The showman (blessing in a thousand shapes!)Parades a "School of Educated Apes!"Small education's needed, I opine,Or native wit, to make a monkey shine;The brute exhibited has naught to doBut ape the larger apes who come to view—The hoodlum with his horrible grimace,Long upper lip and furtive, shuffling pace,Significant reminders of the timeWhen hunters, not policemen, made him climb;The lady loafer with her draggling "trail,"That free translation of an ancient tail;The sand-lot quadrumane in hairy suit,Whose heels are thumbs perverted by the boot;The painted actress throwing down the gageTo elder artists of the sylvan stage,Proving that in the time of Noah's floodTwo ape-skins held her whole profession's blood;The critic waiting, like a hungry pup,To write the school—perhaps to eat it—up,As chance or luck occasion may revealTo earn a dollar or maraud a meal.To view the school of apes these creatures go,Unconscious that themselves are half the show.These, if the simian his course but trimTo copy them as they have copied him,Will call him "educated." Of a verityThere's much to learn by study of posterity.
'Twas a weary-looking mortal, and he wandered near the portalOf the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead.He was pale and worn exceeding and his manner was unheeding,As if it could not matter what he did nor what he said."Sacred stranger"—I addressed him with a reverence befittingThe austere, unintermitting, dread solemnity he wore;'Tis the custom, too, prevailing in that vicinage when hailingOne who possibly may be a person lately "gone before"—"Sacred stranger, much I ponder on your evident dejection,But my carefulest reflection leaves the riddle still unread.How do you yourself explain your dismal tendency to wanderBy the melancholy City of the Discontented Dead?"Then that solemn person, pausing in the march that he was making,Roused himself as if awaking, fixed his dull and stony eyeOn my countenance and, slowly, like a priest devout and holy,Chanted in a mournful monotone the following reply:"O my brother, do not fear it; I'm no disembodied spirit—I am Lampton, the Slang Poet, with a price upon my head.I am watching by this portal for some late lamented mortalTo arise in his disquietude and leave his earthy bed."Then I hope to take possession and pull in the earth above meAnd, renouncing my profession, ne'er be heard of any more.For there's not a soul to love me and no living thing respects me,Which so painfully affects me that I fain would 'go before.'"Then I felt a deep compassion for the gentleman's dejection,For privation of affection would refrigerate a frog.So I said: "If nothing human, and if neither man nor womanCan appreciate the fashion of your merit—buy a dog."
When Man and Woman had been made,All but the disposition,The Devil to the workshop strayed,And somehow gained admission.The Master rested from his work,For this was on a Sunday,The man was snoring like a Turk,Content to wait till Monday."Too bad!" the Woman cried; "Oh, why,Does slumber not benumb me?A disposition! Oh, I dieTo know if 'twill become me!"The Adversary said: "No doubt'Twill be extremely fine, ma'am,Though sure 'tis long to be without—I beg to lend you mine, ma'am."The Devil's disposition whenShe'd got, of course she wore it,For she'd no disposition then,Nor now has, to restore it.
Dim, grim, and silent as a ghost,The sentry occupied his post,To all the stirrings of the nightAlert of ear and sharp of sight.A sudden something—sight or sound,About, above, or underground,He knew not what, nor where—ensued,Thrilling the sleeping solitude.The soldier cried: "Halt! Who goes there?"The answer came: "Death—in the air.""Advance, Death—give the countersign,Or perish if you cross that line!"To change his tone Death thought it wise—Reminded him they 'd been alliesAgainst the Russ, the Frank, the Turk,In many a bloody bit of work."In short," said he, "in every weatherWe've soldiered, you and I, together."The sentry would not let him pass."Go back," he growled, "you tiresome ass—Go back and rest till the next war,Nor kill by methods all abhor:Miasma, famine, filth and vice,With plagues of locusts, plagues of lice,Foul food, foul water, and foul gases,Rank exhalations from morasses.If you employ such low alliesThis business you will vulgarize.Renouncing then the field of fameTo wallow in a waste of shame,I'll prostitute my strength and lurkAbout the country doing work—These hands to labor I'll devote,Nor cut, by Heaven, another throat!"
