Part 8 (1/2)

LUCIFER OF THE TORCH

O Reverend Ravlin, once with sounding lung You shook the b.l.o.o.d.y banner of your tongue, Urged all the fiery boycotters afield And swore you'd rather follow them than yield, Alas, how brief the time, how great the change!-- Your dogs of war are ailing all of mange; The loose leash dangles from your finger-tips, But the loud ”havoc” dies upon your lips.

No spirit animates your feeble clay-- You'd rather yield than even run away.

In vain McGlashan labors to inspire Your pallid nostril with his breath of fire: The light of battle's faded from your face-- You keep the peace, John Chinaman his place.

O Ravlin, what cold water, thrown by whom Upon the kindling Boycott's ruddy bloom, Has slaked your parching blood-thirst and allayed The flash and s.h.i.+mmer of your lingual blade?

Your salary--your salary's unpaid!

In the old days, when Christ with scourges drave The Ravlins headlong from the Temple's nave, Each bore upon his pelt the mark divine-- The Boycott's red authenticating sign.

Birth-marked forever in surviving hurts, Glowing and smarting underneath their s.h.i.+rts, Successive Ravlins have revenged their shame By blowing every coal and flinging flame.

And you, the latest (may you be the last!) Endorsed with that hereditary, vast And monstrous rubric, would the feud prolong, Save that cupidity forbids the wrong.

In strife you preferably pa.s.s your days-- But brawl no moment longer than it pays.

By shouting when no more you can incite The dogs to put the timid sheep to flight To load, for you, the brambles with their fleece, You cackle concord to congenial geese, Put pinches of goodwill upon their tails And pluck them with a touch that never fails.

THE ”WHIRLIGIG OF TIME”

Dr. Jewell speaks of Balaam And his vices, to a.s.sail 'em.

Ancient enmities how cruel!-- Balaam cudgeled once a Jewell.

A RAILROAD LACKEY

Ben Truman, you're a genius and can write, Though one would not suspect it from your looks.

You lack that certain spareness which is quite Distinctive of the persons who make books.

You show the workmans.h.i.+p of Stanford's cooks About the region of the appet.i.te, Where geniuses are singularly slight.

Your friends the Chinamen are understood, Indeed, to speak of you as ”belly good.”

Still, you can write--spell, too, I understand-- Though how two such accomplishments can go, Like sentimental schoolgirls, hand in hand Is more than ever I can hope to know.

To have one talent good enough to show Has always been sufficient to command The veneration of the brilliant band Of railroad scholars, who themselves, indeed, Although they cannot write, can mostly read.

There's Towne and Fillmore, Goodman and Steve Gage, Ned Curtis of Napoleonic face, Who used to dash his name on glory's page ”A.M.” appended to denote his place Among the learned. Now the last faint trace Of Nap. is all obliterate with age, And Ned's degree less precious than his wage.

He says: ”I done it,” with his every breath.

”Thou canst not say I did it,” says Macbeth.

Good land! how I run on! I quite forgot Whom this was meant to be about; for when I think upon that odd, unearthly lot-- Not quite Creedhaymonds, yet not wholly men-- I'm dominated by my rebel pen That, like the stubborn bird from which 'twas got, Goes waddling forward if I will or not.

To leave your comrades, Ben, I'm now content: I'll meet them later if I don't repent.