I drew aside the Future's veilAnd saw upon his bierThe poet Whitman. Loud the wailAnd damp the falling tear."He's dead—he is no more!" one cried,With sobs of sorrow crammed;"No more? He's this much more," repliedAnother: "he is damned!"1885.
Hear me sing of Sally Larkin who, I'd have you understand,Played accordions as well as any lady in the land;And I've often heard it stated that her fingering was suchThat Professor Schweinenhauer was enchanted with her touch;And that beasts were so affected when her apparatus rangThat they dropped upon their haunches and deliriously sang.This I know from testimony, though a critic, I opine,Needs an ear that is dissimilar in some respects to mine.She could sing, too, like a jaybird, and they say all eyes were wetWhen Sally and the ranch-dog were performing a duet—Which I take it is a song that has to be so loudly sungAs to overtax the strength of any single human lung.That, at least, would seem to follow from the tale I have to tell,Which (I've told you how she flourished) is how Sally Larkin fell.One day there came to visit Sally's dad as sleek and smartA chap as ever wandered there from any foreign part.Though his gentle birth and breeding he did not at all obtrudeIt was somehow whispered round he was a simon-pure Dude.Howsoe'er that may have been, it was conspicuous to seeThat hewasa real Gent of an uncommon high degree.That Sally cast her tender and affectionate regardsOn this exquisite creation was, of course, upon the cards;But he didn't seem to notice, and was variously blindTo her many charms of person and the merits of her mind,And preferred, I grieve to say it, to play poker with her dad,And acted in a manner that in general was bad.One evening—'twas in summer—she was holding in her lapHer accordion, and near her stood that melancholy chap,Leaning up against a pillar with his lip in grog imbrued,Thinking, maybe, of that ancient land in which he was a Dude.Then Sally, who was melancholy too, began to humAnd elongate the accordion with a preluding thumb.Then sighs of amorosity from Sally L. exhaled,And her music apparatus sympathetically wailed."In the gloaming, O my darling!" rose that wild impassioned strain,And her eyes were fixed on his with an intensity of pain,Till the ranch-dog from his kennel at the postern gate came round,And going into session strove to magnify the sound.He lifted up his spirit till the gloaming rang and rangWith the song that tohisdarling he impetuously sang!Then that musing youth, recalling all his soul from other scenes,Where his fathers all were Dudes and his mothers all Dudines,From his lips removed the beaker and politely, o'er the grog,Said: "Miss Larkin, please be quiet: you will interrupt the dog."
Sir Impycu Lackland, from over the sea,Has led to the altar Miss Bloatie Bondee.The wedding took place at the Church of St. Blare;The fashion, the rank and the wealth were all there—No person was absent of all whom one meets.Lord Mammon himself bowed them into their seats,While good Sir John Satan attended the doorAnd Sexton Beelzebub managed the floor,Respectfully keeping each dog to its rug,Preserving the peace between poodle and pug.Twelve bridesmaids escorted the bride up the aisleTo blush in her blush and to smile in her smile;Twelve groomsmen supported the eminent groomTo scowl in his scowl and to gloom in his gloom.The rites were performed by the hand and the lipOf his Grace the Diocesan, Billingham Pip,Assisted by three able-bodied divines.He prayed and they grunted, he read, they made signs.Such fashion, such beauty, such dressing, such graceWere ne'er before seen in that heavenly place!That night, full of gin, and all blazing inside,Sir Impycu blackened the eyes of his bride.
Mrs. Mehitable Marcia MooreWas a dame of superior mind,With a gown which, modestly fitting before,Was greatly puffed up behind.The bustle she wore was ingeniously plannedWith an inspiration bright:It magnified seven diameters andWas remarkably nice and light.It was made of rubber and edged with laceAnd riveted all with brass,And the whole immense interior spaceInflated with hydrogen gas.The ladies all said when she hove in viewLike the round and rising moon:"She's a stuck up thing!" which was partly true,And men called her the Captive Balloon.To Manhattan Beach for a bath one dayShe went and she said: "O dear!If I leave offthiswhat will people say?I shall look so uncommonly queer!"So a costume she had accordingly madeTo take it all nicely in,And when she appeared in that suit arrayed,She was greeted with many a grin.Proudly and happily looking around,She waded out into the wet,But the water was very, very profound,And her feet and her forehead met!As her bubble drifted away from the shore,On the glassy billows borne,All cried: "Why, where is Mehitable Moore?I saw her go in, I'll be sworn!"Then the bulb it swelled as the sun grew hot,Till it burst with a sullen roar,And the sea like oil closed over the spot—Farewell, O Mehitable Moore!