So, Beecher's dead. His was a great soul, too—Great as a giant organ is, whose reedsHold in them all the souls of all the creedsThat man has ever taught and never knew.When on this mighty instrument He laidHis hand Who fashioned it, our common moanWas suppliant in its thundering. The toneGrew more vivacious when the Devil played.No more those luring harmonies we hear,And lo! already men forget the sound.They turn, retracing all the dubious groundO'er which it led them, pigwise, by the ear.
"I saw your charms in another's arms,"Said a Grecian swain with his blood a-boil;"And he kissed you fair as he held you there,A willing bird in a serpent's coil!"The maid looked up from the cinctured cupWherein she was crushing the berries red,Pain and surprise in her honest eyes—"It was only one o' those gods," she said.
With saintly grace and reverent tread,She walked among the graves with me;Her every foot-fall seemed to beA benediction on the dead.The guardian spirit of the placeShe seemed, and I some ghost forlornSurprised in the untimely mornShe made with her resplendent face.Moved by some waywardness of will,Three paces from the path apartShe stepped and stood—my prescient heartWas stricken with a passing chill.The folk-lore of the years agoneRemembering, I smiled and thought:"Who shudders suddenly at naught,His grave is being trod upon."But now I know that it was moreThan idle fancy. O, my sweet,I did not think such little feetCould make a buried heart so sore!
I step from the door with a shiver(This fog is uncommonly cold)And ask myself: What did I give her?—The maiden a trifle gone-old,With the head of gray hair that was gold.Ah, well, I suppose 'twas a dollar,And doubtless the change is correct,Though it's odd that it seems so much smallerThan what I'd a right to expect.But you pay when you dine, I reflect.So I walk up the street—'twas a saunterA score of years back, when I strolledFrom this door; and our talk was all banterThose days when her hair was of gold,And the sea-fog less searching and cold.I button my coat (for I'm shaken,And fevered a trifle, and flushedWith the wine that I ought to have taken,)Time was, at this coat I'd have blushed,Though truly, 'tis cleverly brushed.A score? Why, that isn't so veryMuch time to have lost from a life.There's reason enough to be merry:I've not fallen down in the strife,But marched with the drum and the fife.If Hope, when she lured me and beckoned,Had pushed at my shoulders instead,And Fame, on whose favors I reckoned,Had laureled the worthiest head,I could garland the years that are dead.Believe me, I've held my own, mostlyThrough all of this wild masquerade;But somehow the fog is more ghostlyTo-night, and the skies are more grayed,Like the locks of the restaurant maid.If ever I'd fainted and falteredI'd fancy this did but appear;But the climate, I'm certain, has altered—Grown colder and more austereThan it was in that earlier year.The lights, too, are strangely unsteady,That lead from the street to the quay.I think they'll go out—and I'm readyTo follow. Out there in the seaThe fog-bell is calling to me.
"If life were not worth having," said the preacher,"'T would have in suicide one pleasant feature.""An error," said the pessimist, "you're making:What's not worth having cannot be worth taking."
To Parmentier Parisians raiseA statue fine and large:He cooked potatoes fifty ways,Nor ever led a charge."Palmam qui meruit"—the restYou knew as well as I;And best of all to him that bestOf sayings will apply.Let meaner men the poet's baysOr warrior's medal wear;Who cooks potatoes fifty waysShall bear the palm—de terre.
What! photograph in colors? 'Tis a dreamAnd he who dreams it is not overwise,If colors are vibration they but seem,And have no being. But if Tyndall lies,Why, come, then—photograph my lady's eyes.Nay, friend, you can't; the splendor of their blue,As on my own beclouded orbs they rest,To naught but vibratory motion's due,As heart, head, limbs and all I am attest.How could her eyes, at rest themselves, be makingIn me so uncontrollable a shaking?
Over the man the street car ran,And the driver did never grin."O killer of men, pray tell me whenYour laughter means to begin."Ten years to a day I've observed you slay,And I never have missed beforeYour jubilant peals as your crunching wheelsWere spattered with human gore."Why is it, my boy, that you smother your joy,And why do you make no signOf the merry mind that is dancing behindA solemner face than mine?"The driver replied: "I would laugh till I criedIf I had bisected you;But I'd like to explain, if I can for the pain,'T is myself that I've cut in two."
