Shapes of Clay

  You promised to paint me a picture,
          Dear Mat,
    And I was to pay you in rhyme.
  Although I am loth to inflict your
    Most easy of consciences, I'm
  Of opinion that fibbing is awful,
  And breaking a contract unlawful,
    Indictable, too, as a crime,
          A slight and all that.

  If, Lady Unbountiful, any
          Of that
    By mortals called pity has part
  In your obdurate soul—if a penny
    You care for the health of my heart,
  By performing your undertaking
  You'll succor that organ from breaking—
    And spare it for some new smart,
          As puss does a rat.

  Do you think it is very becoming,
          Dear Mat,
    To deny me my rights evermore
  And—bless you! if I begin summing
    Your sins they will make a long score!
  You never were generous, madam,
  If you had been Eve and I Adam
    You'd have given me naught but the core,
          And little of that.

  Had I been content with a Titian,
          A cat
    By Landseer, a meadow by Claude,
  No doubt I'd have had your permission
    To take it—by purchase abroad.
  But why should I sail o'er the ocean
  For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion
    All's bad that the critics belaud.
          I wanted a Mat.

  Presumption's a sin, and I suffer
          For that:
    But still you did say that sometime,
  If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher—
    That's more than enough) of rhyme
  You'd paint me a picture. I pay you
  Hereby in advance; and I pray you
    Condone, while you can, your crime,
          And send me a Mat.

  But if you don't do it I warn you,
          Dear Mat,
    I'll raise such a clamor and cry
  On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you
    As mocker of poets and fly
  With bitter complaints to Apollo:
    "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow,
    Her beauty"—they'll hardly deny,
          On second thought, that!

  The way was long, the hill was steep,
  My footing scarcely I could keep.

  The night enshrouded me in gloom,
  I heard the ocean's distant boom—

  The trampling of the surges vast
  Was borne upon the rising blast.

  "God help the mariner," I cried,
  "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!"

  Then from the impenetrable dark
  A solemn voice made this remark:

  "For this locality—warm, bright;
  Barometer unchanged; breeze light."

  "Unseen consoler-man," I cried,
  "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide,

  "Thanks—but my care is somewhat less
  For Jack's, than for my own, distress.

  "Could I but find a friendly roof,
  Small odds what weather were aloof.

  "For he whose comfort is secure
  Another's woes can well endure."

  "The latch-string's out," the voice replied,
  "And so's the door—jes' step inside."

  Then through the darkness I discerned
  A hovel, into which I turned.

  Groping about beneath its thatch,
  I struck my head and then a match.

  A candle by that gleam betrayed
  Soon lent paraffinaceous aid.

  A pallid, bald and thin old man
  I saw, who this complaint began:

  "Through summer suns and winter snows
  I sets observin' of my toes.

  "I rambles with increasin' pain
  The path of duty, but in vain.

  "Rewards and honors pass me by—
  No Congress hears this raven cry!"

  Filled with astonishment, I spoke:
  "Thou ancient raven, why this croak?

  "With observation of your toes
  What Congress has to do, Heaven knows!

  "And swallow me if e'er I knew
  That one could sit and ramble too!"

  To answer me that ancient swain
  Took up his parable again:

  "Through winter snows and summer suns
  A Weather Bureau here I runs.

  "I calls the turn, and can declare
  Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair.

  "Three times a day I sings out clear
  The probs to all which wants to hear.

  "Some weather stations run with light
  Frivolity is seldom right.

  "A scientist from times remote,
  In Scienceville my birth is wrote.

  "And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign
  Jes' take your clo'es in off the line."

  "Not mine, O marvelous old man,
  The methods of your art to scan,

  "Yet here no instruments there be—
  Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see.

  "Did you (if questions you permit)
  At the asylum leave your kit?"

  That strange old man with motion rude
  Grew to surprising altitude.

  "Tools (and sarcazzems too) I scorns—
  I tells the weather by my corns.

