Say, when beneath your rubbish has been thrown, Some rogue to reputation all unknown-- Men's backs being turned--should lift his thieving hand, Efface your name and substitute his own.
Whose then would be the monument? To whom Would be the fame? Forgotten in your gloom, Your very name forgotten--ah, my friend, The name is all that's rescued by the tomb.
For memory of worth and work we go To other records than a stone can show.
These lacking, naught remains; with these The stone is needless for the world will know.
Then build your mausoleum if you must, And creep into it with a perfect trust; But in the twinkling of an eye the plow Shall pass without obstruction through your dust.
Another movement of the pendulum, And, lo! the desert-haunting wolf shall come, And, seated on the spot, shall howl by night O'er rotting cities, desolate and dumb.
ON THE PLATFORM
When Dr. Bill Bartlett stepped out of the hum Of Mammon's distracting and wearisome strife To stand and deliver a lecture on "Some Conditions of Intellectual Life,"
I cursed the offender who gave him the hall To lecture on any conditions at all!
But he rose with a fire divine in his eye, Haranguing with endless abundance of breath, Till I slept; and I dreamed of a gibbet reared high, And Dr. Bill Bartlett was dressing for death.
And I thought in my dream: "These conditions, no doubt, Are bad for the life he was talking about."
So I cried (pray remember this all was a dream): "Get off of the platform!--it isn't the kind!"
But he fell through the trap, with a jerk at the beam, And wiggled his toes to unburden his mind.
And, O, so bewitching the thoughts he advanced, That I clung to his ankles, attentive, entranced!
A DAMPENED ARDOR
The Chinatown at Bakersfield Was blazing bright and high; The flames to water would not yield, Though torrents drenched the sky And drowned the ground for miles around-- The houses were so dry.
Then rose an aged preacher man Whom all did much admire, Who said: "To force on you my plan I truly don't aspire, But streams, it seems, might quench these beams If turned upon the fire."
The fireman said: "This hoary wight His folly dares to thrust On _us_! 'Twere well he felt our might-- Nay, he shall feel our must!"
With jet of wet and small regret They laid that old man's dust.
ADAIR WELCKER, POET
The Swan of Avon died--the Swan Of Sacramento'll soon be gone; And when his death-song he shall coo, Stand back, or it will kill you too.
TO A WORD-WARRIOR
Frank Pixley, you, who kiss the hand That strove to cut the country's throat, Cannot forgive the hands that smote Applauding in a distant land,--
Applauding carelessly, as one The weaker willing to befriend Until the quarrel's at an end, Then learn by whom it was begun.
When North was pitted against South Non-combatants on either side In calculating fury vied, And fought their foes by word of mouth.
That devil's-camisade you led With formidable feats of tongue.
Upon the battle's rear you hung-- With Samson's weapon slew the dead!
So hot the ardor of your soul That every fierce civilian came, His torch to kindle at your name, Or have you blow his cooling coal.
Men prematurely left their beds And sought the gelid bath--so great The heat and splendor of your hate Of Englishmen and "Copperheads."
King Liar of deceitful men, For imposition doubly armed!
The patriots whom your speaking charmed You stung to madness with your pen.
There was a certain journal here, Its English owner growing rich-- Your hand the treason wrote for which A mob cut short its curst career.
If, Pixley, you had not the brain To know the true from false, or you To Truth had courage to be true, And loyal to her perfect reign;
If you had not your powers arrayed To serve the wrong by tricksy speech, Nor pushed yourself within the reach Of retribution's accolade,
I had not had the will to go Outside the olive-bordered path Of peace to cut the birch of wrath, And strip your body for the blow.
Behold how dark the war-clouds rise About the mother of our race!
The lightnings gild her tranquil face And glitter in her patient eyes.
Her children throng the hither flood And lean intent above the beach.
Their beating hearts inhibit speech With stifling tides of English blood.
"Their skies, but not their hearts, they change Who go in ships across the sea"-- Through all centuries to be The strange new land will still be strange.
The Island Mother holds in gage The souls of sons she never saw; Superior to law, the law Of sympathetic heritage.
Forgotten now the foolish reign Of wrath which sundered trivial ties.
A soldier's sabre vainly tries To cleave a spiritual chain.
The iron in our blood affines, Though fratricidal hands may spill.
Shall Hate be throned on Bunker Hill, Yet Love abide at Seven Pines?
A CULINARY CANDIDATE