Thy gift, if that it be of God,Thou hast no warrant to appraise,Nor say: "Here part, O Muse, our ways,The road too stony to be trod."Not thine to call the labor hardAnd the reward inadequate.Who haggles o'er his hire with FateIs better bargainer than bard.What! count the effort labor lostWhen thy good angel holds the reed?It were a sorry thing indeedTo stay him till thy palm be crossed."The laborer is worthy"—nay,The sacred ministry of songIs rapture!—'t were a grievous wrongTo fix a wages-rate for play.
Says Anderson, Theosophist:"Among the many that existIn modern halls,Some lived in ancient Egypt's climeAnd in their childhood saw the primeOf Karnak's walls."Ah, Anderson, if that is true'T is my conviction, sir, that youAre one of thoseThat once resided by the Nile,Peer to the sacred Crocodile,Heir to his woes.My judgment is, the holy CatMews through your larynx (and your hat)These many years.Through you the godlike Onion bringsIts melancholy sense of things,And moves to tears.In you the Bull divine againBellows and paws the dusty plain,To nature true.I challenge not his ancient hateBut, lowering my knurly pate,Lock horns with you.And though Reincarnation proveA creed too stubborn to remove,And all your schoolOf Theosophs I cannot scare—All the more earnestly I swearThat you're a fool.You'll say that this is mere abuseWithout, in fraying you, a use.That's plain to seeWith only half an eye. Come, now,Be fair, be fair,—consider howIt easesme!
"What is that, mother?""The funny man, child.His hands are black, but his heart is mild.""May I touch him, mother?""'T were foolishly done:He is slightly touched already, my son.""O, why does he wear such a ghastly grin?""That's the outward sign of a joke within.""Will he crack it, mother?""Not so, my saint;'T is meant for theSaturday Livercomplaint.""Does he suffer, mother?""God help him, yes!—A thousand and fifty kinds of distress.""What makes him sweat so?""The demons that lurkIn the fear of having to go to work.""Why doesn't he end, then, his life with a rope?""Abolition of Hell has deprived him of hope."
I saw—'twas in a dream, the other night—A man whose hair with age was thin and white:One hundred years had bettered by his birth,And still his step was firm, his eye was bright.Before him and about him pressed a crowd.Each head in reverence was bared and bowed,And Jews and Gentiles in a hundred tonguesExtolled his deeds and spoke his fame aloud.I joined the throng and, pushing forward, cried,"Montefiore!" with the rest, and viedIn efforts to caress the hand that ne'erTo want and worth had charity denied.So closely round him swarmed our shouting clanHe scarce could breathe, and taking from a panA gleaming coin he tossed it o'er our heads,And in a moment was a lonely man!
Cried Age to Youth: "Abate your speed!—The distance hither's brief indeed."But Youth pressed on without delay—The shout had reached but half the way.
I'm told that men have sometimes gotToo confidential, andHave said to one another whatThey—well, you understand.I hope I don't offend you, sweet,But are you sure thatyou'rediscreet?
'Tis true, sometimes my friends in wineTheir conquestsdorecall,But none can truly say that mineAre known to him at all.I never, never talk you o'er—In truth, I never get the floor.
'Tis the census enumeratorA-singing all forlorn:It's ho! for the tall potater,And ho! for the clustered corn.The whiffle-tree bends in the breeze and the fineLarge eggs are a-ripening on the vine."Some there must be to till the soilAnd the widow's weeds keep down.I wasn't cut out for rural toilBut theywon'tlet me live in town!They 're not so many by two or three,As they think, but ah! they 're too many for me."Thus the census man, bowed down with care,Warbled his wood-note high.There was blood on his brow and blood in his hair,But he had no blood in his eye.
Baffled he stands upon the track—The automatic switches clack.Where'er he turns his solemn eyesThe interlocking signals rise.The trains, before his visage pale,Glide smoothly by, nor leave the rail.No splinter-spitted victim heHears uttering the note high C.In sorrow deep he hangs his head,A-weary—would that he were dead.Now suddenly his spirits rise—A great thought kindles in his eyes.Hope, like a headlight's vivid glare,Splendors the path of his despair.His genius shines, the clouds roll back—"I'll place obstructions on the track!"
Says Gerald Massey: "When I write, a bandOf souls of the departed guides my hand."How strange that poems cumbering our shelves,Penned by immortal parts, have none themselves!
