A clumsy bear makes but a sorry show Climbing a pole. Let him, judicious, sit With dignity at bottom of his pit, And none his awkwardness will ever know.
Some beasts look better, and feel better, too, Seen from above; and so, I think, would you.
Why, you were mad! Did you suppose because Our foolish system suffers foolish men To climb to power, make, enforce the laws, And, it is whispered, break them now and then, We love the fellows and respect them when We've stilled the volume of our loud hurrahs?
When folly blooms we trample it the more For having fertilized it heretofore.
Behold yon laborer! His garb is mean, His face is grimy, but who thinks to ask The measure of his brains? 'Tis only seen He's fitted for his honorable task, And so delights the mind. But let him bask In droll prosperity, absurdly clean-- Is that the man whom we admired before?
Good Lord, how ignorant, and what a bore!
Better for you that thoughtless men had said (Noting your fitness in the humbler sphere): "Why don't they make him Governor?" instead Of, "Why the devil did they?" But I fear My words on your inhospitable ear Are wasted like a sermon to the dead.
Still, they may profit you if studied well: You can't be taught to think, but may to spell.
AN UNDRESS UNIFORM
The apparel does _not_ proclaim the man-- Polonius lied like a partisan, And Salomon still would a hero seem If (Heaven dispel the impossible dream!) He stood in a shroud on the hangman's trap, His eye burning holes in the black, black cap.
And the crowd below would exclaim amain: "He's ready to fall for his country again!"
THE PERVERTED VILLAGE
AFTER GOLDSMITH
Sweet Auburn! liveliest village of the plain, Where Health and Slander welcome every train, Whence smiling innocence, its tribute paid, Retires in terror, wounded and dismayed-- Dear lovely bowers of gossip and disease, Whose climate cures us that thy dames may tease, How often have I knelt upon thy green And prayed for death, to mitigate their spleen!
How often have I paused on every charm With mingled admiration and alarm-- The brook that runs by many a scandal-mill, The church whose pastor groans upon the grill, The cowthorn bush with seats beneath the shade, Where hearts are struck and reputations flayed; How often wished thine idle wives, some day, Might more at whist, less at the devil, play.
Unblest retirement! ere my life's decline (Killed by detraction) may I witness thine.
How happy she who, shunning shades like these, Finds in a wolf-den greater peace and ease; Who quits the place whence truth did earlier fly, And rather than come back prefers to die!
For her no jealous maids renounce their sleep, Contriving malices to make her weep; No iron-faced dames her character debate And spurn imploring mercy from the gate; But down she lies to a more peaceful end, For wolves do not calumniate, but rend-- Sinks piecemeal to their maws, a willing prey, While resignation lubricates the way, And all her prospects brighten at the last: To wolves, not women, an approved repast.
_1884_.
MR. SHEETS
The Devil stood before the gate Of Heaven. He had a single mate: Behind him, in his shadow, slunk Clay Sheets in a perspiring funk.
"Saint Peter, see this season ticket,"
Said Satan; "pray undo the wicket."
The sleepy Saint threw slight regard Upon the proffered bit of card, Signed by some clerical dead-beats: "Admit the bearer and Clay Sheets."
Peter expanded all his eyes: "'Clay Sheets?'--well, I'll be damned!" he cries.
"Our couches are of golden cloud; Nothing of earth is here allowed.
I'll let you in," he added, shedding On Nick a smile--"but not your bedding."
A JACK-AT-ALL-VIEWS
So, Estee, you are still alive! I thought That you had died and were a blessed ghost I know at least your coffin once was bought With Railroad money; and 'twas said by most Historians that Stanford made a boast The seller "threw you in." That goes for naught-- Man takes delight in fancy's fine inventions, And woman too, 'tis said, if they are French ones.
Do you remember, Estee--ah, 'twas long And long ago!--how fierce you grew and hot When anything impeded the straight, strong, Wild sweep of the great billow you had got Atop of, like a swimmer bold? Great Scott!
How fine your wavemanship! How loud your song Of "Down with railroads!" When the wave subsided And left you stranded you were much divided.
Then for a time you were content to wade The waters of the "robber barons'" moat.
To fetch, and carry was your humble trade, And ferry Stanford over in a boat, Well paid if he bestowed the kindly groat And spoke you fair and called you pretty maid.
And when his stomach seemed a bit unsteady You got your serviceable basin ready.
Strange man! how odd to see you, smug and spruce, There at Chicago, burrowed in a Chair, Not made to measure and a deal too loose, And see you lift your little arm and swear Democracy shall be no more! If it's a fair And civil question, and not too abstruse, Were you elected as a "robber baron,"
Or as a Communist whose teeth had hair on?
MY LORD POET
"Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat;"
Who sings for nobles, he should noble be.
There's no _non sequitur_, I think, in that, And this is logic plain as a, b, c.
Now, Hector Stuart, you're a Scottish prince, If right you fathom your descent--that fall From grace; and since you have no peers, and since You have no kind of nobleness at all, 'Twere better to sing little, lest you wince When made by heartless critics to sing small.
And yet, my liege, I bid you not despair-- Ambition conquers but a realm at once: For European bays arrange your hair-- Two continents, in time, shall crown you Dunce!
TO THE FOOL-KILLER
Ah, welcome, welcome! Sit you down, old friend; Your pipe I'll serve, your bottle I'll attend.
'Tis many a year since you and I have known Society more pleasant than our own In our brief respites from excessive work-- I pointing out the hearts for you to dirk.
What have you done since lately at this board We canvassed the deserts of all the horde And chose what names would please the people best, Engraved on coffin-plates--what bounding breast Would give more satisfaction if at rest?
But never mind--the record cannot fail: The loftiest monuments will tell the tale.
I trust ere next we meet you'll slay the chap Who calls old Tyler "Judge" and Merry "Cap"-- Calls John P. Irish "Colonel" and John P., Whose surname Jack-son speaks his pedigree, By the same title--men of equal rank Though one is belly all, and one all shank, Showing their several service in the fray: One fought for food and one to get away.
I hope, I say, you'll kill the "title" man Who saddles one on every back he can, Then rides it from Beersheba to Dan!
Another fool, I trust, you will perform Your office on while my resentment's warm: He shakes my hand a dozen times a day If, luckless, I so often cross his way, Though I've three senses besides that of touch, To make me conscious of a fool too much.
Seek him, friend Killer, and your purpose make Apparent as his guilty hand you take, And set him trembling with a solemn: "Shake!"
But chief of all the addle-witted crew Conceded by the Hangman's League to you, The fool (his dam's acquainted with a knave) Whose fluent pen, of his no-brain the slave, Strews notes of introduction o'er the land And calls it hospitality--his hand May palsy seize ere he again consign To me his friend, as I to Hades mine!
Pity the wretch, his faults howe'er you see, Whom A accredits to his victim, B.