Nightly I put up this humble petition:"Forgive me, O Father of Glories,My sins of commission, my sins of omission,My sins of the Mission Dolores."
Did I believe the angels soon would callYou, my beloved, to the other shore,And I should never see you any more,I love you so I know that I should fallInto dejection utterly, and allLove's pretty pageantry, wherein we boreTwin banners bravely in the tumult's fore,Would seem as shadows idling on a wall.So daintily I love you that my loveEndures no rumor of the winter's breath,And only blossoms for it thinks the skyForever gracious, and the stars aboveForever friendly. Even the fear of deathWere frost wherein its roses all would die.
They were two deaf mutes, and they loved and theyResolved to be groom and bride;And they listened to nothing that any could say,Nor ever a word replied.From wedlock when warned by the married men,Maintain an invincible mind:Be deaf and dumb until wedded—and thenBe deaf and dumb and blind.
A spitcat sate on a garden gateAnd a snapdog fared beneath;Careless and free was his mien, and heHeld a fiddle-string in his teeth.She marked his march, she wrought an archOf her back and blew up her tail;And her eyes were green as ever were seen,And she uttered a woful wail.The spitcat's plaint was as follows: "It ain'tThat I am to music a foe;For fiddle-strings bide in my own inside,And I twang them soft and low."But that dog has trifled with art and rifledA kitten of mine, ah me!That catgut slim was marauded from him:'Tis the string that men call E."
Then she sounded high, in the key of Y,A note that cracked the tombs;And the missiles through the firmament flewFrom adjacent sleeping-rooms.As her gruesome yell from the gate-post fellShe followed it down to earth;And that snapdog wears a placard that bearsThe inscription: "Blind from birth."
When Adam first saw Eve he said:"O lovely creature, share my bed."Before consenting, she her gazeFixed on the greensward to appraise,As well as vision could avouch,The value of the proffered couch.And seeing that the grass was greenAnd neatly clipped with a machine—Observing that the flow'rs were rareVarieties, and some were fair,The posts of precious woods, besprentWith fragrant balsams, diffluent,And all things suited to her worth,She raised her angel eyes from earthTo his and, blushing to confess,Murmured: "I love you, Adam—yes."Since then her daughters, it is said,Look always down when asked to wed.
Och! Father McGlynn,Ye appear to be inFer a bit of a bout wid the Pope;An' there's divil a doubtBut he's knockin' ye outWhile ye're hangin' onto the rope.An' soon ye'll lave homeTo thravel to Rome,For its bound to Canossa ye are.Persistin' to shtayWhen ye're ordered away—Bedad! that is goin' too far!
Lord of the tempest, pray refrainFrom leveling this church again.Now in its doom, as so you've willed it,We acquiesce. Butyou'llrebuild it.
"Lothario is very low,"So all the doctors tell.Nay, nay, notso—he will be, though,If ever he get well.
When, with the force of a ram that discharges its ponderous bodyStraight at the rear elevation of the luckless culler of simples,The foot of Herculean Kilgore—statesman of surname suggestiveOr carnage unspeakable!—lit like a missile prodigiousUpon the Congressional door with a monstrous and mighty momentum,Causing that vain ineffective bar to political freedomTo fly from its hinges, effacing the nasal excrescence of Dingley,That luckless one, decently veiling the ruin with ready bandanna,Lamented the loss of his eminence, sadly with sobs as follows:"Ah, why was I ever elected to the halls of legislation,So soon to be shown the door with pitiless emphasis? Truly,I've leaned on a broken Reed, and the same has gone back on me meanly.Where now is my prominence, erstwhile in council conspicuous, patent?Alas, I did never before understand what I now see clearly,To wit, that Democracy tends to level all human distinctions!"His fate so untoward and sad the Pine-tree statesman, bewailing,Stood in the corridor there while Democrats freed from confinementCame trooping forth from the chamber, dissembling all, as they passed him,Hilarious sentiments painful indeed to observe, and remarking:"O friend and colleague of the Speaker, what ails the unjoyous proboscis?"