  "No doors and windows here you see—
  The wind and m'isture enters free.

  "No fires nor lights, no wool nor fur
  Here falsifies the tempercher.

  "My corns unleathered I expose
  To feel the rain's foretellin' throes.

  "No stockin' from their ears keeps out
  The comin' tempest's warnin' shout.

  "Sich delicacy some has got
  They know next summer's to be hot.

  "This here one says (for that he's best):
  'Storm center passin' to the west.'

  "This feller's vitals is transfixed
  With frost for Janawary sixt'.

  "One chap jes' now is occy'pied
  In fig'rin on next Fridy's tide.

  "I've shaved this cuss so thin and true
  He'll spot a fog in South Peru.

  "Sech are my tools, which ne'er a swell
  Observatory can excel.

  "By long a-studyin' their throbs
  I catches onto all the probs."

  Much more, no doubt, he would have said,
  But suddenly he turned and fled;

  For in mine eye's indignant green
  Lay storms that he had not foreseen,

  Till all at once, with silent squeals,
  His toes "caught on" and told his heels.

  T.A.H.

  Yes, he was that, or that, as you prefer—
  Did so and so, though, faith, it wasn't all;
  Lived like a fool, or a philosopher.
  And had whatever's needful for a fall.
  As rough inflections on a planet merge
  In the true bend of the gigantic sphere,
  Nor mar the perfect circle of its verge,
  So in the survey of his worth the small
  Asperities of spirit disappear,
  Lost in the grander curves of character.
  He lately was hit hard: none knew but I
  The strength and terror of that ghastly stroke—
  Not even herself. He uttered not a cry,
  But set his teeth and made a revelry;
  Drank like a devil—staining sometimes red
  The goblet's edge; diced with his conscience; spread,
  Like Sisyphus, a feast for Death, and spoke
  His welcome in a tongue so long forgot
  That even his ancient guest remembered not
  What race had cursed him in it. Thus my friend
  Still conjugating with each failing sense
  The verb "to die" in every mood and tense,
  Pursued his awful humor to the end.
  When like a stormy dawn the crimson broke
  From his white lips he smiled and mutely bled,
  And, having meanly lived, is grandly dead.

  It is pleasant to think, as I'm watching my ink
    A-drying along my paper,
  That a monument fine will surely be mine
    When death has extinguished my taper.

  From each rhyming scribe of the journalist tribe
    Purged clean of all sentiments narrow,
  A pebble will mark his respect for the stark
    Stiff body that's under the barrow.

  By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon stone
    Will make my celebrity deathless.
  O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at my ink,
    They'd wait till my carcass is breathless.

  O ye who push and fight
    To hear a wanton sing—
  Who utter the delight
    That has the bogus ring,—

  O men mature in years,
    In understanding young,
  The membranes of whose ears
    She tickles with her tongue,—

  O wives and daughters sweet,
    Who call it love of art
  To kiss a woman's feet
    That crush a woman's heart,—

  O prudent dams and sires,
    Your docile young who bring
  To see how man admires
    A sinner if she sing,—

  O husbands who impart
    To each assenting spouse
  The lesson that shall start
    The buds upon your brows,—

  All whose applauding hands
    Assist to rear the fame
  That throws o'er all the lands
    The shadow of its shame,—

  Go drag her car!—the mud
    Through which its axle rolls
  Is partly human blood
    And partly human souls.

  Mad, mad!—your senses whirl
    Like devils dancing free,
  Because a strolling girl
    Can hold the note high C.

  For this the avenging rod
    Of Heaven ye dare defy,
  And tear the law that God
    Thundered from Sinai!

  Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine
  (Unless to praise your rascal wine)
  Yet never ask some luckless sinner
  Who needs, as I do not, a dinner?

