Part 11 (1/2)

Straight, as the voice was stilled-- That single rounded mound cracked lengthliwise And one came forth in grave-clothes. For a s.p.a.ce He stood and gazed about him with a smile Superior; then laying off his shroud Disclosed his two attenuated legs Which, like parentheses, bent outwardly As by the weight of saintliness above, And so sprang upward and was lost to view Noting his headstone overthrown, I read: ”Sacred to memory of George K. Fitch, Deacon and Editor--a holy man Who fell asleep in Jesus, full of years And blessedness. The dead in Christ rise first.”

MASTER OF THREE ARTS

Your various talents, Goldenson, command Respect: you are a poet and can draw.

It is a pity that your gifted hand Should ever have been raised against the law.

If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture, You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.

About your poetry I'm not so sure: 'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad, Whose hardy writers have not to endure The hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad: Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet) Looked well, and if demented didn't show it.

Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too-- Taught by the muses how to smite the harp And lift the tuneful voice, although, like you And Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp.

But let me say, with no desire to taunt you, I never murder even the girls I want to.

I hold it one of the poetic laws To sing of life, not take. I've ever shown A high regard for human life because I have such trouble to support my own.

And you--well, you'll find trouble soon in blowing Your private coal to keep it red and glowing.

I fancy now I see you at the Gate Approach St. Peter, crawling on your belly, You cry: ”Good sir, take pity on my state-- Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!”

And Peter says: ”O, that's all right--but, mister, You scribbled rhymes. In h.e.l.l I'll make you blister!”

THERSITES

So, in the Sunday papers _you_, Del Mar, d.a.m.n, all great Englishmen in English speech?

I am no Englishman, but in my reach A rogue shall never rail where heroes are.

You are the man, if I mistake you not, Who lately with a supplicating twitch Plucked at the pockets of the London rich And paid your share-engraver all you got.

Because that you have greatly lied, because You libel nations, and because no hand Of officer is raised to bid you stand, And falsehood is unpunished of the laws,

I stand here in a public place to mark With level finger where you part the crowd-- I stand to name you and to cry aloud: ”Behold mendacity's great hierarch!”

A SOCIETY LEADER

”The Social World”! O what a world it is-- Where full-grown men cut capers in the German, Cotillion, waltz, or what you will, and whizz And spin and hop and sprawl about like mermen!

I wonder if our future Grant or Sherman, As these youths pa.s.s their time, is pa.s.sing his-- If eagles ever come from painted eggs, Or deeds of arms succeed to deeds of legs.

I know they tell us about Waterloo: How, ”foremost fighting,” fell the evening's dancers.

I don't believe it: I regard it true That soldiers who are skillful in ”the Lancers”

Less often die of cannon than of cancers.

Moreover, I am half-persuaded, too, That David when he danced before the Ark Had the reporter's word to keep it dark.