What, madam, run for School Director? You?And want my vote and influence? Well, well,That beats me! Gad! wherearewe drifting to?In all my life I never have heard tellOf such sublime presumption, and I smellA nigger in the fence! Excuse me, madam;We statesmen sometimes speak like the old Adam.But now you mention it—well, well, who knows?We might, that's certain, give the sex a show.I have a cousin—teacher. I supposeIf I stand in and you 're elected—no?You'll make no bargains? That's a pretty go!But understand that school administrationBelongs to Politics, not Education.We'll pass the teacher deal; but it were wiseTo understand each other at the start.You know my business—books and school supplies;You'd hardly, if elected, have the heartSome small advantage to deny me—partOf all my profits to be yours. What? Stealing?Please don't express yourself with so much feeling.You pain me, truly. Now one question more.Suppose a fair young man should ask a placeAs teacher—would you (pardon) shut the doorOf the Department in his handsome faceUntil—I know not how to put the case—Would you extort a kiss to pay your favor?Good Lord! you laugh? I thought the matter graver.Well, well, we can't do business, I suspect:A woman has no head for useful tricks.My profitable offers you rejectAnd will not promise anything to fixThe opposition. That's not politics.Good morning. Stay—I'm chaffing you, conceitedly.Madam, I mean to vote for you—repeatedly.
What! you a Senator—you, Mike de Young?Still reeking of the gutter whence you sprung?Sir, if all Senators were such as you,Their hands so crimson and so slender, too,—(Shaped to the pocket for commercial work,For literary, fitted to the dirk)—So black their hearts, so lily-white their livers,The toga's touch would give a man the shivers.
Down in Southern Arizona where the Gila monster thrives,And the "Mescalero," gifted with a hundred thousand lives,Every hour renounces one of them by drinking liquid flame—The assassinating wassail that has given him his name;Where the enterprising dealer in Caucasian hair is seenTo hold his harvest festival upon his village-green,While the late lamented tenderfoot upon the plain is spreadWith a sanguinary circle on the summit of his head;Where the cactuses (or cacti) lift their lances in the sun,And incautious jackass-rabbits come to sorrow as they run,Lived a colony of settlers—old Missouri was the StateWhere they formerly resided at a prehistoric date.Now, the spot that had been chosen for this colonizing schemeWas as waterless, believe me, as an Arizona stream.The soil was naught but ashes, by the breezes driven free,And an acre and a quarter were required to sprout a pea.So agriculture languished, for the land would not produce,And for lack of water, whisky was the beverage in use—Costly whisky, hauled in wagons many a weary, weary day,Mostly needed by the drivers to sustain them on their way.Wicked whisky! King of Evils! Why, O, why did God createSuch a curse and thrust it on us in our inoffensive state?Once a parson came among them, and a holy man was he;With his ailing stomach whisky wouldn't anywise agree;So he knelt upon themesaand he prayed with all his chinThat the Lord would send them water or incline their hearts to gin.Scarcely was the prayer concluded ere an earthquake shook the land,And with copious effusion springs burst out on every hand!Merrily the waters gurgled, and the shock which gave them birthFitly was by some declared a temperance movement of the earth.Astounded by the miracle, the people met that nightTo celebrate it properly by some religious rite;And 'tis truthfully recorded that before the moon had sunkEvery man and every woman was devotionally drunk.A half a standard gallon (says history) per headOf the best Kentucky prime was at that ceremony shed.O, the glory of that country! O, the happy, happy folk.By the might of prayer delivered from Nature's broken yoke!Lo! the plains to the horizon all are yellowing with rye,And the corn upon the hill-top lifts its banners to the sky!Gone the wagons, gone the drivers, and the road is grown to grass,Over which the incalescent Bourbon did aforetime pass.Pikeville (that's the name they've given, in their wild, romantic way,To that irrigation district) now distills, statistics say,Something like a hundred gallons, out of each recurrent crop,To the head of population—and consumes it, every drop!
I saw the devil—he was working free:A customs-house he builded by the sea."Why do you this?" The devil raised his head;"Churches and courts I've built enough," he said.