Newman, in you two parasites combine:As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine.When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt,The pride of residence was all you felt(What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knewTo paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?)And when the praises of the dead you've sung,'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue;As ill-bred men when warming to their wineBoast of its merit though it be but brine.Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should—Even charity would shun you if she could.You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole,But what you get you take by way of toll.Vain to resist you—vermifuge aloneHas power to push you from your robber throne.When to escape you he's compelled to dieHey! presto!—in the twinkling of an eyeYou vanish as a tapeworm, reappearAs graveworm and resume your curst career.As host no more, to satisfy your needHe serves as dinner your unaltered greed.O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame,Son of servility and priest of shame,While naught your mad ambition can abateTo lick the spittle of the rich and great;While still like smoke your eulogies ariseTo soot your heroes and inflame our eyes;While still with holy oil, like that which ranDown Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man,I cannot choose but think it very oddIt ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God.
O bear me, gods, to some enchanted isleWhere woman's tears can antidote her smile.
Despots effete upon tottering thronesUnsteadily poised upon dead men's bones,Walk up! walk up! the circus is free,And this wonderful spectacle you shall see:Millions of voters who mostly are fools—Demagogues' dupes and candidates' tools,Armies of uniformed mountebanks,And braying disciples of brainless cranks.Many a week they've bellowed like beeves,Bitterly blackguarding, lying like thieves,Libeling freely the quick and the deadAnd painting the New Jerusalem red.Tyrants monarchical—emperors, kings,Princes and nobles and all such things—Noblemen, gentlemen, step this way:There's nothing, the Devil excepted, to pay,And the freaks and curios here to be seenAre very uncommonly grand and serene.No more with vivacity they debate,Nor cheerfully crack the illogical pate;No longer, the dull understanding to aid,The stomach accepts the instructive blade,Nor the stubborn heart learns what is whatFrom a revelation of rabbit-shot;And vilification's flames—behold!Burn with a bickering faint and cold.Magnificent spectacle!—every tongueSuddenly civil that yesterday rung(Like a clapper beating a brazen bell)Each fair reputation's eternal knell;Hands no longer delivering blows,And noses, for counting, arrayed in rows.Walk up, gentlemen—nothing to pay—The Devil goes back to Hell to-day.
"O warrior with the burnished arms—With bullion cord and tassel—Pray tell me of the lurid charmsOf service and the fierce alarms:The storming of the castle,The charge across the smoking field,The rifles' busy rattle—What thoughts inspire the men who wieldThe blade—their gallant souls how steeledAnd fortified in battle.""Nay, man of peace, seek not to knowWar's baleful fascination—The soldier's hunger for the foe,His dread of safety, joy to goTo court annihilation.Though calling bugles blow not now,Nor drums begin to beat yet,One fear unmans me, I'll allow,And poisons all my pleasure: HowIf I should get my feet wet!"
"A LITERARY METHOD."
His poems Riley says that he inditesUpon an empty stomach. Heavenly Powers,Feed him throat-full: for what the beggar writesUpon his empty stomach empties ours!
Because you call yourself Knights Templar, andThere's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,—Because you thus by vain pretense degradeTo paltry purposes traditions grand,—Because to cheat the ignorant you sayThe thing that's not, elated still to swayThe crass credulity of gaping foolsAnd women by fantastical display,—Because no sacred fires did ever warmYour hearts, high knightly service to perform—A woman's breast or coffer of a manThe only citadel you dare to storm,—Because while railing still at lord and peer,At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer,Each member of your order tries to graftA peacock's tail upon his barren rear,—Because that all these things are thus and so,I bid you welcome to our city. Lo!You're free to come, and free to stay, and freeAs soon as it shall please you, sirs—to go.
"Sas agapo sas agapo,"He sang beneath her lattice."'Sas agapo'?" she murmured—"O,I wonder, now, whatthatis!"Was she less fair that she did bearSo light a load of knowledge?Are loving looks got out of books,Or kisses taught in college?Of woman's lore give me no moreThan how to love,—in manyA tongue men brawl: she speaks them allWho says "I love," in any.
