Here the remains of Schuyler Colfax lie;Born, all the world knows when, and Heaven knows why.In '71 he filled the public eye,In '72 he bade the world good-bye,In God's good time, with a protesting sigh,He came to life just long enough to die.
Of Morgan here lies the unspirited clay,Who secrets of Masonry swore to betray.He joined the great Order and studied with zealThe awful arcana he meant to reveal.At last in chagrin by his own hand he fell—There was nothing to learn, there was nothing to tell.
God's people sorely were oppressed,I heard their lamentations long;—I hear their singing, clear and strong,I see their banners in the West!The captains shout the battle-cry,The legions muster in their might;They turn their faces to the light,They lift their arms, they testify:"We sank beneath the Master's thong,Our chafing chains were ne'er undone;—Now clash your lances in the sunAnd bless your banners with a song!"God bides his time with patient eyesWhile tyrants build upon the land;—He lifts his face, he lifts his hand,And from the stones his temples rise."Now Freedom waves her joyous wingBeyond the foemen's shields of gold.March forward, singing, for, behold,The right shall rule while God is king!"
Because that I am weak, my love, and ill,I cannot follow the impatient feetOf my desire, but sit and watch the beatOf the unpitying pendulum fulfillThe hour appointed for the air to thrillAnd brighten at your coming. O my sweet,The tale of moments is at last complete—The tryst is broken on the gusty hill!O lady, faithful-footed, loyal-eyed,The long leagues silence me; yet doubt me not;Think rather that the clock and sun have liedAnd all too early, you have sought the spot.For lo! despair has darkened all the light,And till I see your face it still is night.
Good for he's old? Ah, Youth, you do not dreamHow sweet the roses in the autumn seem!
You 're grayer than one would have thought you:The climate you have over thereIn the East has apparently brought youDisorders affecting the hair,Which—pardon me—seems a thought spare.You'll not take offence at my givingExpression to notions like these.You might have been stronger if livingOut here in our sanative breeze.It's unhealthy here for disease.No, I'm not as plump as a pullet.But that's the old wound, you see.Remember my paunching a bullet?—And how that it didn't agreeWith—well, honest hardtack for me.Just pass me the wine—I've a hellyAnd horrible kind of drouth!When a fellow has that in his bellyWhich didn't go in at his mouthHe's hotter than all Down South!Great Scott! what a nasty daythatwas—When every galoot in our crackDivision who didn't lie flat wasDissuaded from further attackBy the bullet's felicitous whack.'Twas there that our major slept underSome cannon of ours on the crest,Till they woke him by stilling their thunder,And he cursed them for breaking his rest,And died in the midst of his jest.That night—it was late in November—The dead seemed uncommonly chillTo the touch; and one chap I rememberWho took it exceedingly illWhen I dragged myself over his bill.Well, comrades, I'm off now—good morning.Your talk is as pleasant as pie,But, pardon me, one word of warning:Speak little of self, say I.That's my way. God bless you. Good-bye.
Abundant bores afflict this world, and someAre bores of magnitude that-come and—no,They're always coming, but they never go—Like funeral pageants, as they drone and humTheir lurid nonsense like a muffled drum,Or bagpipe's dread unnecessary flow.But one superb tormentor I can show—Prince Fiddlefaddle, Duc de Feefawfum.He the johndonkey is who, when I penAmorous verses in an idle moodTo nobody, or of her, reads them throughAnd, smirking, says he knows the lady; thenCalls me sly dog. I wish he understoodThis tender sonnet's application too.
What wrecked the Roman power? One says vice,Another indolence, another dice.Emascle says polygamy. "Not so,"Says Impycu—"'twas luxury and show."The parson, lifting up a brow of brass,Swears superstition gave thecoup de grâce,Great Allison, the statesman-chap affirms'Twas lack of coins (croaks Medico: "'T was worms")And John P. Jones the swift suggestion collars,Averring the no coins were silver dollars.Thus, through the ages, each presuming quackTurns the poor corpse upon its rotten back,Holds a new "autopsy" and finds that deathResulted partly from the want of breath,But chiefly from some visitation sadThat points his argument or serves his fad.They're all in error—never human mindThe cause of the disaster has divined.What slew the Roman power? Well, providedYou'll keep the secret, I will tell you. I did.
To a hunter from the city,Overtaken by the night,Spake, in tones of tender pityFor himself, an aged wight:"I have found the world a fountainOf deceit and Life a sham.I have taken to the mountainAnd 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 SomethingTo engage my gloomy soul."Gentle Pilgrim, while my roots youEat, and quaff my simple drink,Please suggest whatever suits youAs a Theme for me to Think."Then the hunter answered gravely:"From distraction free, and strife,You could ponder very bravelyOn the Vanity of Life.""O, thou wise and learned Teacher,You have solved the Problem well—You have saved a grateful creatureFrom the agonies of hell."Take another root, anotherCup of water: eat and drink.Now I have a Subject, brother,Tell me What, and How, to think."
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.
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 frownThan 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 disarmA man more powerful to do you harm.'T was not your motive? Well, I cannot letYou 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 wealThey 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!
