_As in a dream, strange epitaphs I see, Inscribed on yet unquarried stone, Where wither flowers yet unstrown-- The Campo Santo of the time to be_.
A WREATH OF IMMORTELLES
LORING PICKERING
_(After Pope)_
Here rests a writer, great but not immense, Born destitute of feeling and of sense.
No power he but o'er his brain desired-- How not to suffer it to be inspired.
Ideas unto him were all unknown, Proud of the words which, only, were his own.
So unreflecting, so confused his mind, Torpid in error, indolently blind, A fever Heaven, to quicken him, applied, But, rather than revive, the sluggard died.
A WATER-PIRATE
Pause, stranger--whence you lightly tread Bill Carr's immoral part has fled.
For him no heart of woman burned, But all the rivers' heads he turned.
Alas! he now lifts up his eyes In torment and for water cries, Entreating that he may procure One drop to cool his parched McClure!
C.P. BERRY
Here's crowbait!--ravens, too, and daws Flock hither to advance their caws, And, with a sudden courage armed, Devour the foe who once alarmed-- In life and death a fair deceit: Nor strong to harm nor good to eat.
King bogey of the scarecrow host, When known the least affrighting most, Though light his hand (his mind was dark) He left on earth a straw Berry mark.
THE REV. JOSEPH
He preached that sickness he could floor By prayer and by commanding; When sick himself he sent for four Physicians in good standing.
He was struck dead despite their care, For, fearing their dissension, He secretly put up a prayer, Thus drawing God's attention.
Cynic perforce from studying mankind In the false volume of his single mind, He damned his fellows for his own unworth, And, bad himself, thought nothing good on earth.
Yet, still so judging and so erring still, Observing well, but understanding ill, His learning all was got by dint of sight, And what he learned by day he lost by night.
When hired to flatter he would never cease Till those who'd paid for praises paid for peace.
Not wholly miser and but half a knave, He yearned to squander but he lived to save, And did not, for he could not, cheat the grave.
_Hic jacet_ Pixley, scribe and muleteer: Step lightly, stranger, anywhere but here.
McAllister, of talents rich and rare, Lies at this spot at finish of his race.
Alike to him if it is here or there: The one spot that he cared for was the ace.
Here lies Joseph Redding, who gave us the catfish.
He dined upon every fish except that fish.
'Twas touching to hear him expounding his fad With a heart full of zeal and a mouth full of shad.
The catfish miaowed with unspeakable woe When Death, the lone fisherman, landed their Jo.
Judge Sawyer, whom in vain the people tried To push from power, here is laid aside.
Death only from the bench could ever start The sluggish load of his immortal part.
John Irish went, one luckless day, To loaf and fish at San Jose.
He got no loaf, he got no fish: They brained him with an empty dish!
They laid him in this place asleep-- O come, ye crocodiles, and weep.
In Sacramento City here This wooden monument we rear In memory of Dr. May, Whose smile even Death could not allay.
He's buried, Heaven alone knows where, And only the hyenas care; This May-pole merely marks the spot Where, ere the wretch began to rot, Fame's trumpet, with its brazen bray, Bawled; "Who (and why) was Dr. May?"
Dennis Spencer's mortal coil Here is laid away to spoil-- Great riparian, who said Not a stream should leave its bed.
Now his soul would like a river Turned upon its parching liver.
For those this mausoleum is erected Who Stanford to the Upper House elected.
Their luck is less or their promotion slower, For, dead, they were elected to the Lower.
Beneath this stone lies Reuben Lloyd, Of breath deprived, of sense devoid.
The Templars' Captain-General, he So formidable seemed to be, That had he not been on his back Death ne'er had ventured to attack.
Here lies Barnes in all his glory-- Master he of oratOry.