Black Beetles in Amber | Page 8

"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 flung?Himself across your body at the bung??Who vowed if you'd the power you would fine?The Son of God for making water wine?
All trails to odium you tread and boast,?Yourself enamored of the dirtiest most.?One day to be a miser you aspire,?The next to wallow drunken in the mire;?The third, lo! you're a meritorious liar![C]?Pray, in the catalogue of all your graces,?Have theft and cowardice no honored places?
Yield thee, great Satan--here's a rival name?With all thy vices and but half thy shame!?Quick to the letter of the precept, quick?To the example of the elder Nick;?With as great talent as was e'er applied?To fool a teacher and to fog a guide;?With slack allegiance and boundless greed,?To paunch the profit of a traitor deed,?He aims to make thy glory all his own,?And crowd his master from the infernal throne!
[Footnote A: We are not writing this paragraph for any other purpose than to protest against this never ending cant, affectation, and hypocrisy about money. It is one of the best things in this world--better than religion, or good birth, or learning,