Upon my desk a single spray,With starry blossoms fraught.I write in many an idle way,Thinking one serious thought."O flowers, a fine Greek name ye bear,And with a fine Greek grace."Be still, O heart, that turns to shareThe sunshine of a face."Have ye no messages—no brief,Still sign: 'Despair', or 'Hope'?"A sudden stir of stem and leaf—A breath of heliotrope!
Come in, old gentleman. How do you do?Delighted, I'm sure, that you've called.I'm a sociable sort of a chap and youAre a pleasant-appearing person, too,With a head agreeably bald.That's right—sit down in the scuttle of coalAnd put up your feet in a chair.It is better to have them there:And I've always said that a hat of lead,Such as I see you wear,Was a better hat than a hat of glass.And your boots of brassAre a natural kind of boots, I swear."May you blow your nose on a paper of pins?"Why, certainly, man, why not?I rather expected you'd do it before,When I saw you poking it in at the door.It's dev'lish hot—The weather, I mean. "You are twins"?Why, that was evident at the start,From the way that you paint your headIn stripes of purple and red,With dots of yellow.That proves you a fellowWith a love of legitimate art."You've bitten a snake and are feeling bad"?That's very sad,But Longfellow's words I beg to recall:Your lot is the common lot of all."Horses are trees and the moon is a sneeze"?That, I fancy, is just as you please.Some think that way and others holdThe opposite view;I never quite knew,For the matter o' that,When everything's been said—May I offer this matIf youwillstand on your head?I suppose I look to be upside downFrom your present point of view.It's a giddy old world, from king to clown,And a topsy-turvy, too.But, worthy and now uninverted old man,You'rebuilt, at least, on a normal planIf ever a truth I spoke.Smoke?Your air and conversationAre a liberal education,And your clothes, including the metal hatAnd the brazen boots—what's that?"You never could stomach a DemocratSince General Jackson ran?You're another sort, but you predictThat your party'll get consummately licked?"Good God! what a queer old man!
A Countess (so they tell the tale)Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale,Where ladies, even of high degree,Know more of love than of A.B.C,Came once with a prodigious bribeUnto the learned village scribe,That most discreet and honest manWho wrote for all the lover clan,Nor e'er a secret had betrayed—Save when inadequately paid."Write me," she sobbed—"I pray thee do—A book about the Prince di Giu—A book of poetry in praiseOf all his works and all his ways;The godlike grace of his address,His more than woman's tenderness,His courage stern and lack of guile,The loves that wantoned in his smile.So great he was, so rich and kind,I'll not within a fortnight findHis equal as a lover. O,My God! I shall be drowned in woe!""What! Prince di Giu has died!" exclaimedThe honest man for letters famed,The while he pocketed her gold;"Of what'?—if I may be so bold."Fresh storms of tears the lady shed:"I stabbed him fifty times," she said.
A famous conqueror, in battle brave,Who robbed the cradle to supply the grave.His reign laid quantities of human dust:He fell upon the just and the unjust.
What! imitate me, friend? Suppose that youWith agony and difficulty doWhat I do easily—what then? You've gotA style I heartily wishIhad not.If I from lack of sense and you from choiceGrieve the judicious and the unwise rejoice,No equal censure our deserts will suit—We both are fools, but you're an ape to boot!
"By good men's prayers see Grant restored!"Shouts Talmage, pious creature!Yes, God, by supplication boredFrom every droning preacher,Exclaimed: "So be it, tiresome crew—But I've a crow to pick withyou."
He looked upon the ships as theyAll idly lay at anchor,Their sides with gorgeous workmen gay—The riveter and planker—Republicans and Democrats,Statesmen and politicians.He saw the swarm of prudent ratsSwimming for land positions.He marked each "belted cruiser" fine,Her poddy life-belts floatingIn tether where the hungry brineImpinged upon her coating.He noted with a proud regard,As any of his class would,The poplar mast and poplar yardAbove the hull of bass-wood.He saw the Eastlake frigate tall,With quaintly carven gable,Hip-roof and dormer-window—allWith ivy formidable.In short, he saw our country's hopeIn best of all conditions—Equipped, to the last spar and rope,By working politicians.He boarded then the noblest shipAnd from the harbor glided."Adieu, adieu!" fell from his lip.Verdict: "He suicided."1881.
