AN "EXHIBIT"Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbidThat I should smile above him:Though truth to tell, I never didExactly love him.It can't be wrong, though, to rejoiceThat his unpleasing capersAre ended. Silent is his voiceIn all the papers.No longer he's a show: no more,Bear-like, his den he's walking.No longer can he hold the floorWhen I'd be talking.The laws that govern jails are badIf such displays are lawful.The fate of the assassin's sad,But ours is awful!What! shall a wretch condemned to dieIn shame upon the gibbetBe set before the public eyeAs an "exhibit"?—His looks, his actions noted down,His words if light or solemn,And all this hawked about the town—So much a column?The press, of course, will publish newsHowever it may get it;But blast the sheriff who'll abuseHis powers to let it!Nay, this is not ingratitude;I'm no reporter, truly,Nor yet an editor. I'm rudeBecause unruly—Because I burn with shame and rageBeyond my power of tellingTo see assassins in a cageAnd keepers yelling."Walk up! Walk up!" the showman cries:"Observe the lion's poses,His stormy mane, his glooming eyes.His—hold your noses!"How long, O Lord, shall Law and RightBe mocked for gain or glory,And angels weep as they reciteThe shameful story?
Goldenson hanged! Well, Heaven forbidThat I should smile above him:Though truth to tell, I never didExactly love him.It can't be wrong, though, to rejoiceThat his unpleasing capersAre ended. Silent is his voiceIn all the papers.No longer he's a show: no more,Bear-like, his den he's walking.No longer can he hold the floorWhen I'd be talking.The laws that govern jails are badIf such displays are lawful.The fate of the assassin's sad,But ours is awful!What! shall a wretch condemned to dieIn shame upon the gibbetBe set before the public eyeAs an "exhibit"?—His looks, his actions noted down,His words if light or solemn,And all this hawked about the town—So much a column?The press, of course, will publish newsHowever it may get it;But blast the sheriff who'll abuseHis powers to let it!Nay, this is not ingratitude;I'm no reporter, truly,Nor yet an editor. I'm rudeBecause unruly—Because I burn with shame and rageBeyond my power of tellingTo see assassins in a cageAnd keepers yelling."Walk up! Walk up!" the showman cries:"Observe the lion's poses,His stormy mane, his glooming eyes.His—hold your noses!"How long, O Lord, shall Law and RightBe mocked for gain or glory,And angels weep as they reciteThe shameful story?