge,

  Vote wrong? If learning is no guide

  Why ought one to have been in college?

  O Son of Day, O Son of Night!

  What are your preferences made of?

  I know not which of you is right,

  Nor which to be the more afraid of.

  The world is old and the world is bad,

  And creaks and grinds upon its axis;

  And man’s an ape and the gods are mad! —

  There’s nothing sure, not even our taxes.

  No mortal man can Truth restore,

  Or say where she is to be sought for.

  I know what uniform I wore —

  O, that I knew which side I fought for!

  A YEAR’S CASUALTIES.

  Slain as they lay by the secret, slow,

  Pitiless hand of an unseen foe,

  Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed

  The river to join the loved and lost.

  In the space of a year their spirits fled,

  Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.

  One after one, they fall asleep

  And the pension agents awake to weep,

  And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail

  As the souls flit by on the evening gale.

  O Father of Battles, pray give us release

  From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace!

  INSPIRATION.

  O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand:

  I fain would view the lettered stone.

  What carvest thou? — perchance some grand

  And solemn fancy all thine own.

  For oft to know the fitting word

  Some humble worker God permits.

  ”Jain Ann Meginnis,

  Agid 3rd.

  He givith His beluved fits.”

  TO-DAY.

  I saw a man who knelt in prayer,

  And heard him say:

  ”I’ll lay my inmost spirit bare

  To-day.

  “Lord, for to-morrow and its need

  I do not pray;

  Let me upon my neighbor feed

  To-day.

  “Let me my duty duly shirk

  And run away

  From any form or phase of work

  To-day.

  “From Thy commands exempted still

  Let me obey

  The promptings of my private will

  To-day.

  “Let me no word profane, no lie

  Unthinking say

  If anyone is standing by

  To-day.

  “My secret sins and vices grave

  Let none betray;

  The scoffer’s jeers I do not crave

  To-day.

  “And if to-day my fortune all

  Should ebb away,

  Help me on other men’s to fall

  To-day.

  “So, for to-morrow and its mite

  I do not pray;

  Just give me everything in sight

  To-day.”

  I cried: “Amen!” He rose and ran

  Like oil away.

  I said: “I’ve seen an honest man

  To-day.”

  AN ALIBI.

  A famous journalist, who long

  Had told the great unheaded throng

  Whate’er they thought, by day or night.

  Was true as Holy Writ, and right,

  Was caught in — well, on second thought,

  It is enough that he was caught,

  And being thrown in jail became

  The fuel of a public flame.

  “Vox populi vox Dei,” said

  The jailer. Inxling bent his head

  Without remark: that motto good

  In bold-faced type had always stood

  Above the columns where his pen

  Had rioted in praise of men

  And all they said — provided he

  Was sure they mostly did agree.

  Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife

  To take, or save, the culprit’s life

  Or liberty (which, I suppose,

  Was much the same to him) arose

  Outside. The journal that his pen

  Adorned denounced his crime — but then

  Its editor in secret tried

  To have the indictment set aside.

  The opposition papers swore

  His father was a rogue before,

  And all his wife’s relations were

  Like him and similar to her.

  They begged their readers to subscribe

  A dollar each to make a bribe

  That any Judge would feel was large

  Enough to prove the gravest charge —

  Unless, it might be, the defense

  Put up superior evidence.

  The law’s traditional delay

  Was all too short: the trial day

  Dawned red and menacing. The Judge

  Sat on the Bench and wouldn’t budge,

  And all the motions counsel made

  Could not move him — and there he stayed.

  ”The case must now proceed,” he said,

  ”While I am just in heart and head,

  It happens — as, indeed, it ought —

  Both sides with equal sums have bought

  My favor: I can try the cause

  Impartially.” (Prolonged applause.)