In Congress once great Mowther shone,Debating weighty matters;Now into an asylum thrown,He vacuously chatters.If in that legislative hallHis wisdom still he 'd vented,It never had been known at allThat Mowther was demented.
Ben Bulger was a silver man,Though not a mine had he:He thought it were a noble planTo make the coinage free."There hain't for years been sech a time,"Said Ben to his bull pup,"For biz—the country's broke and I'mThe hardest kind of up."The paper says that that's becauseThe silver coins is sea'ce,And that the chaps which makes the lawsPuts gold ones in their place."They says them nations always beMost prosperatin' whereThe wolume of the currencyAin't so disgustin' rare."His dog, which hadn't breakfasted,Dissented from his view,And wished that he could swell, instead,The volume of cold stew."Nobody'd put me up," said Ben,"With patriot galootsWhich benefits their feller menBy playin' warious roots;"But havin' all the tools about,I'm goin' to commenceA-turnin' silver dollars outWuth eighty-seven cents."The feller takin' 'em can't whine:(No more, likewise, can I):They're better than the genooine,Which mostly satisfy."It's only makin' coinage free,And mebby might augmentThe wolume of the currencyA noomerous per cent."I don't quite see his error norMalevolence prepense,But fifteen years they gave him forThat technical offense.
He lay on his bed and solemnly "signed,"Gasping—perhaps 'twas a jest he meant:"This of a sound and disposing mindIs the last ill-will and contestament."
To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fedThe Priest delivers masses for the dead,And even from estrays outside the foldDeath for the masses he would not withhold.The Parson, loth alike to free or kill,Forsakes the souls already on the grill,And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming,Spares living sinners for a harder damning.
Observe, dear Lord, what lively pranksAre played by sentimental cranks!First this one mounts his hinder hoofsAnd brays the chimneys off the roofs;Then that one, with exalted voice,Expounds the thesis of his choice,Our understandings to bombard,Till all the window panes are starred!A third augments the vocal shockTill steeples to their bases rock,Confessing, as they humbly nod,They hear and mark the will of God.A fourth in oral thunder ventsHis awful penury of senseTill dogs with sympathetic howls,And lowing cows, and cackling fowls,Hens, geese, and all domestic birds,Attest the wisdom of his words.Cranks thus their intellects deflateOf theories about the State.This one avers 'tis built on Truth,And that on Temperance. This youthDeclares that Science bears the pile;That graybeard, with a holy smile,Says Faith is the supporting stone;While women swear that Love aloneCould so unflinchingly endureThe heavy load. And some are sureThe solemn vow of Christian WedlockIs the indubitable bedrock.Physicians once about the bedOf one whose life was nearly spedBlew up a disputatious breezeAbout the cause of his disease:This, that and t' other thing they blamed."Tut, tut!" the dying man exclaimed,"What made me ill I do not care;You've not an ounce of it, I'll swear.And if you had the skill to make itI'd see you hanged before I'd take it!"
Must you, Carnegie, evermore explainYour worth, and all the reasons give againWhy black and red are similarly white,And you and God identically right?Still must our ears without redress submitTo hear you play the solemn hypocriteWalking in spirit some high moral level,Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil?Great King of Cant! if Nature had but madeYour mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayedTo have an earless head. Since she did not,Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot—Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in airSo delicately, mercifully rareThat when the fellow climbs that giddy hill,As, for my sins, I know at last he will,To utter twaddle in that void inaneHis soundless organ he will play in vain.
On Evidence, on Deeds, on Bills,On Copyhold, on Loans, on Wills,Lawyers great books indite;The creaking of their busy quillsI've never heard on Right.
Unhappy State! with horrors still to strive:Thy Hugo dead, thy Boulanger alive;A Prince who'd govern where he dares not dwell,And who for power would his birthright sell—Who, anxious o'er his enemies to reign,Grabs at the scepter and conceals the chain;While pugnant factions mutually striveBy cutting throats to keep the land alive.Perverse in passion, as in pride perverse—To all a mistress, to thyself a curse;Sweetheart of Europe! every sun's embraceMatures the charm and poison of thy grace.Yet time to thee nor peace nor wisdom brings:In blood of citizens and blood of kingsThe stones of thy stability are set,And the fair fabric trembles at a threat.
Looking across the line, the Grecian said:"This border I will stain a Turkey red."The Moslem smiled securely and replied:"No Greek has ever for his country dyed."While thus each patriot guarded his frontier,The Powers stole all the country in his rear.
