Black Beetles in Amber | Page 8

"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.
It can't be wrong, though, to rejoice
That his unpleasing capers
Are
ended. Silent is his voice
In all the papers.
No longer he's a show: no more,
Bear-like, his den he's walking.
No
longer can he hold the floor
When I'd be talking.
The laws that govern jails are bad
If such displays are lawful.
The
fate of the assassin's sad,
But ours is awful!
What! shall a wretch condemned to die
In shame upon the gibbet

Be set before the public eye
As an "exhibit"?--
His looks, his actions noted down,
His words if light or solemn,

And all this hawked about the town--
So much a column?
The press, of course, will publish news
However it may get it;
But
blast the sheriff who'll abuse
His powers to let it!
Nay, this is not ingratitude;
I'm no reporter, truly,
Nor yet an editor.
I'm rude
Because unruly--
Because I burn with shame and rage
Beyond my power of telling

To see assassins in a cage
And keepers yelling.
"Walk up! Walk up!" the showman cries:
"Observe the lion's poses,

His stormy mane, his glooming eyes.
His--hold your noses!"
How long, O Lord, shall Law and Right
Be mocked for gain or glory,

And angels weep as they recite
The shameful story?
THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF A SOUL
What! Pixley, must I hear you call the roll
Of all the vices that infest
your soul?
Was't not enough that lately you did bawl
Your

money-worship in the ears of all?[A]
Still must you crack your
brazen cheek to tell
That though a miser you're a sot as well?
Still
must I hear how low your taste has sunk--
From getting money down
to getting drunk?[B]
Who worships money, damning all beside,
And shows his callous
knees with pious pride,
Speaks with half-knowledge, for no man e'er
scorns
His own possessions, be they coins or corns.
You've money,
neighbor; had you gentle birth
You'd know, as now you never can, its
worth.
You've money; learning is beyond your scope,
Deaf to your envy,
stubborn to your hope.
But if upon your undeserving head
Science
and letters had their glory shed;
If in the cavern of your skull the light

Of knowledge shone where now eternal night
Breeds the blind,
poddy, vapor-fatted naughts
Of cerebration that you think are
thoughts--
Black bats in cold and dismal corners hung
That squeak
and gibber when you move your tongue--
You would not write, in
Avarice's defense,
A senseless eulogy on lack of sense,
Nor show
your eagerness to sacrifice
All noble virtues to one loathsome vice.
You've money; if you'd manners too you'd shame
To boast your
weakness or your baseness name.
Appraise the things you have, but
measure not
The things denied to your unhappy lot.
He values
manners lighter than a cork
Who combs his beard at table with a fork.

Hare to seek sin and tortoise to forsake,
The laws of taste condemn
you to the stake
To expiate, where all the world may see,
The crime
of growing old disgracefully.
Religion, learning, birth and manners, too,
All that distinguishes a
man from you,
Pray damn at will: all shining virtues gain
An added
luster from a rogue's disdain.
But spare the young that proselyting sin,

A toper's apotheosis of gin.
If not our young, at least our pigs may
claim

Exemption from the spectacle of shame!

Are you not he who lately out of shape
Blew a brass trumpet to
denounce the grape?--
Who led the brave teetotalers afield
And
slew your leader underneath your shield?--
Swore that no man should
drink unless he