  Let lowly themes engage my humble pen—
  Stupidities of critics, not of men.
  Be it mine once more the maunderings to trace
  Of the expounders' self-directed race—
  Their wire-drawn fancies, finically fine,
  Of diligent vacuity the sign.
  Let them in jargon of their trade rehearse
  The moral meaning of the random verse
  That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen
  To be half-blotted by ambitious men
  Who hope with his their meaner names to link
  By writing o'er it in another ink
  The thoughts unreal which they think they think,
  Until the mental eye in vain inspects
  The hateful palimpsest to find the text.

  The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long
  Sings to the dawning day his wanton song.
  The moaning dove, attentive to the sound,
  Its hidden meaning hastens to expound:
  Explains its principles, design—in brief,
  Pronounces it a parable of grief!

  The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh
  With pollen from a hollyhock near by,
  Declares he never heard in terms so just
  The labor problem thoughtfully discussed!
  The browsing ass looks up and clears his whistle
  To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!"
  Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing
  And innocently asks: "What!—did I sing?"

  O literary parasites! who thrive
  Upon the fame of better men, derive
  Your sustenance by suction, like a leech,
  And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,—
  Who find it half is profit, half delight,
  To write about what you could never write,—
  Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes
  Of famine and discomfiture in those
  You write of if they had been critics, too,
  And doomed to write of nothing but of you!

  Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent,
  To see the lion resolutely bent!
  The prosing showman who the beast displays
  Grows rich and richer daily in its praise.
  But how if, to attract the curious yeoman,
  The lion owned the show and showed the showman?

  Every religion is important. When men rise above existing
  conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better
  than the old one.—Professor Howison.

  Professor dear, I think it queer
    That all these good religions
  ('Twixt you and me, some two or three
    Are schemes for plucking pigeons)—

  I mean 'tis strange that every change
    Our poor minds to unfetter
  Entails a new religion—true
    As t' other one, and better.

  From each in turn the truth we learn,
    That wood or flesh or spirit
  May justly boast it rules the roast
    Until we cease to fear it.

  Nay, once upon a time long gone
    Man worshipped Cat and Lizard:
  His God he'd find in any kind
    Of beast, from a to izzard.

  When risen above his early love
    Of dirt and blood and slumber,
  He pulled down these vain deities,
    And made one out of lumber.

  "Far better that than even a cat,"
    The Howisons all shouted;
  "When God is wood religion's good!"
    But one poor cynic doubted.

  "A timber God—that's very odd!"
    Said Progress, and invented
  The simple plan to worship Man,
    Who, kindly soul! consented.

  But soon our eye we lift asky,
    Our vows all unregarded,
  And find (at least so says the priest)
    The Truth—and Man's discarded.

  Along our line of march recline
    Dead gods devoid of feeling;
  And thick about each sun-cracked lout
    Dried Howisons are kneeling.

  "To the will of the people we loyally bow!"
  That's the minority shibboleth now.
  O noble antagonists, answer me flat—
  What would you do if you didn't do that?

  O, Sinner A, to me unknown
  Be such a conscience as your own!
  To ease it you to Sinner B
  Confess the sins of Sinner C.

  Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach,
      With a him.
  And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach,
      On the limb;
  Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking
  And the dudelet is a-smoking
      Cigarettes;
  And the hackman is a-hacking
  And the showman is a-cracking
      Up his pets;
  Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the shore
  And the snapdog—we have heard it o'er and o'er;
      Yes, my poet,
      Well we know it—
  Know the spooners how they spoon
      In the bright
      Dollar light
  Of the country tavern moon;
      Yes, the caterpillars fall
      From the trees (we know it all),
  And with beetles all the shelves
      Are alive.

      Please unbuttonhole us—O,
      Have the grace to let us go,
          For we know
    How you Summer poets thrive,
      By the recapitulation
      And insistent iteration
  Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among
          Ourselves!
    So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss.
      For you, poor human linnet,
      There's a half a living in it,
    But there's not a copper cent in it for us!

  Posterity with all its eyes
  Will come and view him where he lies.
  Then, turning from the scene away
  With a concerted shrug, will say:
  "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus—
  What interest has that to us?
  We can't admire at all, at all,
  A tumble-bug without its ball."
  And then a sage will rise and say:
  "Good friends, you err—turn back, I pray:
  This freak that you unwisely shun
  Is bug and ball rolled into one."

