Yet this much, the Record informs us, took place: Jehovah, concealing His terrible face, Protruded His rear from behind a great rock, And edification ensued without shock.
So godlike Salvini, lest worshipers die, Averting the blaze of his withering eye, Tempers his terrors and shows to the pack Of feeble adorers the broad of his back.
The fires of their altars, which, paled and declined Before him, burn all the more brightly behind.
O happy adorers, to care not at all Where fawning may tickle or lip-service fall!
IN UPPER SAN FRANCISCO
I heard that Heaven was bright and fair, And politicians dwelt not there.
'Twas said by knowing ones that they Were in the Elsewhere--so to say.
So, waking from my last long sleep, I took my place among the sheep.
I passed the gate--Saint Peter eyed Me sharply as I stepped inside.
He thought, as afterward I learned, That I was Chris, the Unreturned.
The new Jerusalem--ah me, It was a sorry sight to see!
The mansions of the blest were there, And mostly they were fine and fair;
But O, such streets!--so deep and wide, And all unpaved, from side to side!
And in a public square there grew A blighted tree, most sad to view.
From off its trunk the bark was ripped-- Its very branches all were stripped!
An angel perched upon the fence With all the grace of indolence.
"Celestial bird," I cried, in pain, "What vandal wrought this wreck? Explain."
He raised his eyelids as if tired: "What is a Vandal?" he inquired.
"This is the Tree of Life. 'Twas stripped By Durst and Siebe, who have shipped
"The bark across the Jordan--see?-- And sold it to a tannery."
"Alas," I sighed, "their old-time tricks!
That pavement, too, of golden bricks--
"They've gobbled that?" But with a scowl, "You greatly wrong them," said the fowl:
"'Twas Gilleran did that, I fear-- Head of the Street Department here."
"What! what!" cried I--"you let such chaps Come here? You've Satan, too, perhaps."
"We had him, yes, but off he went, Yet showed some purpose to repent;
"But since your priests and parsons filled The place with those their preaching killed"--
(Here Siebe passed along with Durst, Psalming as if their lungs would burst)--
"He swears his foot no more shall press ('Tis cloven, anyhow, I guess)
"Our soil. In short, he's out on strike-- But devils are not all alike."
Lo! Gilleran came down the street, Pressing the soil with broad, flat feet!
NIMROD
There were brave men, some one has truly said, Before Atrides (those were mostly dead Behind him) and ere you could e'er occur Actaeon lived, Nimrod and Bahram-Gur.
In strength and speed and daring they excelled: The stag they overtook, the lion felled.
Ah, yes, great hunters flourished before you, And--for Munchausen lived--great talkers too.
There'll be no more; there's much to kill, but--well, _You_ have left nothing in the world to tell!
CENSOR LITERARUM
So, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chin To say that here, and here, we press-folk ail.
'Tis a great thing an editor to skin And hang his faulty pelt upon a nail (If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail) And, for an admonition against sin, Point out its maculations with a rod, And act, in short, the gentleman of God.
'Twere needless cruelty to spoil your sport By comment, critical or merely rude; But you, too, have, according to report, Despite your posing as a holy dude, Imperfect spiritual pulchritude For so severe a judge. May't please the court, We shall appeal and take our case at once Before that higher court, a taller dunce.
Sir, what were _you_ without the press? What spreads The fame of your existence, once a week, From the Pacific Mail dock to the Heads, Warning the people you're about to wreak Upon the human ear your Sunday freak?-- Whereat the most betake them to their bed Though some prefer to slumber in the pews And nod assent to your hypnotic views.
Unhappy man! can you not still your tongue When (like a luckless brat afflict with worms, By cruel fleas intolerably stung, Or with a pang in its small lap) it squirms?
Still must it vulgarize your feats of lung?
No preaching better were, the sun beneath, If you had nothing there behind your teeth.
BORROWED BRAINS
Writer folk across the bay Take the pains to see and say-- All their upward palms in air: "Joaquin Miller's cut his hair!"
Hasten, hasten, writer folk-- In the gutters rake and poke, If by God's exceeding grace You may hit upon the place Where the barber threw at length Samson's literary strength.
Find it, find it if you can; Happy the successful man!
He has but to put one strand In his beaver's inner band And his intellect will soar As it never did before!