I did.

THE HERMIT.

  To a hunter from the city,
    Overtaken by the night,
  Spake, in tones of tender pity
    For himself, an aged wight:

  "I have found the world a fountain
    Of deceit and Life a sham.
  I have taken to the mountain
    And a Holy Hermit am.

  "Sternly bent on Contemplation,
    Far apart from human kind——
  In the hill my habitation,
    In the Infinite my mind.

  "Ten long years I've lived a dumb thing,
    Growing bald and bent with dole.
  Vainly seeking for a Something
    To engage my gloomy soul.

  "Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots you
    Eat, and quaff my simple drink,
  Please suggest whatever suits you
    As a Theme for me to Think."

  Then the hunter answered gravely:
    "From distraction free, and strife,
  You could ponder very bravely
    On the Vanity of Life."

  "O, thou wise and learned Teacher,
    You have solved the Problem well—
  You have saved a grateful creature
    From the agonies of hell.

  "Take another root, another
    Cup of water: eat and drink.
  Now I have a Subject, brother,
    Tell me What, and How, to think."

TO A CRITIC OF TENNYSON.

  Affronting fool, subdue your transient light;
  When Wisdom's dull dares Folly to be bright:
  If Genius stumble in the path to fame,
  'Tis decency in dunces to go lame.

THE YEARLY LIE.

  A merry Christmas? Prudent, as I live!—
  You wish me something that you need not give.

  Merry or sad, what does it signify?
  To you 't is equal if I laugh, or die.

  Your hollow greeting, like a parrot's jest,
  Finds all its meaning in the ear addressed.

  Why "merry" Christmas? Faith, I'd rather frown
  Than grin and caper like a tickled clown.

  When fools are merry the judicious weep;
  The wise are happy only when asleep.

  A present? Pray you give it to disarm
  A man more powerful to do you harm.

  'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot let
  You pay for favors that you'll never get.

  Perish the savage custom of the gift,
  Founded in terror and maintained in thrift!

  What men of honor need to aid their weal
  They purchase, or, occasion serving, steal.

  Go celebrate the day with turkeys, pies,
  Sermons and psalms, and, for the children, lies.

  Let Santa Claus descend again the flue;
  If Baby doubt it, swear that it is true.

  "A lie well stuck to is as good as truth,"
  And God's too old to legislate for youth.

  Hail Christmas! On my knees and fowl I fall:
  For greater grace and better gravy call.
  Vive l'Humbug!—that's to say, God bless us all!

COOPERATION.

  No more the swindler singly seeks his prey;
  To hunt in couples is the modern way—
  A rascal, from the public to purloin,
  An honest man to hide away the coin.

AN APOLOGUE.

  A traveler observed one day
  A loaded fruit-tree by the way.
  And reining in his horse exclaimed:
  "The man is greatly to be blamed
  Who, careless of good morals, leaves
  Temptation in the way of thieves.
  Now lest some villain pass this way
  And by this fruit be led astray
  To bag it, I will kindly pack
  It snugly in my saddle-sack."
  He did so; then that Salt o' the Earth
  Rode on, rejoicing in his worth.

DIAGNOSIS.

  Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, pray
    Compose my spirits' strife:
  O what may be my chances, say,
    Of living all my life?

  "For lately I have dreamed of high
    And hempen dissolution!
  O doctor, doctor, how can I
    Amend my constitution?"

  The learned leech replied: "You're young
    And beautiful and strong—
  Permit me to inspect your tongue:
    H'm, ah, ahem!—'tis long."

FALLEN.

  O, hadst thou died when thou wert great,
    When at thy feet a nation knelt
    To sob the gratitude it felt
  And thank the Saviour of the State,
  Gods might have envied thee thy fate!

  Then was the laurel round thy brow,
    And friend and foe spoke praise of thee,
    While all our hearts sang victory.
  Alas! thou art too base to bow
  To hide the shame that brands it now.

DIES IRAE.

