Shapes of Clay Part 44

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 d.a.m.ned 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 p.r.o.ne 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 pet.i.tion; 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 pa.s.ses 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.

h.o.m.o PODUNKENSIS.

As the poor a.s.s 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 a.s.sent 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!"