  The prisoner was now arraigned

  And said that he was greatly pained

  To be suspected — he, whose pen

  Had charged so many other men

  With crimes and misdemeanors! “Why,”

  He said, a tear in either eye,

  ”If men who live by crying out

  ’Stop thief!’ are not themselves from doubt

  Of their integrity exempt,

  Let all forego the vain attempt

  To make a reputation! Sir,

  I’m innocent, and I demur.”

  Whereat a thousand voices cried

  Amain he manifestly lied —

  Vox populi as loudly roared

  As bull by picadores gored,

  In his own coin receiving pay

  To make a Spanish holiday.

  The jury — twelve good men and true —

  Were then sworn in to see it through,

  And each made solemn oath t
hat he

  As any babe unborn was free

  From prejudice, opinion, thought,

  Respectability, brains — aught

  That could disqualify; and some

  Explained that they were deaf and dumb.

  A better twelve, his Honor said,

  Was rare, except among the dead.

  The witnesses were called and sworn.

  The tales they told made angels mourn,

  And the Good Book they’d kissed became

  Red with the consciousness of shame.

  Whenever one of them approached

  The truth, “That witness wasn’t coached,

  Your Honor!” cried the lawyers both.

  ”Strike out his testimony,” quoth

  The learned judge: “This Court denies

  Its ear to stories which surprise.

  I hold that witnesses exempt

  From coaching all are in contempt.”

  Both Prosecution and Defense

  Applauded the judicial sense,

  And the spectators all averred

  Such wisdom they had never heard:

  ’Twas plain the prisoner would be

  Found guilty in the first degree.

  Meanwhile that wight’s pale cheek confessed

  The nameless terrors in his breast.

  He felt remorseful, too, because

  He wasn’t half they said he was.

  ”If I’d been such a rogue,” he mused

  On opportunities unused,

  ”I might have easily become

  As wealthy as Methusalum.”

  This journalist adorned, alas,

  The middle, not the Bible, class.

  With equal skill the lawyers’ pleas

  Attested their divided fees.

  Each gave the other one the lie,

  Then helped him frame a sharp reply.

  Good Lord! it was a bitter fight,

  And lasted all the day and night.

  When once or oftener the roar

  Had silenced the judicial snore

  The speaker suffered for the sport

  By fining for contempt of court.

  Twelve jurors’ noses good and true

  Unceasing sang the trial through,

  And even vox populi was spent

  In rattles through a nasal vent.

  Clerk, bailiff, constables and all

  Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call

  To arms — his arms — and all fell in

  Save counsel for the Man of Sin.

  That thaumaturgist stood and swayed

  The wand their faculties obeyed —

  That magic wand which, like a flame.

  Leapt, wavered, quivered and became

  A wonder-worker — known among

  The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue.

  How long, O Lord, how long my verse

  Runs on for better or for worse

  In meter which o’ermasters me,

  Octosyllabically free! —

  A meter which, the poets say,

  No power of restraint can stay; —

  A hard-mouthed meter, suited well

  To him who, having naught to tell,

  Must hold attention as a trout

  Is held, by paying out and out

  The slender line which else would break

  Should one attempt the fish to take.

  Thus tavern guides who’ve naught to show

  But some adjacent curio

  By devious trails their patrons lead

  And make them think ‘t is far indeed.

  Where was I?

  While the lawyer talked

  The rogue took up his feet and walked:

  While all about him, roaring, slept,

  Into the street he calmly stepped.

  In very truth, the man who thought

  The people’s voice from heaven had caught

  God’s inspiration took a change

  Of venue — it was passing strange!

  Straight to his editor he went

  And that ingenious person sent

  A Negro to impersonate

  The fugitive. In adequate

  Disguise he took his vacant place

  And buried in his arms his face.

  When all was done the lawyer stopped

  And silence like a bombshell dropped

  Upon the Court: judge, jury, all

  Within that venerable hall

  (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed,

  And one or two whom death had freed)

  Awoke and tried to look as though

  Slumber was all they did not know.