A recent republication of the late Gen. John A. Dix's disappointing translation of this famous medieval hymn, together with some researches into its history which I happened to be making at the time, induces me to undertake a translation myself. It may seem presumption in me to attempt that which so many eminent scholars of so many generations have attempted before me; but the conspicuous failure of others encourages me to hope that success, being still unachieved, is still achievable. The fault of previous translations, from Lord Macaulay's to that of Gen. Dix, has been, I venture to think, a too strict literalness, whereby the delicate irony and subtle humor of the immortal poem—though doubtless these admirable qualities were well appreciated by the translators—have been utterly sacrificed in the result. In none of the English versions that I have examined is more than a trace of the mocking spirit of insincerity pervading the whole prayer,—the cool effrontery of the suppliant in enumerating his demerits, his serenely illogical demands of salvation in spite, or rather because, of them, his meek submission to the punishment of others, and the many similarly pleasing characteristics of this amusing work, being most imperfectly conveyed. By permitting myself a reasonable freedom of rendering—in many cases boldly supplying that "missing link" between the sublime and the ridiculous which the author, writing for the acute monkish apprehension of the 13th century, did not deem it necessary to insert—I have hoped at least partially to liberate the lurking devil of humor from his fetters, letting him caper, not, certainly, as he does in the Latin, but as he probably would have done had his creator written in English. In preserving the metre and double rhymes of the original, I have acted from the same reverent regard for the music with which, in the liturgy of the Church, the verses have become inseparably wedded that inspired Gen. Dix; seeking rather to surmount the obstacles to success by honest effort, than to avoid them by the adoption of an easier versification which would have deprived my version of all utility in religious service.

I must bespeak the reader's charitable consideration in respect of the first stanza, the insuperable difficulties of which seem to have been purposely contrived in order to warn off trespassers at the very boundary of the alluring domain. I have got over the inhibition—somehow—but David and the Sibyl must try to forgive me if they find themselves represented merely by the names of those conspicuous personal qualities to which they probably owed, respectively, their powers of prophecy, as Samson's strength lay in his hair.

DIES IRAE.

  Dies irae! dies ilia!
  Solvet saeclum in favilla
  Teste David cum Sibylla.

  Quantus tremor est futurus,
  Quando Judex est venturus.
  Cuncta stricte discussurus.

  Tuba mirum spargens sonum
  Per sepulchra regionem,
  Coget omnes ante thronum.

  Mors stupebit, et Natura,
  Quum resurget creatura
  Judicanti responsura.

  Liber scriptus proferetur,
  In quo totum continetur,
  Unde mundus judicetur.

  Judex ergo quum sedebit,
  Quicquid latet apparebit,
  Nil inultum remanebit.

  Quid sum miser tunc dicturus,
  Quem patronem rogaturus,
  Quum vix justus sit securus?

  Rex tremendae majestatis,
  Qui salvandos salvas gratis;
  Salva me, Fons pietatis

  Recordare, Jesu pie
  Quod sum causa tuae viae;
  Ne me perdas illa die.

  Quarens me sedisti lassus
  Redimisti crucem passus,
  Tantus labor non sit cassus.

  Juste Judex ultionis,
  Donum fac remissionis
  Ante diem rationis.

  Ingemisco tanquam reus,
  Culpa rubet vultus meus;
  Supplicanti parce, Deus.

  Qui Mariam absolvisti
  Et latronem exaudisti,
  Mihi quoque spem dedisti.

  Preces meae non sunt dignae,
  Sed tu bonus fac benigne
  Ne perenni cremer igne.

  Inter oves locum praesta.
  Et ab haedis me sequestra,
  Statuens in parte dextra.

  Confutatis maledictis,
  Flammis acribus addictis,
  Voca me cum benedictis.

  Oro supplex et acclinis,
  Cor contritum quasi cinis;
  Gere curam mei finis.

  Lacrymosa dies illa
  Qua resurgent et favilla,
  Judicandus homo reus
  Huic ergo parce, Deus!