  Ere Gabriel's note to silence died
  All graves of men were gaping wide.

  Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun,"
  Rose slowly from the deepest one.

  "The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,"
  Quoth he—"ick, bick, ban, doe,—I'm It!"

  (His headstone, footstone, counted slow,
  Were "ick" and "bick," he "ban" and "doe":

  Of beating Nick the subtle art
  Was part of his immortal part.)

  Then straight to Heaven he took his flight,
  Arriving at the Gates of Light.

  There Warden Peter, in the throes
  Of sleep, lay roaring in the nose.

  "Get up, you sluggard!" Dana cried—
  "I've an engagement there inside."

  The Saint arose and scratched his head.
  "I recollect your face," he said.

  "(And, pardon me, 't is rather hard),
  But——" Dana handed him a card.

  "Ah, yes, I now remember—bless
  My soul, how dull I am I—yes, yes,

  "We've nothing better here than bliss.
  Walk in. But I must tell you this:

  "We've rest and comfort, though, and peace."
  "H'm—puddles," Dana said, "for geese.

  "Have you in Heaven no Hell?" "Why, no,"
  Said Peter, "nor, in truth, below.

  "'T is not included in our scheme—
  'T is but a preacher's idle dream."

  The great man slowly moved away.
  "I'll call," he said, "another day.

  "On earth I played it, o'er and o'er,
  And Heaven without it were a bore."

  "O, stuff!—come in. You'll make," said Pete,
  "A hell where'er you set your feet."

  1885.

  I muse upon the distant town
    In many a dreamy mood.
  Above my head the sunbeams crown
    The graveyard's giant rood.
  The lupin blooms among the tombs.
    The quail recalls her brood.

  Ah, good it is to sit and trace
    The shadow of the cross;
  It moves so still from place to place
    O'er marble, bronze and moss;
  With graves to mark upon its arc
    Our time's eternal loss.

  And sweet it is to watch the bee
    That reve's in the rose,
  And sense the fragrance floating free
    On every breeze that blows
  O'er many a mound, where, safe and sound,
    Mine enemies repose.

  God dreamed—the suns sprang flaming into place,
  And sailing worlds with many a venturous race!
  He woke—His smile alone illumined space.

  Two villains of the highest rank
  Set out one night to rob a bank.
  They found the building, looked it o'er,
  Each window noted, tried each door,
  Scanned carefully the lidded hole
  For minstrels to cascade the coal—
  In short, examined five-and-twenty
  Good paths from poverty to plenty.
  But all were sealed, they saw full soon,
  Against the minions of the moon.
  "Enough," said one: "I'm satisfied."
  The other, smiling fair and wide,
  Said: "I'm as highly pleased as you:
  No burglar ever can get through.
  Fate surely prospers our design—
  The booty all is yours and mine."
  So, full of hope, the following day
  To the exchange they took their way
  And bought, with manner free and frank,
  Some stock of that devoted bank;
  And they became, inside the year,
  One President and one Cashier.

  Their crime I can no further trace—
  The means of safety to embrace,
  I overdrew and left the place.

  If the wicked gods were willing
    (Pray it never may be true!)
  That a universal chilling
      Should ensue
  Of the sentiment of loving,—
    If they made a great undoing
  Of the plan of turtle-doving,
    Then farewell all poet-lore,
      Evermore.
  If there were no more of billing
    There would be no more of cooing
  And we all should be but owls—
      Lonely fowls
  Blinking wonderfully wise,
    With our great round eyes—
  Sitting singly in the gloaming and no longer two and two,
  As unwilling to be wedded as unpracticed how to woo;
    With regard to being mated,
    Asking still with aggravated
  Ungrammatical acerbity: "To who? To who?"

  "The delay granted by the weakness and good nature of
  our judges is responsible for half the murders."—Daily Newspaper.