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.
A traveler observed one dayA loaded fruit-tree by the way.And reining in his horse exclaimed:"The man is greatly to be blamedWho, careless of good morals, leavesTemptation in the way of thieves.Now lest some villain pass this wayAnd by this fruit be led astrayTo bag it, I will kindly packIt snugly in my saddle-sack."He did so; then that Salt o' the EarthRode on, rejoicing in his worth.
Cried Allen Forman: "Doctor, prayCompose my spirits' strife:O what may be my chances, say,Of living all my life?"For lately I have dreamed of highAnd hempen dissolution!O doctor, doctor, how can IAmend my constitution?"The learned leech replied: "You're youngAnd beautiful and strong—Permit me to inspect your tongue:H'm, ah, ahem!—'tis long."
O, hadst thou died when thou wert great,When at thy feet a nation kneltTo sob the gratitude it feltAnd 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 bowTo hide the shame that brands it now.
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 ilia!Solvet saeclum in favillaTeste David cum Sibylla.Quantus tremor est futurus,Quando Judex est venturus.Cuncta stricte discussurus.Tuba mirum spargens sonumPer sepulchra regionem,Coget omnes ante thronum.Mors stupebit, et Natura,Quum resurget creaturaJudicanti 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 pietatisRecordare, Jesu pieQuod sum causa tuae viae;Ne me perdas illa die.Quarens me sedisti lassusRedimisti crucem passus,Tantus labor non sit cassus.Juste Judex ultionis,Donum fac remissionisAnte diem rationis.Ingemisco tanquam reus,Culpa rubet vultus meus;Supplicanti parce, Deus.Qui Mariam absolvistiEt latronem exaudisti,Mihi quoque spem dedisti.Preces meae non sunt dignae,Sed tu bonus fac benigneNe 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 illaQua resurgent et favilla,Judicandus homo reusHuic ergo parce, Deus!
Day of Satan's painful duty!Earth shall vanish, hot and sooty;So says Virtue, so says Beauty.Ah! what terror shall be shapingWhen the Judge the truth's undraping!Cats from every bag escaping!Now the trumpet's invocationCalls 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 romancesMitigating 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 yourDeath-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 smotherEre 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 complimentingMe with sign of like relenting.If too bold is my petitionI'll receive with due submissionMy dismissal—from perdition.When thy sheep thou hast selectedFrom 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.
See, Lord, fanatics all arrayedFor revolution!To foil their villainous crusadeUnsheathe again the sacred bladeOf persecution.What though through long disuse 't is grownA trifle rusty?'Gainst modern heresy, whose boneIs 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 noseAssume the offensive.Then wield the blade their necks to hack,Nor ever spare one.Thy crowns of martyrdom unpack,But see that every martyr lackThe head to wear one.
"What's in the paper?" Oh, it's dev'lish dull:There's nothing happening at all—a lullAfter the war-storm. Mr. Someone's wifeKilled 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, doneTo 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 drouthMakes 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'tThey always burst, I fancy—or they don't;Who cares a cent?—the banker pays his coinAnd 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 abyssOf ruin!—owes me seven hundred clear!Was ever such a damned disastrous year!
[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) degreesOf variation;And many a soul has gone to griefOn this or that or t'other reefThrough faith unreckoning or briefMiscalculation.Misguidance is of perils chiefTo navigation.The obsequious thing makes, too, you'll mark,Obeisance through a little arcOf declination;For Satan, fearing witches, drewFrom Death's pale horse, one day, a shoe,And nailed it to his door to undoTheir machination.Since then the needle dips to wooHis habitation.
Great poets fire the world with fagots bigThat make a crackling racket,But I'm content with but a whispering twigTo warm some single jacket.
"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 manBuilt on a straight incorruptible plan—Believing that none for an office would doUnless he were honest and capable too.""Poor gentlemen—sodisappointed!" "Yes, lad,That is the feeling that's driving them mad;They're weeping and wailing and gnashing becauseThey find that he's all that they said that he was."
"You know, my friends, with what a brave carouseI made a second marriage in my house—Divorced old barren Reason from my bedAnd took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse."So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleamOf light that made her like an angel seem,The Daughter of the Vine said: "I myselfAm Reason, and the Other was a Dream."
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?"
A man born blind received his sightBy a painful operation;And these are things he saw in the lightOf 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 addressA noisy public meeting.And said: "Why, that's a calf. I guess.That for the teat is bleating."A doctor stood beside a bedAnd shook his summit sadly."O see that foul assassin!" saidThe man who saw so badly.He saw a lawyer pleading forA thief whom they'd been jailing,And said: "That's an accomplice, orMy sight again is failing."Upon the Bench a Justice sat,With nothing to restrain him;"'Tis strange," said the observer, "thatThey 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 sawSell produce in a village,And said: "What, what! is there no lawTo punish men for pillage?"A dame, tall, fair and stately, passed,Who many charms united;He thanked his stars his lot was castWhere sepulchers were whited.He saw a soldier stiff and stern,"Full of strange oaths" and toddy;But was unable to discernA wound upon his body.Ten square leagues of rolling groundTo one great man belonging,Looked like one little grassy moundWith worms beneath it thronging.A palace's well-carven stones,Where Dives dwelt contented,Seemed built throughout of human bonesWith human blood cemented.He watched the yellow shining threadA silk-worm was a-spinning;"That creature's coining gold." he said,"To pay some girl for sinning."His eyes were so untrained and dimAll politics, religions,Arts, sciences, appeared to himBut modes of plucking pigeons.And so he drew his final breath,And thought he saw with sorrowSome persons weeping for his deathWho'd be all smiles to-morrow.
