Black Beetles in Amber | Page 4

fair city by the inland sea,
Where Blaine unhived his
Presidential bee,
Frank Pixley's meeting with George Gorham sing,

Celestial muse, and what events did spring
From the encounter of
those mighty sons
Of thunder, and of slaughter, and of guns.
Great
Gorham first, his yearning tooth to sate
And give him stomach for the
day's debate,
Entering a restaurant, with eager mien,
Demands an
ounce of bacon and a bean.
The trembling waiter, by the statesman's
eye
Smitten with terror, hastens to comply;
Nor chairs nor tables
can his speed retard,
For famine's fixed and horrible regard
He
takes for menace. As he shaking flew,
Lo! the portentous Pixley
heaved in view!
Before him yawned invisible the cell,
Unheard,
behind, the warden's footsteps fell.
Thrice in convention rising to his
feet,
He thrice had been thrust back into his seat;
Thrice had
protested, been reminded thrice
The nation had no need of his advice.

Balked of his will to set the people right,
His soul was gloomy
though his hat was white,
So fierce his mien, with provident accord

The waiters swarmed him, thinking him a lord.

He spurned them,
roaring grandly to their chief:
"Give me (Fred. Crocker pays) a leg of
beef!"
His wandering eye's deluminating flame
Fell upon Gorham
and the crisis came!
For Pixley scowled and darkness filled the room

Till Gorham's flashing orbs dispelled the gloom.
The patrons of the

place, by fear dismayed,
Sprang to the street and left their scores
unpaid.
So, when Jove thunders and his lightnings gleam
To sour
the milk and curdle, too, the cream,
And storm-clouds gather on the
shadowed hill,
The ass forsakes his hay, the pig his swill.
Hotly the
heroes now engaged--their breath
Came short and hard, as in the
throes of death.
They clenched their hands, their weapons brandished
high,
Cut, stabbed, and hewed, nor uttered any cry,
But gnashed
their teeth and struggled on! In brief,
One ate his bacon, t'other one
his beef.
MATTER FOR GRATITUDE
[Especially should we be thankful for having escaped the ravages of the
yellow scourge by which our neighbors have been so sorely
afflicted.--_Governor Stoneman's Thanksgiving Proclamation._]
Be pleased, O Lord, to take a people's thanks
That Thine avenging
sword has spared our ranks--
That Thou hast parted from our lips the
cup
And forced our neighbors' lips to drink it up.
Father of Mercies,
with a heart contrite
We thank Thee that Thou goest south to smite,

And sparest San Francisco's loins, to crack
Thy lash on Hermosillo's
bleeding back--
That o'er our homes Thine awful angel spread
His
wings in vain, and Guaymas weeps instead.
We praise Thee, God, that Yellow Fever here
His horrid banner has
not dared to rear,
Consumption's jurisdiction to contest,
Her dagger
deep in every second breast!
Catarrh and Asthma and Congestive
Chill
Attest Thy bounty and perform Thy will.
These native
messengers obey Thy call--
They summon singly, but they summon
all.
Not, as in Mexico's impested clime,
Can Yellow Jack commit
recurring crime.
We thank Thee that Thou killest all the time.
Thy tender mercies, Father, never end:
Upon all heads Thy blessings
still descend,
Though their forms vary. Here the sown seeds yield

Abundant grain that whitens all the field--
There the smit corn stands

barren on the plain,
Thrift reaps the straw and Famine gleans in vain.

Here the fat priest to the contented king
Points out the contrast and
the people sing--
There mothers eat their offspring. Well, at least

Thou hast provided offspring for the feast.
An earthquake here rolls
harmless through the land,
And Thou art good because the chimneys
stand--
There templed cities sink into the sea,
And damp survivors,
howling as they flee,
Skip to the hills and hold a celebration
In
honor of Thy wise discrimination.
O God, forgive them all, from Stoneman down,
Thy smile who
construe and expound Thy frown,
And fall with saintly grace upon
their knees
To render thanks when Thou dost only sneeze.
THREE KINDS OF A ROGUE
I
Sharon, ambitious of immortal shame,
Fame's dead-wall daubed with
his illustrious name--
Served in the Senate, for our sins, his time,

Each word a folly and each vote a crime;
Law for our governance
well skilled to make
By knowledge gained in study how to break;

Yet still by the presiding eye ignored,
Which only sought him when
too loud he snored.
Auspicious thunder!--when he woke to vote
He
stilled his own to cut his country's throat;
That rite performed, fell off
again to sleep,
While statesmen ages dead awoke to weep!
For
sedentary service all unfit,
By lying long disqualified to sit,

Wasting below as he decayed aloft,
His seat grown harder as his brain
grew soft,
He left the hall he could not bring away,
And grateful
millions blessed the happy day!
Whate'er contention in that hall is
heard,
His sovereign State has still the final word:
For disputatious
statesmen when they roar
Startle the ancient echoes of his snore,

Which from their dusty nooks expostulate
And close with stormy
clamor the debate.
To low melodious thunders then they fade;

Their
murmuring lullabies all ears invade;
Peace takes the Chair; the portal

Silence keeps;
No motion stirs the dark Lethean deeps--
Washoe
has spoken and the Senate sleeps.
II
Lo! the new Sharon with a new intent,
Making no laws, but keen to
circumvent
The laws of Nature (since he can't repeal)
That break
his failing body on