While an inch of it remains He will noted be for brains, And at last ('twill so befall) Fit to cease to write at all.
THE FYGHTYNGE SEVENTH
It is the gallant Seventh-- It fyghteth faste and free!
God wot the where it fyghteth I ne desyre to be.
The Gonfalon it flyeth, Seeming a Flayme in Sky; The Bugel loud yblowen is, Which sayeth, Doe and dye!
And (O good Saints defende us Agaynst the Woes of Warr) Drawn Tongues are flashing deadly To smyte the Foeman sore!
With divers kinds of Riddance The smoaking Earth is wet, And all aflowe to seaward goe The Torrents wide of Sweat!
The Thunder of the Captens, And eke the Shouting, mayketh Such horrid Din the Soule within The boddy of me quayketh!
Who fyghteth the bold Seventh?
What haughty Power defyes?
Their Colonel 'tis they drubben sore, And dammen too his Eyes!
INDICTED
Dear Bruner, once we had a little talk (That is to say, 'twas I did all the talking) About the manner of your moral walk: How devious the trail you made in stalking, On level ground, your law-protected game-- "Another's Dollar" is, I think, its name.
Your crooked course more recently is not So blamable; for, truly, you have stumbled On evil days; and 'tis your luckless lot To traverse spaces (with a spirit humbled, Contrite, dejected and divinely sad) Where, 'tis confessed, the walking's rather bad.
Jordan, the song says, is a road (I thought It was a river) that is hard to travel; And Dublin, if you'd find it, must be sought Along a highway with more rocks than gravel.
In difficulty neither can compete With that wherein you navigate your feet.
As once George Gorham said of Pixley, so I say of you: "The prison yawns before you, The turnkey stalks behind!" Now will you go?
Or lag, and let that functionary floor you?
To change the metaphor--you seem to be Between Judge Wallace and the deep, deep sea!
OVER THE BORDER
O, justice, you have fled, to dwell In Mexico, unstrangled, Lest you should hang as high as--well, As Haman dangled.
(I know not if his cord he twanged, Or the King proved forgiving.
'Tis hard to think of Haman hanged, And Haymond living.)
Yes, as I said: in mortal fear To Mexico you journeyed; For you were on your trial here, And ill attorneyed.
The Law had long regarded you As an extreme offender.
Religion looked upon you, too, With thoughts untender.
The Press to you was cold as snow, For sin you'd always call so.
In Politics you were _de trop_, In Morals also.
All this is accurately true And, faith! there might be more said; But--well, to save your thrapple you Fled, as aforesaid.
You're down in Mexico--that's plain As that the sun is risen; For Daniel Burns, down there, his chain Drags round in prison.
ONE JUDGE
Wallace, created on a noble plan To show us that a Judge can be a Man; Through moral mire exhaling mortal stench God-guided sweet and foot-clean to the Bench; In salutation here and sign I lift A hand as free as yours from lawless thrift, A heart--ah, would I truly could proclaim My bosom lighted with so pure a flame!
Alas, not love of justice moves my pen To praise, or to condemn, my fellow men.
Good will and ill its busy point incite: I do but gratify them when I write.
In palliation, though, I'd humbly state, I love the righteous and the wicked hate.
So, sir, although we differ we agree, Our work alike from persecution free, And Heaven, approving you, consents to me.
Take, therefore, from this not all useless hand The crown of honor--not in all the land One honest man dissenting from the choice, Nor in approval one Fred. Crocker's voice!
TO AN INSOLENT ATTORNEY
So, Hall McAllister, you'll not be warned-- My protest slighted, admonition scorned!
To save your scoundrel client from a cell As loth to swallow him as he to swell Its sum of meals insurgent (it decries All wars intestinal with meats that rise) You turn your scurril tongue against the press And damn the agency you ought to bless.
Had not the press with all its hundred eyes Discerned the wolf beneath the sheep's disguise And raised the cry upon him, he to-day Would lack your company, and you would lack his pay.
Talk not of "hire" and consciences for sale-- You whose profession 'tis to threaten, rail, Calumniate and libel at the will Of any villain who can pay the bill-- You whose most honest dollars all were got By saying for a fee "the thing that's not!"
To you 'tis one, to challenge or defend; Clients are means, their money is an end.
In my profession sometimes, as in yours Always, a payment large enough secures A mercenary service to defend The guilty or the innocent to rend.
But mark the difference, nor think it slight: _We_ do not hold it proper, just and right; Of selfish lies a little still we shame And give our villainies another name.
Hypocrisy's an ugly vice, no doubt, But blushing sinners can't get on without.
Happy the lawyer!--at his favored hands Nor truth nor decency the world demands.
Secure in his immunity from shame, His cheek ne'er kindles with the tell-tale flame.
His brains for sale, morality for hire, In every land and century a licensed liar!
No doubt, McAllister, you can explain How honorable 'tis to lie for gain, Provided only that the jury's made To understand that lying is your trade.
A hundred thousand volumes, broad and flat, (The Bible not included) proving that, Have been put forth, though still the doubt remains If God has read them with befitting pains.
No Morrow could get justice, you'll declare, If none who knew him foul affirmed him fair.
Ingenious man! how easy 'tis to raise An argument to justify the course that pays!