THE DAY OF WRATH.

  Day of Satan's painful duty!
  Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty;
  So says Virtue, so says Beauty.

  Ah! what terror shall be shaping
  When the Judge the truth's undraping!
  Cats from every bag escaping!

  Now the trumpet's invocation
  Calls the dead to condemnation;
  All receive an invitation.

  Death and Nature now are quaking,
  And the late lamented, waking,
  In their breezy shrouds are shaking.

  Lo! the Ledger's leaves are stirring,
  And the Clerk, to them referring,
  Makes it awkward for the erring.

  When the Judge appears in session,
  We shall all attend confession,
  Loudly preaching non-suppression.

  How shall I then make romances
  Mitigating circumstances?
  Even the just must take their chances.

  King whose majesty amazes.
  Save thou him who sings thy praises;
  Fountain, quench my private blazes.

  Pray remember, sacred Savior,
  Mine the playful hand that gave your
  Death-blow. Pardon such behavior.

  Seeking me fatigue assailed thee,
  Calvary's outlook naught availed thee:
  Now 't were cruel if I failed thee.

  Righteous judge and learned brother,
  Pray thy prejudices smother
  Ere we meet to try each other.

  Sighs of guilt my conscience gushes,
  And my face vermilion flushes;
  Spare me for my pretty blushes.

  Thief and harlot, when repenting,
  Thou forgav'st—be complimenting
  Me with sign of like relenting.

  If too bold is my petition
  I'll receive with due submission
  My dismissal—from perdition.

  When thy sheep thou hast selected
  From the goats, may I, respected,
  Stand amongst them undetected.

  When offenders are indicted,
  And with trial-flames ignited,
  Elsewhere I'll attend if cited.

  Ashen-hearted, prone, and prayerful,
  When of death I see the air full,
  Lest I perish, too, be careful.

  On that day of lamentation,
  When, to enjoy the conflagration.
  Men come forth, O, be not cruel.
  Spare me, Lord—make them thy fuel.

ONE MOOD'S EXPRESSION.

  See, Lord, fanatics all arrayed
      For revolution!
  To foil their villainous crusade
  Unsheathe again the sacred blade
      Of persecution.

  What though through long disuse 't is grown
      A trifle rusty?
  'Gainst modern heresy, whose bone
  Is rotten, and the flesh fly-blown,
      It still is trusty.

  Of sterner stuff thine ancient foes,
      Unapprehensive,
  Sprang forth to meet thy biting blows;
  Our zealots chiefly to the nose
      Assume the offensive.

  Then wield the blade their necks to hack,
      Nor ever spare one.
  Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack,
  But see that every martyr lack
      The head to wear one.

SOMETHING IN THE PAPERS.

  "What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull:
  There's nothing happening at all—a lull
  After the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wife
  Killed by her lover with, I think, a knife.
  A fire on Blank Street and some babies—one,
  Two, three or four, I don't remember, done
  To quite a delicate and lovely brown.
  A husband shot by woman of the town—
  The same old story. Shipwreck somewhere south.
  The crew, all saved—or lost. Uncommon drouth
  Makes hundreds homeless up the River Mud—
  Though, come to think, I guess it was a flood.
  'T is feared some bank will burst—or else it won't
  They always burst, I fancy—or they don't;
  Who cares a cent?—the banker pays his coin
  And takes his chances: bullet in the groin—
  But that's another item—suicide—
  Fool lost his money (serve him right) and died.
  Heigh-ho! there's noth—Jerusalem! what's this:
  Tom Jones has failed! My God, what an abyss
  Of ruin!—owes me seven hundred clear!
  Was ever such a damned disastrous year!

IN THE BINNACLE.

[The Church possesses the unerring compass whose needle points directly and persistently to the star of the eternal law of God.—Religious Weekly.]

  The Church's compass, if you please,
  Has two or three (or more) degrees
    Of variation;
  And many a soul has gone to grief
  On this or that or t'other reef
  Through faith unreckoning or brief
    Miscalculation.
  Misguidance is of perils chief
    To navigation.

