Black Beetles in Amber Part 2

I

Sharon, ambitious of immortal shame, Fame's dead-wall daubed with his ill.u.s.trious name-- Served in the Senate, for our sins, his time, Each word a folly and each vote a crime; Law for our governance well skilled to make By knowledge gained in study how to break; Yet still by the presiding eye ignored, Which only sought him when too loud he snored.

Auspicious thunder!--when he woke to vote He stilled his own to cut his country's throat; That rite performed, fell off again to sleep, While statesmen ages dead awoke to weep!

For sedentary service all unfit, By lying long disqualified to sit, Wasting below as he decayed aloft, His seat grown harder as his brain grew soft, He left the hall he could not bring away, And grateful millions blessed the happy day!

Whate'er contention in that hall is heard, His sovereign State has still the final word: For disputatious statesmen when they roar Startle the ancient echoes of his snore, Which from their dusty nooks expostulate And close with stormy clamor the debate.

To low melodious thunders then they fade; Their murmuring lullabies all ears invade; Peace takes the Chair; the portal Silence keeps; No motion stirs the dark Lethean deeps-- Washoe has spoken and the Senate sleeps.

II

Lo! the new Sharon with a new intent, Making no laws, but keen to circ.u.mvent The laws of Nature (since he can't repeal) That break his failing body on the wheel.

As Tantalus again and yet again The elusive wave endeavors to restrain To slake his awful thirst, so Sharon tries To purchase happiness that age denies; Obtains the shadow, but the substance goes, And hugs the thorn, but cannot keep the rose; For Dead Sea fruits bids prodigally, eats, And then, with tardy reformation--cheats.

Alert his faculties as three score years And four score vices will permit, he nears-- Dicing with Death--the finish of the game, And curses still his candle's wasting flame, The narrow circle of whose feeble glow Dims and diminishes at every throw.

Moments his losses, pleasures are his gains, Which even in his grasp revert to pains.

The joy of grasping them alone remains.

III

Ring up the curtain and the play protract!

Behold our Sharon in his last mad act.

With man long warring, quarreling with G.o.d, He crouches now beneath a woman's rod Predestined for his back while yet it lay Closed in an acorn which, one luckless day, He stole, unconscious of its foetal twig, From the scant garner of a sightless pig.

With bleeding shoulders pitilessly scored, He bawls more l.u.s.tily than once he snored.

The sympathetic Comstocks droop to hear, And Carson river sheds a viscous tear, Which st.u.r.dy tumble-bugs a.s.sail amain, With ready thrift, and urge along the plain.

The jacka.s.s rabbit sorrows as he lopes; The sage-brush glooms along the mountain slopes; In rising clouds the poignant alkali, Tearless itself, makes everybody cry.

Washoe canaries on the Geiger Grade Subdue the singing of their cavalcade, And, wiping with their ears the tears unshed, Grieve for their family's unlucky head.

Virginia City intermits her trade And well-clad strangers walk her streets unflayed.

Nay, all Nevada ceases work to weep And the recording angel goes to sleep.

But in his dreams his goose-quill's creaking fount Augments the debits in the long account.

And still the continents and oceans ring With royal torments of the Silver King!

Incessant bellowings fill all the earth, Mingled with inextinguishable mirth.

He roars, men laugh, Nevadans weep, beasts howl, Plash the affrighted fish, and shriek the fowl!

With monstrous din their blended thunders rise, Peal upon peal, and brawl along the skies, Startle in h.e.l.l the Sharons as they groan, And shake the splendors of the great white throne!

Still roaring outward through the vast profound, The spreading circles of receding sound Pursue each other in a failing race To the cold confines of eternal s.p.a.ce; There break and die along that awful sh.o.r.e Which G.o.d's own eyes have never dared explore-- Dark, fearful, formless, nameless evermore!

Look to the west! Against yon steely sky Lone Mountain rears its holy cross on high.

About its base the meek-faced dead are laid To share the benediction of its shade.

With crossed white hands, shut eyes and formal feet, Their nights are innocent, their days discreet.

Sharon, some years, perchance, remain of life-- Of vice and greed, vulgarity and strife; And then--G.o.d speed the day if such His will-- You'll lie among the dead you helped to kill, And be in good society at last, Your purse unsilvered and your face unbra.s.sed.

A MAN

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Casting to South his eye across the bourne Of his dominion (where the Palmiped, With leathers 'twixt his toes, paddles his marsh, Amphibious) saw a rising cloud of hats, And heard a faint, far sound of distant cheers Below the swell of the horizon. "Lo,"

Cried one, "the President! the President!"

All footed webwise then took up the word-- The hill tribes and the tribes lacustrine and The folk riparian and littoral, Cried with one voice: "The President! He comes!"

And some there were who flung their headgear up In emulation of the Southern mob; While some, more soberly disposed, stood still And silently had fits; and others made Such reverent genuflexions as they could, Having that climate in their bones. Then spake The Court Dunce, humbly, as became him: "Sire, If thou, as heretofore thou hast, wilt deign To reap advantage of a fool's advice By action ordered after nature's way, As in thy people manifest (for still Stupidity's the only wisdom) thou Wilt get thee straight unto to the border land To mark the President's approach with such Due, decent courtesy as it shall seem We have in custom the best warrant for."

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Eyeing the storm of hats which darkened all The Southern sky, and hearing far hurrahs Of an exulting people, answered not.

Then some there were who fell upon their knees, And some upon their Governor, and sought Each in his way, by blandishment or force, To gain his action to their end. "Behold,"

They said, "thy brother Governor to South Met him even at the gateway of his realm, Crook-kneed, magnetic-handed and agrin, Backed like a rainbow--all things done in form Of due observance and respect. Shall we Alone of all his servitors refuse Swift welcome to our master and our lord?"

Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Answered them not, but turned his back to them And as if speaking to himself, the while He started to retire, said: "He be d.a.m.ned!"

To that High Place o'er Portland's central block, Where the Recording Angel stands to view The sinning world, nor thinks to move his feet Aside and look below, came flocking up Inferior angels, all aghast, and cried: "Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon, Has said, O what an awful word!--too bad To be by us repeated!" "Yes, I know,"

Said the superior bird--"I heard it too, And have already booked it. Pray observe."

Splitting the giant tome, whose covers fell Apart, o'ershadowing to right and left The Eastern and the Western world, he showed The newly written entry, black and big, Upon the credit side of thine account, Pennoyer, Governor of Oregon.

Y'E FOE TO CATHAYE

O never an oathe sweares he, And never a pig-taile jerkes; With a brick-batte he ne lurkes For to buste y'e crust, perdie, Of y'e man from over sea, A-synging as he werkes.

For he knows ful well, y's youth, A tricke of exceeding worth: And he plans withouten ruth A conflagration's birth!

SAMUEL SHORTRIDGE

Like a worn mother he attempts in vain To still the unruly Crier of his brain: The more he rocks the cradle of his chin The more uproarious grows the brat within.

SURPRISED

"O son of mine age, these eyes lose their fire: Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sire."

"O father, fear not, for mine eyes are bright-- I read through a millstone at dead of night."

"My son, O tell me, who are those men, Rushing like pigs to the feeding-pen?"

"Welcomers they of a statesman grand.

They'll shake, and then they will pocket; his hand."

"Sagacious youth, with the wondrous eye, They seem to throw up their headgear. Why?"

"Because they've thrown up their hands until, O, They're so tired!--and dinners they've none to throw."

"My son, my son, though dull are mine ears, I hear a great sound like the people's cheers."