  Delay responsible? Why, then; my friend,
  Impeach Delay and you will make an end.
  Thrust vile Delay in jail and let it rot
  For doing all the things that it should not.
  Put not good-natured judges under bond,
  But make Delay in damages respond.
  Minos, Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, rolled
  Into one pitiless, unsmiling scold—
  Unsparing censor, be your thongs uncurled
  To "lash the rascals naked through the world."
  The rascals? Nay, Rascality's the thing
  Above whose back your knotted scourges sing.
  Your satire, truly, like a razor keen,
  "Wounds with a touch that's neither felt nor seen;"
  For naught that you assail with falchion free
  Has either nerves to feel or eyes to see.
  Against abstractions evermore you charge
  You hack no helmet and you need no targe.
  That wickedness is wrong and sin a vice,
  That wrong's not right and foulness never nice,
  Fearless affirm. All consequences dare:
  Smite the offense and the offender spare.
  When Ananias and Sapphira lied
  Falsehood, had you been there, had surely died.
  When money-changers in the Temple sat,
  At money-changing you'd have whirled the "cat"
  (That John-the-Baptist of the modern pen)
  And all the brokers would have cried amen!

  Good friend, if any judge deserve your blame
  Have you no courage, or has he no name?
  Upon his method will you wreak your wrath,
  Himself all unmolested in his path?
  Fall to! fall to!—your club no longer draw
  To beat the air or flail a man of straw.
  Scorn to do justice like the Saxon thrall
  Who cuffed the offender's shadow on a wall.
  Let rascals in the flesh attest your zeal—
  Knocked on the mazzard or tripped up at heel!

  We know that judges are corrupt. We know
  That crimes are lively and that laws are slow.
  We know that lawyers lie and doctors slay;
  That priests and preachers are but birds of pray;
  That merchants cheat and journalists for gold
  Flatter the vicious while at vice they scold.
  'Tis all familiar as the simple lore
  That two policemen and two thieves make four.

  But since, while some are wicked, some are good,
  (As trees may differ though they all are wood)
  Names, here and there, to show whose head is hit,
  The bad would sentence and the good acquit.
  In sparing everybody none you spare:
  Rebukes most personal are least unfair.
  To fire at random if you still prefer,
  And swear at Dog but never kick a cur,
  Permit me yet one ultimate appeal
  To something that you understand and feel:
  Let thrift and vanity your heart persuade—
  You might be read if you would learn your trade.

  Good brother cynics (you have doubtless guessed
  Not one of you but all are here addressed)
  Remember this: the shaft that seeks a heart
  Draws all eyes after it; an idle dart
  Shot at some shadow flutters o'er the green,
  Its flight unheeded and its fall unseen.

  When I was young and full of faith
    And other fads that youngsters cherish
  A cry rose as of one that saith
    With unction: "Help me or I perish!"
  'Twas heard in all the land, and men
    The sound were each to each repeating.
  It made my heart beat faster then
    Than any heart can now be beating.

  For the world is old and the world is gray—
    Grown prudent and, I guess, more witty.
  She's cut her wisdom teeth, they say,
    And doesn't now go in for Pity.
  Besides, the melancholy cry
    Was that of one, 'tis now conceded,
  Whose plight no one beneath the sky
    Felt half so poignantly as he did.

  Moreover, he was black. And yet
    That sentimental generation
  With an austere compassion set
    Its face and faith to the occasion.
  Then there were hate and strife to spare,
    And various hard knocks a-plenty;
  And I ('twas more than my true share,
    I must confess) took five-and-twenty.

  That all is over now—the reign
    Of love and trade stills all dissensions,
  And the clear heavens arch again
    Above a land of peace and pensions.
  The black chap—at the last we gave
    Him everything that he had cried for,
  Though many white chaps in the grave
    'Twould puzzle to say what they died for.

