Aeronaut, you're fairly caught, Despite your bubble's leaven: Out of the skies a lady's eyes Have brought you down to Heaven!
No more, no more you'll freely soar Above the grass and gravel: Henceforth you'll walk--and she will chalk The line that you're to travel!
A HASTY INFERENCE
The Devil one day, coming up from the Pit, All grimy with perspiration, Applied to St. Peter and begged he'd admit Him a moment for consultation.
The Saint showed him in where the Master reclined On the throne where petitioners sought him; Both bowed, and the Evil One opened his mind Concerning the business that brought him:
"For ten million years I've been kept in a stew Because you have thought me immoral; And though I have had my opinion of you, You've had the best end of the quarrel.
"But now--well, I venture to hope that the past With its misunderstandings we'll smother; And you, sir, and I, sir, be throned here at last As equals, the one to the other."
"Indeed!" said the Master (I cannot convey A sense of his tone by mere letters) "What makes you presume you'll be bidden to stay Up here on such terms with your betters?"
"Why, sure you can't mean it!" said Satan. "I've seen How Stanford and Crocker you've nourished, And Huntington--bless me! the three like a green Umbrageous great bay-tree have flourished.
They are fat, they are rolling in gold, they command All sources and well-springs of power; You've given them houses, you've given them land-- Before them the righteous all cower."
"What of that?" "What of that?" cried the Father of Sin; "Why, I thought when I saw you were winking At crimes such as theirs that perhaps you had been Converted to my way of thinking."
A VOLUPTUARY
Who's this that lispeth in the thickening throng Which crowds to claim distinction in my song?
Fresh from "the palms and temples of the South,"
The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth: Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale, And that the odor of a spicy tale.
Sir, in thy pleasure-dome down by the sea (No finer one did Kubla Khan decree) Where, Master of the Revels, thou dost stand With joys and mysteries on either hand, Dost keep a poet to report the rites And sing the tale of those Elysian nights?
Faith, sir, I'd like the place if not too young.
I'm no great bard, but--I can hold my tongue.
AD CATTONUM
I know not, Mr. Catton, who you are, Nor very clearly why; but you go far To show that you are many things beside A Chilean Consul with a tempting hide; But what they are I hardly could explain Without afflicting you with mental pain.
Your name (gods! what a name the muse to woo-- Suggesting cats, and hinting kittens, too!) Points to an origin--perhaps Maltese, Perhaps Angoran--where the wicked cease From fiddling, and the animals that grow The strings that groan to the tormenting bow Live undespoiled of their insides, resigned To give their name and nature to mankind.
With Chilean birth your name but poorly tallies; The test is--Did you ever sell tamales?
It matters very little, though, my boy, If you're from Chile or from Illinois; You can't, because you serve a foreign land, Spit with impunity on ours, expand, Cock-turkeywise, and strut with blind conceit, All heedless of the hearts beneath your feet, Fling falsehoods as a sower scatters grain And, for security, invoke disdain.
Sir, there are laws that men of sense observe, No matter whence they come nor whom they serve-- The laws of courtesy; and these forbid You to malign, as recently you did, As servant of another State, a State Wherein your duties all are concentrate; Branding its Ministers as rogues--in short, Inviting cuffs as suitable retort.
Chileno or American, 'tis one-- Of any land a citizen, or none-- If like a new Thersites here you rail, Loading with libels every western gale, You'll feel the cudgel on your scurvy hump Impinging with a salutary thump.
'Twill make you civil or 'twill make you jump!
THE NATIONAL GUARDSMAN
I'm a gorgeous golden hero And my trade is taking life.
Hear the twittle-twittle-tweero Of my sibillating fife And the rub-a-dub-a-dum Of my big bass drum!
I'm an escort strong and bold, The Grand Army to protect.
My countenance is cold And my attitude erect.
I'm a Californian Guard And my banner flies aloft, But the stones are O, so hard!
And my feet are O, so soft!
THE BARKING WEASEL
You say, John Irish, Mr. Taylor hath A painted beard. Quite likely that is true, And sure 'tis natural you spend your wrath On what has been least merciful to you.
By Taylor's chin, if I am not mistaken, You like a rat have recently been shaken.
To wear a beard of artificial hue May be or this or that, I know not what; But, faith, 'tis better to be black-and-blue In beard from dallying with brush and pot Than to be so in body from the beating That hardy rogues get when detected cheating.
You're whacked about the mazzard rather more Of late than any other man in town.
Certes your vulnerable back is sore And tender, too, your corrigible crown.
In truth your whole periphery discloses More vivid colors than a bed of posies!
You call it glory! Put your tongue in sheath!-- Scars got in battle, even if on the breast, May be a shameful record if, beneath, A robber heart a lawless strife attest.
John Sullivan had wounds, and Paddy Ryan-- Nay, as to that, even Masten has, and Bryan.
'Tis willingly conceded you've a knack At holding the attention of the town; The worse for you when you have on your back What did not grow there--prithee put it down!
For pride kills thrift, and you lack board and lodging, Even while the brickbats of renown you're dodging.
A REAR ELEVATION
[He can speak with his eyes, his hands, arms, legs, body--nay, with his very bones, for he turned the broad of his back upon us in "Conrad," the other night, and his shoulder-blades spoke to us a volume of hesitation, fear, submission, desperation--everything which could haunt a man at the moment of inevitable detection.--_A "Dramatic Critic."_]
Once Moses (in Scripture the story is told) Entreated the favor God's face to behold.
Compassion divine the petition denied Lest vision be blasted and body be fried.