  The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark,
  Obeisance through a little arc
    Of declination;
  For Satan, fearing witches, drew
  From Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe,
  And nailed it to his door to undo
    Their machination.
  Since then the needle dips to woo
    His habitation.

HUMILITY.

  Great poets fire the world with fagots big
    That make a crackling racket,
  But I'm content with but a whispering twig
    To warm some single jacket.

ONE PRESIDENT.

  "What are those, father?" "Statesmen, my child—
  Lacrymose, unparliamentary, wild."

  "What are they that way for, father?" "Last fall,
  'Our candidate's better,' they said, 'than all!'"

  "What did they say he was, father?" "A man
  Built on a straight incorruptible plan—
  Believing that none for an office would do
  Unless he were honest and capable too."

  "Poor gentlemen—so disappointed!" "Yes, lad,
  That is the feeling that's driving them mad;
  They're weeping and wailing and gnashing because
  They find that he's all that they said that he was."

THE BRIDE.

  "You know, my friends, with what a brave carouse
  I made a second marriage in my house—
    Divorced old barren Reason from my bed
  And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse."

  So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam
  Of light that made her like an angel seem,
    The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myself
  Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream."

STRAINED RELATIONS.

  Says England to Germany: "Africa's ours."
    Says Germany: "Ours, I opine."
  Says Africa: "Tell me, delectable Pow'rs,
    What is it that ought to be mine?"

THE MAN BORN BLIND.

  A man born blind received his sight
    By a painful operation;
  And these are things he saw in the light
    Of an infant observation.

  He saw a merchant, good and wise.
    And greatly, too, respected,
  Who looked, to those imperfect eyes,
    Like a swindler undetected.

  He saw a patriot address
    A noisy public meeting.
  And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess.
    That for the teat is bleating."

  A doctor stood beside a bed
    And shook his summit sadly.
  "O see that foul assassin!" said
    The man who saw so badly.

  He saw a lawyer pleading for
    A thief whom they'd been jailing,
  And said: "That's an accomplice, or
    My sight again is failing."

  Upon the Bench a Justice sat,
    With nothing to restrain him;
  "'Tis strange," said the observer, "that
    They ventured to unchain him."

  With theologic works supplied,
    He saw a solemn preacher;
  "A burglar with his kit," he cried,
    "To rob a fellow creature."

  A bluff old farmer next he saw
    Sell produce in a village,
  And said: "What, what! is there no law
    To punish men for pillage?"

  A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed,
    Who many charms united;
  He thanked his stars his lot was cast
    Where sepulchers were whited.

  He saw a soldier stiff and stern,
    "Full of strange oaths" and toddy;
  But was unable to discern
    A wound upon his body.

  Ten square leagues of rolling ground
    To one great man belonging,
  Looked like one little grassy mound
    With worms beneath it thronging.

  A palace's well-carven stones,
    Where Dives dwelt contented,
  Seemed built throughout of human bones
    With human blood cemented.

  He watched the yellow shining thread
    A silk-worm was a-spinning;
  "That creature's coining gold." he said,
    "To pay some girl for sinning."

  His eyes were so untrained and dim
    All politics, religions,
  Arts, sciences, appeared to him
    But modes of plucking pigeons.

  And so he drew his final breath,
    And thought he saw with sorrow
  Some persons weeping for his death
    Who'd be all smiles to-morrow.

A NIGHTMARE.

  I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by:
  The world forgot that such a man as I
    Had ever lived and written: other names
  Were hailed with homage, in their turn to die.

  Out of my grave a giant beech upgrew.
  Its roots transpierced my body, through and through,
    My substance fed its growth. From many lands
  Men came in troops that giant tree to view.

  'T was sacred to my memory and fame—
  My monument. But Allen Forman came,
    Filled with the fervor of a new untruth,
  And carved upon the trunk his odious name!

A WET SEASON.