  I hope he's better off—I trust
    That his society and his master's
  Are worth the price we paid, and must
    Continue paying, in disasters;
  But sometimes doubts press thronging round
    ('Tis mostly when my hurts are aching)
  If war for union was a sound
    And profitable undertaking.

  'Tis said they mean to take away
    The Negro's vote for he's unlettered.
  'Tis true he sits in darkness day
    And night, as formerly, when fettered;
  But pray observe—howe'er he vote
    To whatsoever party turning,
  He'll be with gentlemen of note
    And wealth and consequence and learning.
  With Hales and Morgans on each side,
    How could a fool through lack of knowledge,
  Vote wrong? If learning is no guide
    Why ought one to have been in college?
  O Son of Day, O Son of Night!
    What are your preferences made of?
  I know not which of you is right,
    Nor which to be the more afraid of.

  The world is old and the world is bad,
    And creaks and grinds upon its axis;
  And man's an ape and the gods are mad!—
    There's nothing sure, not even our taxes.
  No mortal man can Truth restore,
    Or say where she is to be sought for.
  I know what uniform I wore—
    O, that I knew which side I fought for!

  Slain as they lay by the secret, slow,
  Pitiless hand of an unseen foe,
  Two score thousand old soldiers have crossed
  The river to join the loved and lost.
  In the space of a year their spirits fled,
  Silent and white, to the camp of the dead.

  One after one, they fall asleep
  And the pension agents awake to weep,
  And orphaned statesmen are loud in their wail
  As the souls flit by on the evening gale.
  O Father of Battles, pray give us release
  From the horrors of peace, the horrors of peace!

  O hoary sculptor, stay thy hand:
    I fain would view the lettered stone.
  What carvest thou?—perchance some grand
    And solemn fancy all thine own.
  For oft to know the fitting word
    Some humble worker God permits.
      "Jain Ann Meginnis,
          Agid 3rd.
      He givith His beluved fits."

  I saw a man who knelt in prayer,
    And heard him say:
  "I'll lay my inmost spirit bare
        To-day.

  "Lord, for to-morrow and its need
    I do not pray;
  Let me upon my neighbor feed
        To-day.

  "Let me my duty duly shirk
    And run away
  From any form or phase of work
        To-day.

  "From Thy commands exempted still
    Let me obey
  The promptings of my private will
        To-day.

  "Let me no word profane, no lie
    Unthinking say
  If anyone is standing by
        To-day.

  "My secret sins and vices grave
    Let none betray;
  The scoffer's jeers I do not crave
          To-day.

  "And if to-day my fortune all
    Should ebb away,
  Help me on other men's to fall
          To-day.

  "So, for to-morrow and its mite
    I do not pray;
  Just give me everything in sight
          To-day."

  I cried: "Amen!" He rose and ran
    Like oil away.
  I said: "I've seen an honest man
          To-day."

  A famous journalist, who long
  Had told the great unheaded throng
  Whate'er they thought, by day or night.
  Was true as Holy Writ, and right,
  Was caught in—well, on second thought,
  It is enough that he was caught,
  And being thrown in jail became
  The fuel of a public flame.

  "Vox populi vox Dei," said
  The jailer. Inxling bent his head
  Without remark: that motto good
  In bold-faced type had always stood
  Above the columns where his pen
  Had rioted in praise of men
  And all they said—provided he
  Was sure they mostly did agree.
  Meanwhile a sharp and bitter strife
  To take, or save, the culprit's life
  Or liberty (which, I suppose,
  Was much the same to him) arose
  Outside. The journal that his pen
  Adorned denounced his crime—but then
  Its editor in secret tried
  To have the indictment set aside.
  The opposition papers swore
  His father was a rogue before,
  And all his wife's relations were
  Like him and similar to her.
  They begged their readers to subscribe
  A dollar each to make a bribe
  That any Judge would feel was large
  Enough to prove the gravest charge—
  Unless, it might be, the defense
  Put up superior evidence.
  The law's traditional delay
  Was all too short: the trial day
  Dawned red and menacing. The Judge
  Sat on the Bench and wouldn't budge,
  And all the motions counsel made
  Could not move him—and there he stayed.
  "The case must now proceed," he said,
  "While I am just in heart and head,
  It happens—as, indeed, it ought—
  Both sides with equal sums have bought
  My favor: I can try the cause
  Impartially." (Prolonged applause.)

