Black Beetles in Amber | Page 7

of Pipesville." Peter bowed his head,
Opened the gates
and said: "I'm glad to know you,
And wish we'd something better, sir,
to show you."
"Don't mention it," said Stephen, looking bland,
And
was about to enter, hat in hand,
When from a cloud below such fumes
arose
As tickled tenderly his conscious nose.
He paused, replaced
his hat upon his head,
Turned back and to the saintly warden said,

O'er his already sprouting wings: "I swear
I smell some broiling
going on down there!"
So Massett's paunch, attracted by the smell,

Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.
ORNITHANTHROPOS
"Let John P. Irish rise!" the edict rang
As when Creation into being
sprang!
Nature, not clearly understanding, tried
To make a bird that
on the air could ride.
But naught could baffle the creative plan--

Despite her efforts 'twas almost a man.
Yet he had risen--to the bird a
twin--
Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.
TO E.S. SALOMON

Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against decorating
the graves of Confederate dead.
What! Salomon! such words from you,
Who call yourself a soldier?
Well,
The Southern brother where he fell
Slept all your base oration
through.
Alike to him--he cannot know
Your praise or blame: as little harm

Your tongue can do him as your arm
A quarter-century ago.
The brave respect the brave. The brave
Respect the dead; but
you--you draw
That ancient blade, the ass's jaw,
And shake it o'er a
hero's grave.
Are you not he who makes to-day
A merchandise of old renown

Which he persuades this easy town
He won in battle far away?
Nay, those the fallen who revile
Have ne'er before the living stood

And stoutly made their battle good
And greeted danger with a smile.
What if the dead whom still you hate
Were wrong? Are you so surely
right?
We know the issue of the fight--
The sword is but an
advocate.
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 ÆTERNITATIS

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.