Horas non numero nisi serenas.

  The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth,
    And man's in danger.
  O that my mother at my birth
    Had borne a stranger!
  The flooded ground is all around.
    The depth uncommon.
  How blest I'd be if only she
    Had borne a salmon.

  If still denied the solar glow
    'T were bliss ecstatic
  To be amphibious—but O,
    To be aquatic!
  We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and they
    That faith are firm of.
  O, then, be just: show me some dust
    To be a worm of.

  The pines are chanting overhead
    A psalm uncheering.
  It's O, to have been for ages dead
      And hard of hearing!
  Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hours
      The dial reckoned;
  'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime—
      Rameses II.

THE CONFEDERATE FLAGS.

  Tut-tut! give back the flags—how can you care
    You veterans and heroes?
  Why should you at a kind intention swear
    Like twenty Neroes?

  Suppose the act was not so overwise—
    Suppose it was illegal—
  Is 't well on such a question to arise
    And pinch the Eagle?

  Nay, let's economize his breath to scold
    And terrify the alien
  Who tackles him, as Hercules of old
    The bird Stymphalian.

  Among the rebels when we made a breach
    Was it to get their banners?
  That was but incidental—'t was to teach
    Them better manners.

  They know the lesson well enough to-day;
    Now, let us try to show them
  That we 're not only stronger far than they.
    (How we did mow them!)

  But more magnanimous. You see, my lads,
      'T was an uncommon riot;
  The warlike tribes of Europe fight for "fads,"
      We fought for quiet.

  If we were victors, then we all must live
      With the same flag above us;
  'Twas all in vain unless we now forgive
      And make them love us.

  Let kings keep trophies to display above
      Their doors like any savage;
  The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love,
      Despite war's ravage.

  "Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll find
      You can't, in right and reason,
  While "Washington" and "treason" are combined—
      "Hugo" and "treason."

  All human governments must take the chance
      And hazard of sedition.
  O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advance
      To blind submission.

  It may be wrong, it may be right, to rise
      In warlike insurrection:
  The loyalty that fools so dearly prize
      May mean subjection.

  Be loyal to your country, yes—but how
    If tyrants hold dominion?
  The South believed they did; can't you allow
    For that opinion?

  He who will never rise though rulers plods
    His liberties despising
  How is he manlier than the sans culottes
    Who's always rising?

  Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fell
    Too valiant to forsake them.
  Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well,
    I helped to take them.

HAEC FABULA DOCET.

  A rat who'd gorged a box of bane
  And suffered an internal pain,
  Came from his hole to die (the label
  Required it if the rat were able)
  And found outside his habitat
  A limpid stream. Of bane and rat
  'T was all unconscious; in the sun
  It ran and prattled just for fun.
  Keen to allay his inward throes,
  The beast immersed his filthy nose
  And drank—then, bloated by the stream,
  And filled with superheated steam,
  Exploded with a rascal smell,
  Remarking, as his fragments fell
  Astonished in the brook: "I'm thinking
  This water's damned unwholesome drinking!"

EXONERATION.

  When men at candidacy don't connive,
    From that suspicion if their friends would free 'em,
  The teeth and nails with which they did not strive
    Should be exhibited in a museum.

AZRAEL.

  The moon in the field of the keel-plowed main
    Was watching the growing tide:
  A luminous peasant was driving his wain,
    And he offered my soul a ride.

  But I nourished a sorrow uncommonly tall,
    And I fixed him fast with mine eye.
  "O, peasant," I sang with a dying fall,
    "Go leave me to sing and die."

  The water was weltering round my feet,
    As prone on the beach they lay.
  I chanted my death-song loud and sweet;
    "Kioodle, ioodle, iay!"

  Then I heard the swish of erecting ears
    Which caught that enchanted strain.
  The ocean was swollen with storms of tears
    That fell from the shining swain.

  "O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand,
    "That ravishing song would make
  The devil a saint." He held out his hand
    And solemnly added: "Shake."