  The prisoner was now arraigned
  And said that he was greatly pained
  To be suspected—he, whose pen
  Had charged so many other men
  With crimes and misdemeanors! "Why,"
  He said, a tear in either eye,
  "If men who live by crying out
  'Stop thief!' are not themselves from doubt
  Of their integrity exempt,
  Let all forego the vain attempt
  To make a reputation! Sir,
  I'm innocent, and I demur."
  Whereat a thousand voices cried
  Amain he manifestly lied—
  Vox populi as loudly roared
  As bull by picadores gored,
  In his own coin receiving pay
  To make a Spanish holiday.

  The jury—twelve good men and true—
  Were then sworn in to see it through,
  And each made solemn oath that he
  As any babe unborn was free
  From prejudice, opinion, thought,
  Respectability, brains—aught
  That could disqualify; and some
  Explained that they were deaf and dumb.
  A better twelve, his Honor said,
  Was rare, except among the dead.
  The witnesses were called and sworn.
  The tales they told made angels mourn,
  And the Good Book they'd kissed became
  Red with the consciousness of shame.

  Whenever one of them approached
  The truth, "That witness wasn't coached,
  Your Honor!" cried the lawyers both.
  "Strike out his testimony," quoth
  The learned judge: "This Court denies
  Its ear to stories which surprise.
  I hold that witnesses exempt
  From coaching all are in contempt."
  Both Prosecution and Defense
  Applauded the judicial sense,
  And the spectators all averred
  Such wisdom they had never heard:
  'Twas plain the prisoner would be
  Found guilty in the first degree.
  Meanwhile that wight's pale cheek confessed
  The nameless terrors in his breast.
  He felt remorseful, too, because
  He wasn't half they said he was.
  "If I'd been such a rogue," he mused
  On opportunities unused,
  "I might have easily become
  As wealthy as Methusalum."
  This journalist adorned, alas,
  The middle, not the Bible, class.

  With equal skill the lawyers' pleas
  Attested their divided fees.
  Each gave the other one the lie,
  Then helped him frame a sharp reply.

  Good Lord! it was a bitter fight,
  And lasted all the day and night.
  When once or oftener the roar
  Had silenced the judicial snore
  The speaker suffered for the sport
  By fining for contempt of court.
  Twelve jurors' noses good and true
  Unceasing sang the trial through,
  And even vox populi was spent
  In rattles through a nasal vent.
  Clerk, bailiff, constables and all
  Heard Morpheus sound the trumpet call
  To arms—his arms—and all fell in
  Save counsel for the Man of Sin.
  That thaumaturgist stood and swayed
  The wand their faculties obeyed—
  That magic wand which, like a flame.
  Leapt, wavered, quivered and became
  A wonder-worker—known among
  The ignoble vulgar as a Tongue.

  How long, O Lord, how long my verse
  Runs on for better or for worse
  In meter which o'ermasters me,
  Octosyllabically free!—
  A meter which, the poets say,
  No power of restraint can stay;—
  A hard-mouthed meter, suited well
  To him who, having naught to tell,
  Must hold attention as a trout
  Is held, by paying out and out
  The slender line which else would break
  Should one attempt the fish to take.
  Thus tavern guides who've naught to show
  But some adjacent curio
  By devious trails their patrons lead
  And make them think 't is far indeed.
  Where was I?