Death, are you well? I trust you have no coughThat's painful or in any way annoying—No kidney trouble that may carry you off,Or heart disease to keep you from enjoyingYour meals—and ours. 'T were very sad indeedTo have to quit the busy life you lead.You've been quite active lately for so oldA person, and not very strong-appearing.I'm apprehensive, somehow, that my bold,Bad brother gave you trouble in the spearing.And my two friends—I fear, sir, that you ranQuite hard for them, especially the man.I crave your pardon: 'twas no fault of mine;If you are overworked I'm sorry, very.Come in, old man, and have a glass of wine.What shall it be—Marsala, Port or Sherry?What! just a mug of blood? That's funny grogTo ask a friend for, eh? Well, take it, hog!
Dom Pedro, Emperor of far Brazil(Whence coffee comes and the three-cornered nut),They say that you're imperially ill,And threatened with paralysis. Tut-tut!Though Emperors are mortal, nothing butA nimble thunderbolt could catch and killA man predestined to depart this lifeBy the assassin's bullet, bomb or knife.Sir, once there was a President who freedTen million slaves; and once there was a CzarWho freed five times as many serfs. Sins breedThe means of punishment, and tyrants areHurled headlong out of the triumphal carIf faster than the law allows they speed.Lincoln and Alexander struck a rut;Youfreed slaves too. Paralysis—tut-tut!1885.
Courageous fool!—the peril's strength unknown.Courageous man!—so conscious of your own.
Fly, heedless stranger, from this spot accurst,Where rests in Satan an offender firstIn point of greatness, as in point of time,Of new-school rascals who proclaim their crime.Skilled with a frank loquacity to blabThe dark arcana of each mighty grab,And famed for lying from his early youth,He sinned secure behind a veil of truth.Some lock their lips upon their deeds; some writeA damning record and conceal from sight;Some, with a lust of speaking, die to quell it.His way to keep a secret was to tell it.
Here sleeps one of the greatest studentsOf jurisprudence.Nature endowed him with the giftOf the juristhrift.All points of law alike he threwThe dice to settle.Those honest cubes were loaded trueWith railway metal.
Thy flesh to earth, thy soul to God,We gave, O gallant brother;And o'er thy grave the awkward squadFired into one another!
Beneath this monument which rears its head.A giant note of admiration—dead,His life extinguished like a taper's flame.John Ericsson is lying in his fame.Behold how massive is the lofty shaft;How fine the product of the sculptor's craft;The gold how lavishly applied; the greatMan's statue how impressive and sedate!Think what the cost-was! It would ill becomeOur modesty to specify the sum;Suffice it that a fair per cent, we're givingOf what we robbed him of when he was living.
Of Corporal Tanner the head and the trunkAre here in unconsecrate ground duly sunk.His legs in the South claim the patriot's tear,But, stranger, you needn't be blubbering here.
Jay Gould lies here. When he was newly deadHe looked so natural that round his bedThe people stood, in silence all, to weep.They thought, poor souls! that he did only sleep.
Here Ingalls, sorrowing, has laidThe tools of his infernal trade—His pen and tongue. So sharp and rudeThey grew—so slack in gratitude,His hand was wounded as he wrote,And when he spoke he cut his throat.
Within this humble mausoleumPoor Guiteau's flesh you'll find.His bones are kept in a museum,And Tillman has his mind.
Stranger, uncover; here you have in viewThe monument of Chauncey M. Depew.Eater and orator, the whole world roundFor feats of tongue and tooth alike renowned.Pauper in thought but prodigal in speech,Nothing he knew excepting how to teach.But in default of something to impartHe multiplied his words with all his heart:When least he had to say, instructive most—A clam in wisdom and in wit a ghost.Dining his way to eminence, he rowedWith knife and fork up water-ways that flowedFrom lakes of favor—pulled with all his forceAnd found each river sweeter than the source.Like rats, obscure beneath a kitchen floor,Gnawing and rising till obscure no more,He ate his way to eminence, and FameInscribes in gravy his immortal name.A trencher-knight, he, mounted on his belly,So spurred his charger that its sides were jelly.Grown desperate at last, it reared and threw him,And Indigestion, overtaking, slew him.