"O father, I saw at the church as I passedThe populace gathered in numbers so vastThat they couldn't get in; and their voices were low,And they looked as if suffering terrible woe.""'Twas the funeral, child, of a gentleman deadFor whom the great heart of humanity bled.""What made it bleed, father, for every daySomebody passes forever away?Do the newspaper men print a column or moreOf every person whose troubles are o'er?""O, no; they could never do that—and indeed,Though printers might print it, no reader would read.To the sepulcher all, soon or late, must be borne,But 'tis only the Wise and the Good that all mourn.""That's right, father dear, but how can our eyesDistinguish in dead men the Good and the Wise?""That's easy enough to the stupidest mind:They're poor, and in dying leave nothing behind.""Seest thou in mine eye, father, anything green?And takest thy son for a gaping marine?Go tell thy fine tale of the Wise and the GoodWho are poor and lamented to babes in the wood."And that horrible youth as I hastened awayWas building a wink that affronted the day.
"'Tis a woeful yarn," said the sailor man boldWho had sailed the northern-lakes—"No woefuler one has ever been toldExceptin' them called 'fakes.'""Go on, thou son of the wind and fog,For I burn to know the worst!"But his silent lip in a glass of grogWas dreamily immersed.Then he wiped it on his sleeve and said:"It's never like that I drinksBut what of the gallant gent that's deadI truly mournful thinks."He was a soldier chap—leastwaysAs 'Colonel' he was knew;An' he hailed from some'rs where they raiseA grass that's heavenly blue."He sailed as a passenger aboardThe schooner 'Henery Jo.'O wild the waves and galeses roared,Like taggers in a show!"But he sat at table that calm an' mildAs if he never had letHis sperit know that the waves was wildAn' everlastin' wet!—"Jest set with a bottle afore his nose,As was labeled 'Total Eclipse'(The bottle was) an' he frequent roseA glass o' the same to his lips."An' he says to me (for the steward slickOf the 'Henery Jo' was I):'This sailor life's the very old Nick—On the lakes it's powerful dry!'"I says: 'Aye, aye, sir, it beats the Dutch.I hopes you'll outlast the trip.'But if I'd been him—an' I said as much—I'd 'a' took a faster ship."His laughture, loud an' long an' free,Rang out o'er the tempest's roar.'You're an elegant reasoner,' says he,'But it's powerful dry ashore!'""O mariner man, why pause and donA look of so deep concern?Have another glass—go on, go on,For to know the worst I burn.""One day he was leanin' over the rail,When his footing some way slipped,An' (this is the woefulest part o' my tale),He was accidental unshipped!"The empty boats was overboard hove,As he swum in the 'Henery's wake';But 'fore we had 'bouted ship he had droveFrom sight on the ragin' lake!""And so the poor gentleman was drowned—And now I'm apprised of the worst.""What! him? 'Twas an hour afore he was found—In the yawl—stone dead o' thirst!"
O, heavenly powers! will wonders never cease?—Hair upon dogs and feathers upon geese!The boys in mischief and the pigs in mire!The drinking water wet! the coal on fire!In meadows, rivulets surpassing fair,Forever running, yet forever there!A tail appended to the gray baboon!A person coming out of a saloon!Last, and of all most marvelous to see,A female Yahoo flinging filth at me!If 'twould but stick I'd bear upon my coatMay Little's proof that she is fit to vote.
Filled with a zeal to serve my fellow men,For years I criticised their prose and verges:Pointed out all their blunders of the pen,Their shallowness of thought and feeling; thenDamned them up hill and down with hearty curses!They said: "That's all that he can do—just sneer,And pull to pieces and be analytic.Why doesn't he himself, eschewing fear,Publish a book or two, and so appearAs one who has the right to be a critic?"Let him who knows it all forbear to tellHow little others know, but show his learning."The public added: "Who has written wellMay censure freely"—quoting Pope. I fellInto the trap and books began out-turning,—Books by the score—fine prose and poems fair,And not a book of them but was a terror,They were so great and perfect; though I swearI tried right hard to work in, here and there,(My nature still forbade) a fault or error.'Tis true, some wretches, whom I'd scratched, no doubt,Professed to find—but that's a trifling matter.Now, when the flood of noble books was outI raised o'er all that land a joyous shout,Till I was thought as mad as any hatter!(Why hatters all are mad, I cannot say.'T were wrong in their affliction to revile 'em,But truly, you'll confess 'tis very sadWe wear the ugly things they make. Begad,They'd be less mischievous in an asylum!)"Consistency, thou art a"—well, you'repaste!When next I felt my demon in possession,And made the field of authorship a waste,All said of me: "What execrable taste,To rail at others of his own profession!"Good Lord! where do the critic's rights beginWho has of literature some clear-cut notion,And hears a voice from Heaven say: "Pitch in"?He finds himself—alas, poor son of sin—Between the devil and the deep blue ocean!
