Shapes of Clay Part 5

For somewhat lamely the conception runs Of a bra.s.s-b.u.t.toned Jesus firing guns.

ON A PROPOSED CREMATORY.

When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf Between two cities, some ambitious fool, Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave To push his clumsy feet upon the span, That men in after years may single him, Saying: "Behold the fool who first went o'er!"

So be it when, as now the promise is, Next summer sees the edifice complete Which some do name a crematorium, Within the vantage of whose greater maw's Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm And circ.u.mvent the handed mole who loves, With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope, To mine our mortal parts in all their dips And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth To link his name with this fair enterprise, As first decarca.s.sed by the flame. And if With rival greedings for the fiery fame They push in clamoring mult.i.tudes, or if With unaccustomed modesty they all Hold off, being something loth to qualify, Let me select the fittest for the rite.

By heaven! I'll make so warrantable, wise And excellent censure of their true deserts, And such a searching canva.s.s of their claims, That none shall bait the ballot. I'll spread my choice Upon the main and general of those Who, moved of holy impulse, pulpit-born, Protested 'twere a sacrilege to burn G.o.d's gracious images, designed to rot, And bellowed for the right of way for each Distempered carrion through the water pipes.

With such a st.u.r.dy, boisterous exclaim They did discharge themselves from their own throats Against the splintered gates of audience 'Twere wholesomer to take them in at mouth Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible And seasoned substances--trunks, legs and arms, Blent indistinguishable in a ma.s.s, Like winter-woven serpents in a pit-- None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point Of precedence, and all alive--shall serve As fueling to fervor the retort For after cineration of true men.

A DEMAND.

You promised to paint me a picture, Dear Mat, And I was to pay you in rhyme.

Although I am loth to inflict your Most easy of consciences, I'm Of opinion that fibbing is awful, And breaking a contract unlawful, Indictable, too, as a crime, A slight and all that.

If, Lady Unbountiful, any Of that By mortals called pity has part In your obdurate soul--if a penny You care for the health of my heart, By performing your undertaking You'll succor that organ from breaking-- And spare it for some new smart, As puss does a rat.

Do you think it is very becoming, Dear Mat, To deny me my rights evermore And--bless you! if I begin summing Your sins they will make a long score!

You never were generous, madam, If you had been Eve and I Adam You'd have given me naught but the core, And little of that.

Had I been content with a t.i.tian, A cat By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, No doubt I'd have had your permission To take it--by purchase abroad.

But why should I sail o'er the ocean For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion All's bad that the critics belaud.

I wanted a Mat.

Presumption's a sin, and I suffer For that: But still you _did_ say that sometime, If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher-- That's more than enough) of rhyme You'd paint me a picture. I pay you Hereby in advance; and I pray you Condone, while you can, your crime, And send me a Mat.

But if you don't do it I warn you, Dear Mat, I'll raise such a clamor and cry On Parna.s.sus the Muses will scorn you As mocker of poets and fly With bitter complaints to Apollo: "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, Her beauty"--they'll hardly deny, On second thought, _that_!

THE WEATHER WIGHT.

The way was long, the hill was steep, My footing scarcely I could keep.

The night enshrouded me in gloom, I heard the ocean's distant boom--

The trampling of the surges vast Was borne upon the rising blast.

"G.o.d help the mariner," I cried, "Whose s.h.i.+p to-morrow braves the tide!"

Then from the impenetrable dark A solemn voice made this remark:

"For this locality--warm, bright; Barometer unchanged; breeze light."

"Unseen consoler-man," I cried, "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide,

"Thanks--but my care is somewhat less For Jack's, than for my own, distress.

"Could I but find a friendly roof, Small odds what weather were aloof.

"For he whose comfort is secure Another's woes can well endure."

"The latch-string's out," the voice replied, "And so's the door--jes' step inside."

Then through the darkness I discerned A hovel, into which I turned.

Groping about beneath its thatch, I struck my head and then a match.

A candle by that gleam betrayed Soon lent paraffinaceous aid.

A pallid, bald and thin old man I saw, who this complaint began:

"Through summer suns and winter snows I sets observin' of my toes.

"I rambles with increasin' pain The path of duty, but in vain.

"Rewards and honors pa.s.s me by-- No Congress hears this raven cry!"

Filled with astonishment, I spoke: "Thou ancient raven, why this croak?

"With observation of your toes What Congress has to do, Heaven knows!

"And swallow me if e'er I knew That one could sit and ramble too!"

To answer me that ancient swain Took up his parable again:

"Through winter snows and summer suns A Weather Bureau here I runs.

"I calls the turn, and can declare Jes' when she'll storm and when she'll fair.

"Three times a day I sings out clear The probs to all which wants to hear.

"Some weather stations run with light Frivolity is seldom right.

"A scientist from times remote, In Scienceville my birth is wrote.

"And when I h'ist the 'rainy' sign Jes' take your clo'es in off the line."

"Not mine, O marvelous old man, The methods of your art to scan,

"Yet here no instruments there be-- Nor 'ometer nor 'scope I see.