Shapes of Clay Part 7

Let them in jargon of their trade rehea.r.s.e The moral meaning of the random verse That runs spontaneous from the poet's pen To be half-blotted by ambitious men Who hope with his their meaner names to link By writing o'er it in another ink The thoughts unreal which they think they think, Until the mental eye in vain inspects The hateful palimpsest to find the text.

The lark ascending heavenward, loud and long Sings to the dawning day his wanton song.

The moaning dove, attentive to the sound, Its hidden meaning hastens to expound: Explains its principles, design--in brief, p.r.o.nounces it a parable of grief!

The bee, just pausing ere he daubs his thigh With pollen from a hollyhock near by, Declares he never heard in terms so just The labor problem thoughtfully discussed!

The browsing a.s.s looks up and clears his whistle To say: "A monologue upon the thistle!"

Meanwhile the lark, descending, folds his wing And innocently asks: "What!--did I sing?"

O literary parasites! who thrive Upon the fame of better men, derive Your sustenance by suction, like a leech, And, for you preach of them, think masters preach,-- Who find it half is profit, half delight, To write about what you could never write,-- Consider, pray, how sharp had been the throes Of famine and discomfiture in those You write of if they had been critics, too, And doomed to write of nothing but of you!

Lo! where the gaping crowd throngs yonder tent, To see the lion resolutely bent!

The prosing showman who the beast displays Grows rich and richer daily in its praise.

But how if, to attract the curious yeoman, The lion owned the show and showed the showman?

RELIGIOUS PROGRESS.

Every religion is important. When men rise above existing conditions a new religion comes in, and it is better than the old one.--_Professor Howison_.

Professor dear, I think it queer That all these good religions ('Twixt you and me, some two or three Are schemes for plucking pigeons)--

I mean 'tis strange that every change Our poor minds to unfetter Entails a new religion--true As t' other one, and better.

From each in turn the truth we learn, That wood or flesh or spirit May justly boast it rules the roast Until we cease to fear it.

Nay, once upon a time long gone Man worshipped Cat and Lizard: His G.o.d he'd find in any kind Of beast, from a to izzard.

When risen above his early love Of dirt and blood and slumber, He pulled down these vain deities, And made one out of lumber.

"Far better that than even a cat,"

The Howisons all shouted; "When G.o.d is wood religion's good!"

But one poor cynic doubted.

"A timber G.o.d--that's very odd!"

Said Progress, and invented The simple plan to worship Man, Who, kindly soul! consented.

But soon our eye we lift asky, Our vows all unregarded, And find (at least so says the priest) The Truth--and Man's discarded.

Along our line of march recline Dead G.o.ds devoid of feeling; And thick about each sun-cracked lout Dried Howisons are kneeling.

MAGNANIMITY.

"To the will of the people we loyally bow!"

That's the minority shibboleth now.

O n.o.ble antagonists, answer me flat-- What would you do if you didn't do that?

TO HER.

O, Sinner A, to me unknown Be such a conscience as your own!

To ease it you to Sinner B Confess the sins of Sinner C.

TO A SUMMER POET.

Yes, the Summer girl is flirting on the beach, With a him.

And the damboy is a-climbing for the peach, On the limb; Yes, the bullfrog is a-croaking And the dudelet is a-smoking Cigarettes; And the hackman is a-hacking And the showman is a-cracking Up his pets; Yes, the Jersey 'skeeter flits along the sh.o.r.e And the snapdog--we have heard it o'er and o'er; Yes, my poet, Well we know it-- Know the spooners how they spoon In the bright Dollar light Of the country tavern moon; Yes, the caterpillars fall From the trees (we know it all), And with beetles all the shelves Are alive.

Please unb.u.t.tonhole us--O, Have the grace to let us go, For we know How you Summer poets thrive, By the recapitulation And insistent iteration Of the wondrous doings incident to Life Among Ourselves!

So, I pray you stop the fervor and the fuss.

For you, poor human linnet, There's a half a living in it, But there's not a copper cent in it for us!

ARTHUR McEWEN.

Posterity with all its eyes Will come and view him where he lies.

Then, turning from the scene away With a concerted shrug, will say: "H'm, Scarabaeus Sisyphus-- What interest has that to us?

We can't admire at all, at all, A tumble-bug without its ball."

And then a sage will rise and say: "Good friends, you err--turn back, I pray: This freak that you unwisely shun Is bug and ball rolled into one."

CHARLES AND PETER.

Ere Gabriel's note to silence died All graves of men were gaping wide.

Then Charles A. Dana, of "The Sun,"

Rose slowly from the deepest one.

"The dead in Christ rise first, 't is writ,"