Once with Christ he entered Salem,Once in Moab bullied Balaam,Once by Apuleius stagedHe the pious much enraged.And, again, his head, as beaver,Topped the neck of Nick the Weaver.Omar saw him (minus tether—Free and wanton as the weather:Knowing naught of bit or spur)Stamping over Bahram-Gur.Now, as Altgeld, see him joyAs Governor of Illinois!
Saint Peter at the gate of Heaven displayedThe tools and terrors of his awful trade;The key, the frown as pitiless as night,That slays intending trespassers at sight,And, at his side in easy reach, the curledInterrogation points all ready to be hurled.Straight up the shining cloudway (it so chancedNo others were about) a soul advanced—A fat, orbicular and jolly soulWith laughter-lines upon each rosy jowl—A monk so prepossessing that the saintAdmired him, breathless, until weak and faint,Forgot his frown and all his questions too,Forgoing even the customary "Who?"—Threw wide the gate and, with a friendly grin,Said, "'Tis a very humble home, but pray walk in."The soul smiled pleasantly. "Excuse me, please—Who's in there?" By insensible degreesThe impudence dispelled the saint's esteem,As growing snores annihilate a dream.The frown began to blacken on his brow,His hand to reach for "Whence?" and "Why?" and "How?""O, no offense, I hope," the soul explained;"I'm rather—well, particular. I've strainedA point in coming here at all; 'tis saidThat Susan Anthony (I hear she's deadAt last) and all her followers are here.As company, they'd be—confess it—rather queer."The saint replied, his rising anger past:"What can I do?—the law is hard-and-fast,Albeit unwritten and on earth unknown—An oral order issued from the Throne.By but one sin has Woman e'er incurredGod's wrath. To accuse Them Loud of that would be absurd."That friar sighed, but, calling up a smile,Said, slowly turning on his heel the while:"Farewell, my friend. Put up the chain and bar—I'm going, so please you, where the pretty women are."1895.
The Widows of AshurAre loud in their wailing:"No longer the 'masher'Sees Widows of Ashur!"So each is a lasherOf Man's smallest failing.The Widows of AshurAre loud in their wailing.The Cave of Adullam,That home of reviling—No wooing can gull 'emIn Cave of Adullam.No angel can lull 'emTo cease their defilingThe Cave of Adullam,That home of reviling.At men they are cursing—The Widows of Ashur;Themselves, too, for nursingThe men they are cursing.The praise they're rehearsingOf every slasherAt men.Theyare cursingThe Widows of Ashur.
[Commissioner of Pensions Dudley has established a Sunday-school and declares he will remove any clerk in his department who does not regularly attend.—N.Y. World.]
Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note,Worthy of honor from a feeble penBlunted in service of all true, good men,You serve the Lord—in courses,table d'hôte:Au, naturel,as well asà la Nick—"Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick."O, truly pious caterer, forbearTo push the Saviour and Him crucified(Brochetteyou'd call it) into their insideWho're all unused to such ambrosial fare.The stomach of the soul makes quick revulsionOf aught that it has taken on compulsion.I search the Scriptures, but I do not findThat e'er the Spirit beats with angry wingsFor entrance to the heart, but sits and singsTo charm away the scruples of the mind.It says: "Receive me, please; I'll not compel"—Though if you don't you will go straight to Hell!Well, that's compulsion, you will say. 'T is true:We cower timidly beneath the rodLifted in menace by an angry God,But won't endure it from an ape like you.Detested simian with thumb prehensile,Switchmeand I would brain you with my pencil!Face you the Throne, nor dare to turn your backOn its transplendency to flog some wightWho gropes and stumbles in the infernal nightYour ugly shadow lays along his track.O, Thou who from the Temple scourged the sin,Behold what rascals try to scourge it in!