          While the lawyer talked
  The rogue took up his feet and walked:
  While all about him, roaring, slept,
  Into the street he calmly stepped.
  In very truth, the man who thought
  The people's voice from heaven had caught
  God's inspiration took a change
  Of venue—it was passing strange!
  Straight to his editor he went
  And that ingenious person sent
  A Negro to impersonate
  The fugitive. In adequate
  Disguise he took his vacant place
  And buried in his arms his face.
  When all was done the lawyer stopped
  And silence like a bombshell dropped
  Upon the Court: judge, jury, all
  Within that venerable hall
  (Except the deaf and dumb, indeed,
  And one or two whom death had freed)
  Awoke and tried to look as though
  Slumber was all they did not know.

  And now that tireless lawyer-man
  Took breath, and then again began:
  "Your Honor, if you did attend
  To what I've urged (my learned friend
  Nodded concurrence) to support
  The motion I have made, this court
  May soon adjourn. With your assent
  I've shown abundant precedent
  For introducing now, though late,
  New evidence to exculpate
  My client. So, if you'll allow,
  I'll prove an alibi!" "What?—how?"
  Stammered the judge. "Well, yes, I can't
  Deny your showing, and I grant
  The motion. Do I understand
  You undertake to prove—good land!—
  That when the crime—you mean to show
  Your client wasn't there?" "O, no,
  I cannot quite do that, I find:
  My alibi's another kind
  Of alibi,—I'll make it clear,
  Your Honor, that he isn't here."
  The Darky here upreared his head,
  Tranquillity affrighted fled
  And consternation reigned instead!

  When Admonition's hand essays
    Our greed to curse,
  Its lifted finger oft displays
    Our missing purse.

  J.F.B.

  How well this man unfolded to our view
    The world's beliefs of Death and Heaven and Hell—
    This man whose own convictions none could tell,
  Nor if his maze of reason had a clew.
  Dogmas he wrote for daily bread, but knew
    The fair philosophies of doubt so well
    That while we listened to his words there fell
  Some that were strangely comforting, though true.
  Marking how wise we grew upon his doubt,
    We said: "If so, by groping in the night,
    He can proclaim some certain paths of trust,
  How great our profit if he saw about
  His feet the highways leading to the light."
    Now he sees all. Ah, Christ! his mouth is dust!

  It is a politician man—
    He draweth near his end,
  And friends weep round that partisan,
    Of every man the friend.

  Between the Known and the Unknown
    He lieth on the strand;
  The light upon the sea is thrown
    That lay upon the land.

  It shineth in his glazing eye,
    It burneth on his face;
  God send that when we come to die
    We know that sign of grace!

  Upon his lips his blessed sprite
    Poiseth her joyous wing.
  "How is it with thee, child of light?
    Dost hear the angels sing?"

  "The song I hear, the crown I see,
    And know that God is love.
  Farewell, dark world—I go to be
    A postmaster above!"

  For him no monumental arch,
    But, O, 'tis good and brave
  To see the Grand Old Party march
    To office o'er his grave!

  Father! whose hard and cruel law
    Is part of thy compassion's plan,
    Thy works presumptuously we scan
  For what the prophets say they saw.

  Unbidden still the awful slope
    Walling us in we climb to gain
    Assurance of the shining plain
  That faith has certified to hope.

  In vain!—beyond the circling hill
    The shadow and the cloud abide.
    Subdue the doubt, our spirits guide
  To trust the Record and be still.

  To trust it loyally as he
    Who, heedful of his high design,
    Ne'er raised a seeking eye to thine,
  But wrought thy will unconsciously,

  Disputing not of chance or fate,
    Nor questioning of cause or creed;
    For anything but duty's deed
  Too simply wise, too humbly great.

  The cannon syllabled his name;
    His shadow shifted o'er the land,
    Portentous, as at his command
  Successive cities sprang to flame!

  He fringed the continent with fire,
    The rivers ran in lines of light!
    Thy will be done on earth—if right
  Or wrong he cared not to inquire.

  His was the heavy hand, and his
    The service of the despot blade;
    His the soft answer that allayed
  War's giant animosities.

  Let us have peace: our clouded eyes,
    Fill, Father, with another light,
    That we may see with clearer sight
  Thy servant's soul in Paradise.