Men live and die, and other men Arise with knowledges diverse: What seemed a blessing seems a curse, And Now is still at odds with Then.
The years go on, the old comes back To mock the new--beneath the sun.
Is _nothing_ new; ideas run Recurrent in an endless track.
What most we censure, men as wise Have reverently practiced; nor Will future wisdom fail to war On principles we dearly prize.
We do not know--we can but deem, And he is loyalest and best Who takes the light full on his breast And follows it throughout the dream.
The broken light, the shadows wide-- Behold the battle-field displayed!
God save the vanquished from the blade, The victor from the victor's pride!
If, Salomon, the blessed dew That falls upon the Blue and Gray Is powerless to wash away The sin of differing from you.
Remember how the flood of years Has rolled across the erring slain; Remember, too, the cleansing rain Of widows' and of orphans' tears.
The dead are dead--let that atone: And though with equal hand we strew The blooms on saint and sinner too, Yet God will know to choose his own.
The wretch, whate'er his life and lot, Who does not love the harmless dead With all his heart and all his head-- May God forgive him--_I_ shall not.
When, Salomon, you come to quaff The Darker Cup with meeker face, I, loving you at last, shall trace Upon your tomb this epitaph:
"Draw near, ye generous and brave-- Kneel round this monument and weep: It covers one who tried to keep A flower from a dead man's grave."
DENNIS KEARNEY
Your influence, my friend, has gathered head-- To east and west its tides encroaching spread.
There'll be, on all God's foot-stool, when they meet, No clean spot left for God to set His feet.
FINIS aeTERNITATIS
Strolling at sunset in my native land, With fruits and flowers thick on either hand, I crossed a Shadow flung athwart my way, Emerging on a waste of rock and sand.
"The apples all are gone from here," I said, "The roses perished and their spirits fled.
I will go back." A voice cried out: "The man Is risen who eternally was dead!"
I turned and saw an angel standing there, Newly descended from the heights of air.
Sweet-eyed compassion filled his face, his hands A naked sword and golden trumpet bare.
"Nay, 'twas not death, the shadow that I crossed,"
I said. "Its chill was but a touch of frost.
It made me gasp, but quickly I came through, With breath recovered ere it scarce was lost."
'Twas the same land! Remembered mountains thrust Grayed heads asky, and every dragging gust, In ashen valleys where my sons had reaped, Stirred in familiar river-beds the dust.
Some heights, where once the traveler was shown The youngest and the proudest city known, Lifted smooth ridges in the steely light-- Bleak, desolate acclivities of stone.
Where I had worshiped at my father's tomb, Within a massive temple's awful gloom, A jackal slunk along the naked rock, Affrighted by some prescience of doom.
Man's vestiges were nowhere to be found, Save one brass mausoleum on a mound (I knew it well) spared by the artist Time To emphasize the desolation round.
Into the stagnant sea the sullen sun Sank behind bars of crimson, one by one.
"Eternity's at hand!" I cried aloud.
"Eternity," the angel said, "is done.
For man is ages dead in every zone; The angels all are dead but I alone; The devils, too, are cold enough at last, And God lies dead before the great white throne!
'Tis foreordained that I bestride the shore When all are gone (as Gabriel did before, When I had throttled the last man alive) And swear Eternity shall be no more."
"O Azrael--O Prince of Death, declare Why conquered I the grave?" I cried. "What rare, Conspicuous virtues won this boon for me?"
"You've been revived," he said, "to hear me swear."
"Then let me creep again beneath the grass, And knock thou at yon pompous tomb of brass.
If ears are what you want, Charles Crocker's there-- Betwixt the greatest ears, the greatest ass."
He rapped, and while the hollow echoes rang, Out at the door a curst hyena sprang And fled! Said Azrael: "His soul's escaped,"
And closed the brazen portal with a bang.
THE VETERAN
John Jackson, once a soldier bold, Hath still a martial feeling; So, when he sees a foe, behold!
He charges him--with stealing.
He cares not how much ground to-day He gives for men to doubt him; He's used to giving ground, they say, Who lately fought with--out him.
When, for the battle to be won, His gallantry was needed, They say each time a loaded gun Went off--so, likewise, he did.
And when discharged (for war's a sport So hot he had to leave it) He made a very loud report, But no one did believe it.
AN "EXHIBIT"
Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbid That I should smile above him: Though truth to tell, I never did Exactly love him.