I dreamed that I was dead. The years went by:The world forgot that such a man as IHad ever lived and written: other namesWere 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 landsMen 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!
Horas non numero nisi serenas.
The rain is fierce, it flogs the earth,And man's in danger.O that my mother at my birthHad borne a stranger!The flooded ground is all around.The depth uncommon.How blest I'd be if only sheHad borne a salmon.If still denied the solar glow'T were bliss ecstaticTo be amphibious—but O,To be aquatic!We're worms, men say, o' the dust, and theyThat faith are firm of.O, then, be just: show me some dustTo be a worm of.The pines are chanting overheadA psalm uncheering.It's O, to have been for ages deadAnd hard of hearing!Restore, ye Pow'rs, the last bright hoursThe dial reckoned;'Twas in the time of Egypt's prime—Rameses II.
Tut-tut! give back the flags—how can you careYou veterans and heroes?Why should you at a kind intention swearLike twenty Neroes?Suppose the act was not so overwise—Suppose it was illegal—Is 't well on such a question to ariseAnd pinch the Eagle?Nay, let's economize his breath to scoldAnd terrify the alienWho tackles him, as Hercules of oldThe bird Stymphalian.Among the rebels when we made a breachWas it to get their banners?That was but incidental—'t was to teachThem better manners.They know the lesson well enough to-day;Now, let us try to show themThat 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 liveWith the same flag above us;'Twas all in vain unless we now forgiveAnd make them love us.Let kings keep trophies to display aboveTheir doors like any savage;The freeman's trophy is the foeman's love,Despite war's ravage."Make treason odious?" My friends, you'll findYou can't, in right and reason,While "Washington" and "treason" are combined—"Hugo" and "treason."All human governments must take the chanceAnd hazard of sedition.O, wretch! to pledge your manhood in advanceTo blind submission.It may be wrong, it may be right, to riseIn warlike insurrection:The loyalty that fools so dearly prizeMay mean subjection.Be loyal to your country, yes—but howIf tyrants hold dominion?The South believed they did; can't you allowFor that opinion?He who will never rise though rulers plodsHis liberties despisingHow is he manlier than thesans culottesWho's always rising?Give back the foolish flags whose bearers fellToo valiant to forsake them.Is it presumptuous, this counsel? Well,I helped to take them.
A rat who'd gorged a box of baneAnd suffered an internal pain,Came from his hole to die (the labelRequired it if the rat were able)And found outside his habitatA limpid stream. Of bane and rat'T was all unconscious; in the sunIt ran and prattled just for fun.Keen to allay his inward throes,The beast immersed his filthy noseAnd drank—then, bloated by the stream,And filled with superheated steam,Exploded with a rascal smell,Remarking, as his fragments fellAstonished in the brook: "I'm thinkingThis water's damned unwholesome drinking!"
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 striveShould be exhibited in a museum.
The moon in the field of the keel-plowed mainWas 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 earsWhich caught that enchanted strain.The ocean was swollen with storms of tearsThat fell from the shining swain."O, poet," leapt he to the soaken sand,"That ravishing song would makeThe devil a saint." He held out his handAnd 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!
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 nightlyFor the better part of a week.And then ('twas my duty to spare herThe shame of recalling me) IJust sought her again to prepare herFor an everlasting good-bye.O, that evening of bliss—shall I everForget it?—with Shakespeare and Poe!She said, when 'twas ended: "You're neverTo see me again. And now go."As we parted with kisses 'twas humanAnd natural for me to smileAs 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 MissionIs 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 herCalm way of remarking: "I'm well."It was hardly worth while, all this keyingMy soul to such tensions and stirsTo learn that her food was agreeingWith that little stomach of hers.
As the poor ass that from his paddock straysMight 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 clangOf 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 remarkEach coastwise schooner and each alien bark;Prates of "all nations," wonders as he staresThat native merchants sell imported wares,Nor comprehends how in his very viewA 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 RomeThe peasant sentiments of "Home, Sweet Home!"
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 blueWould 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 notIn 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 moreThere are behind, the fewer are before.I know you, Father Christmas, for a scamp,But Heaven endowed me at my soul's creationWith an affinity to every trampThat walks the world and steals its admiration.For admiration is like linen leftUpon the line—got easiest by theft.Good God! old man, just think of it! I've stood,With brains and honesty, some five-and-twentyLong 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 talkOf you the more my tongue grows egotisticTo prattle of myself! I'll try to balkIts 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 planIncludes, as I suppose, a final foldingOf these poor empty hands. Then drop a tearTo think they'll never box another ear.