  And now that tireless lawyer-man

  Took breath, and then again began:

  ”Your Honor, if you did attend

  To what I’ve urged (my learned friend

  Nodded concurrence) to support

  The motion I have made, this court

  May soon adjourn. With your assent

  I’ve shown abundant precedent

  For introducing now, though late,

  New evidence to exculpate

  My client. So, if you’ll allow,

  I’ll prove an alibi!” “What? — how?”

  Stammered the judge. “Well, yes, I can’t

  Deny your showing, and I grant

  The motion. Do I understand

  You undertake to prove — good land! —

  That when the crime — you mean to show

  Your client wasn’t there?” “O, no,

  I cannot quite do that, I find:

  My alibi’s another kind

  Of alibi, — I’ll make it clear,

  Your Honor, that he isn’t here.”

  The Darky here upreared his head,

  Tranquillity affrighted fled

  And consternation reigned instead!

  REBUKE.

  When Admonition’s hand essays

  Our greed to curse,

  Its lifted finger oft displays

  Our missing purse.

  J.F.B.

  How well this man unfolded to our view

  The world’s beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell —

  This man whose own convictions none could tell,

  Nor if his maze of reason had a clew.

  Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew

  The fair philosophies of doubt so well

  That while we listened to his words there fell

  Some that were strangely comforting, though true.

  Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt,

  We said: “If so, by groping in the night,

  He can proclaim some certain paths of trust,

  How great our profit if he saw about

  His feet the highways leading to the light.”

  Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust!

  THE DYING STATESMAN.

  It is a politician man —

  He draweth near his end,

  And friends weep round that partisan,

  Of every man the friend.

  Between the Known and the Unknown

  He lieth on the strand;

  The light upon the sea is thrown

  That lay upon the land.

  It shineth in his glazing eye,

  It burneth on his face;

  God send that when we come to die

  We know that sign of grace!

  Upon his lips his blessed sprite

  Poiseth her joyous wing.

  ”How is it with thee, child of light?

  Dost hear the angels sing?”

  “The song I hear, the crown I see,

  And know that God is love.

  Farewell, dark world — I go to be

  A postmaster above!”

  For him no monumental arch,

  But, O, ‘tis good and brave

  To see the Grand Old Party march

  To office o’er his grave!

  THE DEATH OF GRANT.

  Father! whose hard and cruel law

  Is
part of thy compassion’s plan,

  Thy works presumptuously we scan

  For what the prophets say they saw.

  Unbidden still the awful slope

  Walling us in we climb to gain

  Assurance of the shining plain

  That faith has certified to hope.

  In vain! — beyond the circling hill

  The shadow and the cloud abide.

  Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide

  To trust the Record and be still.

  To trust it loyally as he

  Who, heedful of his high design,

  Ne’er raised a seeking eye to thine,

  But wrought thy will unconsciously,

  Disputing not of chance or fate,

  Nor questioning of cause or creed;

  For anything but duty’s deed

  Too simply wise, too humbly great.

  The cannon syllabled his name;

  His shadow shifted o’er the land,

  Portentous, as at his command

  Successive cities sprang to flame!

  He fringed the continent with fire,

  The rivers ran in lines of light!

  Thy will be done on earth — if right

  Or wrong he cared not to inquire.

  His was the heavy hand, and his

  The service of the despot blade;

  His the soft answer that allayed

  War’s giant animosities.

  Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,

  Fill, Father, with another light,

  That we may see with clearer sight

  Thy servant’s soul in Paradise.

  THE FOUNTAIN REFILLED.

  Of Hans Pietro Shanahan

  (Who was a most ingenious man)

  The Muse of History records

  That he’d get drunk as twenty lords.

  He’d get so truly drunk that men

  Stood by to marvel at him when

  His slow advance along the street

  Was but a vain cycloidal feat.

  And when ‘twas fated that he fall

  With a wide geographical sprawl,

  They signified assent by sounds

  Heard (faintly) at its utmost bounds.

  And yet this Mr. Shanahan