  We shook. "I crave a victim, you see,"
    He said—"you came hither to die."
  The Angel of Death, 't was he! 't was he!
    And the victim he crove was I!

  'T was I, Fred Emerson Brooks, the bard;
    And he knocked me on the head.
  O Lord! I thought it exceedingly hard,
    For I didn't want to be dead.

  "You'll sing no worser for that," said he,
    And he drove with my soul away,
  O, death-song singers, be warned by me,
    Kioodle, ioodle, iay!

AGAIN.

  Well, I've met her again—at the Mission.
    She'd told me to see her no more;
  It was not a command—a petition;
    I'd granted it once before.

  Yes, granted it, hoping she'd write me.
    Repenting her virtuous freak—
  Subdued myself daily and nightly
    For the better part of a week.

  And then ('twas my duty to spare her
    The shame of recalling me) I
  Just sought her again to prepare her
    For an everlasting good-bye.

  O, that evening of bliss—shall I ever
    Forget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe!
  She said, when 'twas ended: "You're never
    To see me again. And now go."

  As we parted with kisses 'twas human
    And natural for me to smile
  As I thought, "She's in love, and a woman:
    She'll send for me after a while."

  But she didn't; and so—well, the Mission
    Is fine, picturesque and gray;
  It's an excellent place for contrition—
    And sometimes she passes that way.

  That's how it occurred that I met her,
    And that's ah there is to tell—
  Except that I'd like to forget her
    Calm way of remarking: "I'm well."

  It was hardly worth while, all this keying
    My soul to such tensions and stirs
  To learn that her food was agreeing
    With that little stomach of hers.

HOMO PODUNKENSIS.

  As the poor ass that from his paddock strays
  Might sound abroad his field-companions' praise,
  Recounting volubly their well-bred leer,
  Their port impressive and their wealth of ear,
  Mistaking for the world's assent the clang
  Of echoes mocking his accurst harangue;
  So the dull clown, untraveled though at large,
  Visits the city on the ocean's marge,
  Expands his eyes and marvels to remark
  Each coastwise schooner and each alien bark;
  Prates of "all nations," wonders as he stares
  That native merchants sell imported wares,
  Nor comprehends how in his very view
  A foreign vessel has a foreign crew;
  Yet, faithful to the hamlet of his birth,
  Swears it superior to aught on earth,
  Sighs for the temples locally renowned—
  The village school-house and the village pound—
  And chalks upon the palaces of Rome
  The peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!"

A SOCIAL CALL.

  Well, well, old Father Christmas, is it you,
    With your thick neck and thin pretense of virtue?
  Less redness in the nose—nay, even some blue
    Would not, I think, particularly hurt you.
  When seen close to, not mounted in your car,
    You look the drunkard and the pig you are.

  No matter, sit you down, for I am not
    In a gray study, as you sometimes find me.
  Merry? O, no, nor wish to be, God wot,
    But there's another year of pain behind me.
  That's something to be thankful for: the more
  There are behind, the fewer are before.

  I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp,
    But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creation
  With an affinity to every tramp
    That walks the world and steals its admiration.
  For admiration is like linen left
  Upon the line—got easiest by theft.

  Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood,
    With brains and honesty, some five-and-twenty
  Long years as champion of all that's good,
    And taken on the mazzard thwacks a-plenty.
  Yet now whose praises do the people bawl?
  Those of the fellows whom I live to maul!

  Why, this is odd!—the more I try to talk
    Of you the more my tongue grows egotistic
  To prattle of myself! I'll try to balk
    Its waywardness and be more altruistic.
  So let us speak of others—how they sin,
  And what a devil of a state they 're in!

  That's all I have to say. Good-bye, old man.
    Next year you possibly may find me scolding—
  Or miss me altogether: Nature's plan
    Includes, as I suppose, a final folding
  Of these poor empty hands. Then drop a tear
  To think they'll never box another ear.

End of the Project BookishMall.com EBook of Shapes of Clay, by Ambrose Bierce

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