Shapes of Clay Part 13

Because you strike a random blow At what you do not understand, And beckon with a friendly hand To something that you do not know,

I hold no speech of your desert, Nor answer with porrected s.h.i.+eld The wooden weapon that you wield, But meet you with a cast of dirt.

Dispute with such a thing as you-- Twin show to the two-headed calf?

Why, sir, if I repress my laugh, 'T is more than half the world can do.

1882.

PRAYER.

Fear not in any tongue to call Upon the Lord--He's skilled in all.

But if He answereth my plea He speaketh one unknown to me.

A "BORN LEADER OF MEN."

Tuckerton Tamerlane Morey Mahosh Is a statesman of world-wide fame, With a notable knack at rhetorical bosh To glorify somebody's name-- Somebody chosen by Tuckerton's masters To succor the country from divers disasters Portentous to Mr. Mahosh.

Percy O'Halloran Tarpy Cabee Is in the political swim.

He cares not a b.u.t.ton for men, not he: Great principles captivate him-- Principles cleverly cut out and fitted To Percy's capacity, duly submitted, And fought for by Mr. Cabee.

Drusus Turn Swinnerton Porfer Fitzurse Holds office the most of his life.

For men nor for principles cares he a curse, But much for his neighbor's wife.

The s.h.i.+p of State leaks, but _he_ doesn't pump any, Messrs. Mahosh, Cabee & Company Pump for good Mr. Fitzurse.

TO THE BARTHOLDI STATUE.

O Liberty, G.o.d-gifted-- Young and immortal maid-- In your high hand uplifted; The torch declares your trade.

Its crimson menace, flaming Upon the sea and sh.o.r.e, Is, trumpet-like, proclaiming That Law shall be no more.

Austere incendiary, We're blinking in the light; Where is your customary Grenade of dynamite?

Where are your staves and switches For men of gentle birth?

Your mask and dirk for riches?

Your chains for wit and worth?

Perhaps, you've brought the halters You used in the old days, When round religion's altars You stabled Cromwell's bays?

Behind you, unsuspected, Have you the axe, fair wench, Wherewith you once collected A poll-tax from the French?

America salutes you-- Preparing to disgorge.

Take everything that suits you, And marry Henry George.

1894

AN UNMERRY CHRISTMAS.

Christmas, you tell me, comes but once a year.

One place it never comes, and that is here.

Here, in these pages no good wishes spring, No well-worn greetings tediously ring-- For Christmas greetings are like pots of ore: The hollower they are they ring the more.

Here shall no holly cast a spiny shade, Nor mistletoe my solitude invade, No trinket-laden vegetable come, No jorum steam with Sheolate of rum.

No shrilling children shall their voices rear.

Hurrah for Christmas without Christmas cheer!

No presents, if you please--I know too well What Herbert Spencer, if he didn't tell (I know not if he did) yet might have told Of present-giving in the days of old, When Early Man with gifts propitiated The chiefs whom most he doubted, feared and hated, Or tendered them in hope to reap some rude Advantage from the taker's grat.i.tude.

Since thus the Gift its origin derives (How much of its first character survives You know as well as I) my stocking's tied, My pocket b.u.t.toned--with my soul inside.

I save my money and I save my pride.

Dinner? Yes; thank you--just a human body Done to a nutty brown, and a tear toddy To give me appet.i.te; and as for drink, About a half a jug of blood, I think, Will do; for still I love the red, red wine, Coagulating well, with wrinkles fine Fretting the satin surface of its flood.

O tope of kings--divine Falernian--blood!

Duse take the shouting fowls upon the limb, The kneeling cattle and the rising hymn!

Has not a pagan rights to be regarded-- His heart a.s.saulted and his ear bombarded With sentiments and sounds that good old Pan Even in his demonium would ban?

No, friends--no Christmas here, for I have sworn To keep my heart hard and my knees unworn.

Enough you have of jester, player, priest: I as the skeleton attend your feast, In the mad revelry to make a lull With shaken finger and with bobbing skull.

However you my services may flout, Philosophy disdain and reason doubt, I mean to hold in customary state, My dismal revelry and celebrate My yearly rite until the crack o' doom, Ignore the cheerful season's warmth and bloom And cultivate an oasis of gloom.

BY A DEFEATED LITIGANT.

Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits; Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down; Justice denied, authority abused, And the one honest person the accused-- Thy courts, my country, all these awful years, Move fools to laughter and the wise to tears.

AN EPITAPH.

Here lies Greer Harrison, a well cracked louse-- So small a tenant of so big a house!